She’s back! Our intrepid 2005 seasonaire blogger Gloria Green has donned her pink snowboard pants once more and has been on a trip to Austria. Given the poor snow in Europe at the start of the year, Gloria seems to have spent most of the holiday in the pub rather than on the slopes. Here's her take on St Anton and its male visitors...

St Manton or just plain Manton. A cosy little village in the Austrian Alps that has been lumbered with these nicknames because of its reputation for attracting big groups of men.

As two women venturing into this quagmire, we were filled with trepidation.

Our fears were confirmed when, on night one, innocently waiting at a bus stop, a car load of numpties drove up the deserted road, slowed down, and shouted “pussy” out the window.

What a pleasant welcome. Not.

Steeled by the fact that we had friends in resort (including some men, thank God), we resisted the temptation to jump straight back on the plane to Blighty.

In a group, we were safe. No-one bothered us. It was magnificent.

St Anton - where are the men? pic: Peter Calsen

Then we broke free and went to a bar - just the two of us. Error. Enter stage left groups of men in matching T-shirts, doing crazy stuff together.

Clearly, you do not have to be mad to be in a big group of men in St Anton, but it helps…

I am not a shrinking violet but - when attacked on all sides by a gang of Spanish men wearing T-shirts with a slogan that translated as “your mother is a whore” - I wilted.

Luckily, my friend is much taller than me. I spent the rest of the night hiding behind her while she pretended she didn‘t speak Spanish (she does).

Night two was equally as interesting. A small Irish man in a silly hat decided he stood half a chance with Said Friend. Error. He was like shit to a blanket. We could not shift him. His friends disappeared. We moved on with ours. He followed. We were employing the move-in-a-group tactic, but this one was hardcore. In a silly hat.

Desperate measures call for desperate remedies. We employed a friendly Austrian to pretend to be Said Friend’s “boyfriend”. But Silly Hat was going for gold. There was nothing for it other than to leg it into the night. We had at least 20 years on him, so he was finished.

Night three and Said Friend is broken by Silly Hat and other silly men - as well as trying to learn to snowboard in the worst snow conditions for 30 years. I could feel her pain, but turned my arse around for the Mooserwirt experience.

This is a must for any visitor to Manton. It is apres ski at its most bizarre and entertaining. Lasers and lights flash as DJ Gerard freestyles over the crazy Europop tracks on his wheels of steel, mixing in AC/DC, Europe and Bryan Adams for good measure.

Again employing the move-in-a-group tactic, I hooked up with my in-resort pals for the session.

I arrived to find one asleep on a bench and another hanging from a wooden beam wearing a helmet and goggles. “I’ve got night vision,” she shouted. It was a case of drink or die. I drank - and suddenly rocking out on a table to Thunderstruck didn’t seem weird. At all.

A rollercoaster resort - pic: Peter Calsen

By 8pm, I was whizzing down the mountain - with shoes on, balancing on the back of a friend’s skis. We worked out it was all about the snow plough, although I nearly broke myself in two while hanging on for grim death.

Then we went for the parallel turn. I ended up 30ft down-mountain of my “driver“, covered in snow. Still, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Day four in the Big Bother resort and we make a new game: listening to wacky male skiers sharing wacky anecdotes on the ski bus. “I did a half-pipe once. Very slowly, but I did it,” says one. His mates look on in awe.

By night time, I am broken, but Said Friend rides the storm, making the sensible choice of staying out with two of our male friends. One of them looks like Trevor Nelson. They tell people that he really is Trevor Nelson and they are his management team. People believe them. Brilliant.

Day five and it’s time for Mooserwirt: The Return.

DJ Gerard is still living it large. We find out that one of the jolly apres songs is about wanting to see a polar bear. Spend the next two hours being polar bears.

Day six and the early starts and late finishes have taken their toll. Only expedition today is into town to stock up on Pringles, bread and orange juice. Spend the night reading books and watching films. Realise it’s a Saturday night. Piss ourselves.

It’s back on the slopes for me bright and early the next day. Make the mistake of agreeing to go up the mountain with an Austrian. Big mistake. Most embarrassing experience of my life. I thought I was good. I was wrong.

I was doing all right off piste, until I saw half a tree sticking out of the ice (yes, ice). Lost my nerve. Completely.

Console myself by hitting the shots that evening. It was fine, until I went outside. Oooh. The lights were on, but no-one was home.

Fail to hide my disgust when an 11-strong group of men rock up at a bar, first sending in their solitary female companion to do a reccie “to see if any birds are in there”. Nice.

Day eight and the visit to Manton is over. It’s been a rollercoaster. There’s no way the two of us would have survived without the in-resort pals who made the moving-in-a-group tactic possible.

If you’re going to Manton, girls - go in numbers, and go to Mooserwirt. You won’t regret it!