Lipno welcomed us on January first the way only a proper winter resort can: with blue skies, suspiciously perfect snow, and that quiet confidence of a place that knows you’ll eventually fall over anyway. The chairlift hummed above us like a patient therapist, carrying people uphill while they silently questioned their life choices. Snow cannons blasted clouds of icy mist across the slope, working overtime like overcaffeinated dragons determined to keep winter alive, no matter what the calendar said. From the lift, everything looked peaceful and cinematic. Up close, it smelled faintly of wet gloves and determination.

Snowboarding started with the usual optimism. Everyone looks cool standing still, especially when the sun is low and the mountains pretend they’re Alps. The moment you start moving, though, gravity becomes very personal. Kids zipped past with the reckless confidence of people who heal fast, while adults negotiated every turn like it was a business contract. Somewhere between avoiding a snow cannon’s icy breath and untangling myself after a graceful fall that definitely impressed no one, I remembered why I love places like this. It’s cold, it’s exhausting, and somehow it makes you laugh more than most summer holidays ever could.

Later, we traded boards for boots and went wandering around Lipno Lake, which was half frozen and completely unapologetic about it. The ice stretched out like a giant white table, cracked and textured, reflecting the sky in soft pastel colors. People strolled along the shore, pushing strollers, holding hands, or staring thoughtfully at the horizon as if January first was a perfectly reasonable time for deep life reflections. Houses along the water looked warm and colorful, quietly judging us for not already sitting inside with tea and cake.

As the sun dipped lower, the world slowed down in that special winter way, where even conversations become softer. One person tested stones on the ice like a scientist with a deadline, while a metal statue nearby sprinted eternally toward something invisible, clearly more motivated than the rest of us. Fingers went numb, cheeks turned red, and everyone agreed it was probably time to head back, even though no one really wanted to say it out loud. Lipno had done its job: it gave us snow, laughter, tired legs, and that calm, slightly frozen happiness that only comes from spending a day outside together, doing absolutely nothing productive and enjoying every second of it.