The art of skiing...

We are here, manifestly throwing ourselves down mountains in strange clothing. There is something about the whole rigamarole of skiing that I find faintly bizarre. Early mornings to get the best pistes, chair lifts and ears popping with altitude. Ski school followed by apres-ski carbo-loaded meals. Strange how wine makes binding ski boots a whole lot more comforable!

I defy anyone to look this stylish on the slopes! However in amongst the physical trauma of aching muscles and bruised bottoms there are moments of sheer beauty - like being above the clouds this morning in the sunshine. Or watching your youngest child shoop down the mountain like a natural. Or watching your eldest tackle a red run with no hesitation and then detour off piste for a little cheeky jump in powdered snow that feels like marshmallow.

For me, I am a later learner so will never be a natural skier. I just watch in wonder as others show how it is done. And then at the end of the day, feeling content to be on flat ground, I sit with my cuppa tea and think OK, yep I get it. A relaxing holiday it is not - but it is something else. Family time personified. The very best experience of a hot bath. And enjoyment of that uniquely French cooking that makes you feel a whole lot better after a morning on the slopes. Then I yearn for a place not unlike this to rest up...