Skiing – Page 2 – only here for the cricket

Ski Racing and the Youth of Today

Monday:

Disco Dave: “I watched the race from Kitzbühel on youtube last night mate.”

Me: “Oh really?”

DD: “Yeah especially because we got the silver.”

Me: “Huh?”

DD: “Yeah we came second… Dave Ryding? In the slalom.”

Me: “Whaaaaaat?”

I really do love skiing. I’ve been skiing (for at least a day or two) every winter since 2003, with the exception of the wilderness years of 2005 and 2006. In 2005 I instead decided to spend a week with Wiseman et al in Toronto for my friend Alyn’s wedding, and in 2006 I was saving up for an epic trip down under to see England lose 5-0 in the Ashes of 2006-7, although obviously I didn’t know the result at that point. It might have somewhat demotivated my saving effort.

This winter, it seems, is going to be another one sans-skiing. However, I am keeping the dream alive by wearing my ski socks all through the winter, and falling over periodically. Be reassured that I do have more than one pair of socks, and switch between them occasionally.

I also watch the ski racing on Eurosport, every weekend if I can. However, not since the beginning of January, as the Finance Director doesn’t appear to have a Eurosport subscription, more’s the pity. I wonder if she realises how much coverage of international handball she’s missing out on.

And so it came to pass that the best result Great Britain has recorded in the Alpine Skiing World Cup since Nineteen Canteen… passed me by. I might have missed it altogether, had my youthful spiky-haired colleague Disco Dave not pointed it out.

Dave Ryding, what a legend. What a result. On a crazily-difficult piste which saw many of the top names crash out, he finished first in the initial run, and would have come first overall if Marcel Hirscher hadn’t produced one of his now-customary unbelievable second-run charges to take the spoils for Austria.

Hirscher is an incredible athlete. One of the all-time greats, mesmerising to watch, he’s my favourite skier to watch in slalom and giant-slalom.

It’s understandable that countries like Austria, Norway, Switzerland and the USA produce great skiers. Not to mention France, Italy and Canada. They have great mountains and ski resorts on their doorstep. The ski federations and training programmes of these nations are strong and well-resourced. Not so Britain’s.

Today:

DD: “Hey mate, did you see we got a gold yesterday?”
Me: “Whaaaat?!”
DD: “Yeah, in the disability skiing”

It’s true. GB’s Millie Knight won gold in the downhill. She’s 18 years old, and visually impaired. Racing the downhill while visually impaired, can you imagine anything more terrifying?

Me: “British skiing are having a real purple patch at the minute!”
Disco nodded and smiled.
Me: “Do you know what I mean by that?” I had used the phrase in a conversation with my youthful goateed boss not long before, to general bemusement.
DD: “No.”

What are they teaching the kids at school these days?

Unexpected sporting connections

I’ve found a sport that the Brits and the Americans both love. Skiing. And we even have the same name for it. Naturally there are some differences in nomenclature. Here, as I understand it, my pants are held up by suspenders.

We’re two days into a 3-day ski trip to West Virginia, and tired muscles are recovering in our overheated condo. This is my first experience of skiing in N America and not Europe, and the Showshoe resort seems great. Speaking to a stranger does not require a preliminary assessment of what their first language might be, and resort staff (and slope users in general!) are considerably more courteous than those in France. It sits at a lower altitude than any resort I’ve been to in the Alps, but there have been shedloads of snow, and all the runs are covered right down to the bottom. Also, despite the lower altitude, it has somehow has been much colder than anything I’ve experienced in the Alps. Two days before we arrived the temperature here was minus 4. Fahrenheit. Today was a comparatively Amazonian 10F. It would appear that this is cold enough to cause beer bottles, left out to chill on the balcony, to explode. This has never happened before to me on previous ski trips. Although that was usually Kronenberg 1664 and this was Corona. Perhaps French beer is more suited to low temperatures than Mexican beer. Hmmm, makes sense.

Anyhow, the result of 5 exploded bottles of Corona (Corona Light, in fact – never shop for beer in a hurry) was a considerable amount of yellow snow. Possibly the only time yellow snow has been worth eating.

I’ve been back in the US for exactly 3 weeks now. My journey and re-entry to the States was pleasantly hassle-free. On the NYC-Nashville leg of my journey I found myself sitting across from a dude with a guitar. This is not an unusual occurrence on a flight to Nashville. He struck up a conversation with me, thus:

“Excuse me sir, are those in-ear-monitors?”

“Yes they are, absolutely.”

“Did you get them in Nashville? I need to get a pair.”

“Oh no, sorry, I actually got them in Edinburgh, Scotland!”

“Oh, wow, ok, that’s a long way.”

“Yes.”

(Then after a moment)

“I played rugby in Edinburgh once. When I was 12.”

But of course you did.

“I was at school in England, and we were on tour. It was very cold.”

Yes, that’s the one.

On another trip to the States, a few years back, I was taking a cab with my colleague from the airport into downtown Washington, DC. The cab driver was an enormous black dude. The conversation turned to where we had flown in from.

“Edinburgh, Scotland.”

“Oh.” (Then, after a moment)

“I played cricket in Edinburgh once. In a tournament.”

But of course you did.

“It was pretty cold.”

Yes, yes, that’s the one..

Les Menuires, Thursday

Lynne, Mark and I went back on the slopes for a few hours yesterday afternoon. Mandy joined us as we went out this morning, and headed up to Val Thorens. After a couple of runs up there we headed over to the Orelle valley, and made our way up two slow chairlifts to the top of the Pointe du Bouchet. The lift station there is at 3230m, and is the highest accessible point in the 3 Valleys. The day was clear and bright again, with only some high level cloud, and the views were outstanding.

However, DC’s absence from our group meant the pleasure of such a gorgeous view was diminished, and the carefree joy usually experienced while skiing was missing. Our mood wasn’t lightened by the sight of a helicopter taking off from the side of the piste during a run late in the day. We stood and watched, no-one spoke. Then we pointed our skis down the slope and headed down to the bar where Mark was waiting with a canine acquaintance, name unknown.

Sleep hasn’t been coming easy. All of us have done our bit to lighten the mood and keep the spirits high, but it’s been an uphill battle at times. I think the tunes on my laptop have been cheering everybody up, because of their largely “shiny happy” nature. And Wiseman and I have been growing goatees, for no apparent reason other than it seemed like a good idea at the time. Mine is.. there’s no good way to put this.. more ginger than his, although it does include a grey component, which lends it a certain gravitas. Which I feel his is missing. Not that it’s a competition. Wiseman considered removing the centre section tonight to leave a ‘bandido’ handlebar moustache, perhaps in honour of tonight’s chilli, but mercifully he was persuaded not to.

Crystal Ski, our tour operator, have continued to be tremendously helpful and supportive, and we remain extremely grateful for the texts and calls from friends and family at home.

DC is due to have a scan tomorrow, and will possibly be brought round from the coma over the weekend. By that time, we will be back in the UK, and, I suspect, glad to be home, if upset to be returning without him. Our thoughts and prayers will continue to be with him and his friends and family in Chambéry.

Chambéry, unexpectedly

“Let’s have a look at the map, Mark.”

Wiseman pulled the map out of his pocket, unfolded it and spread it out on the table. Two days into a skiing holiday this should have been a piste map, but instead it was a street map of Chambéry. Mark had acquired it earlier in the day, approaching the desk in the Office de Tourisme with no little confidence and a pre-learned French phrase ready to go. The nice lady behind the desk smiled and enquired if he would prefer to continue in English.

“But I wanted to improve my Freeeench…” wailed Mark. She smiled again, and started pointing out landmarks on the map in French. A blank expression descended upon Mark’s face, but he persisted manfully.

The day before was our first day skiing, and dawned bright and sunny. After a few, icy lower runs Lynne, Mandy, DC and I headed higher and skied the red Venturons run down towards Mottaret. It was a good run, with better snow than we’d encountered so far, so we went straight back up and did it again. DC remarked that the Venturons was a good run to Venture On. This is the standard of joke we’ve come to expect from him. At the end of the second run Lynne, Mandy and I waited for the big man to appear. He was bringing up the rear. After a couple of minutes, we started to get concerned, but remained confident that all was in order. Waiting for the last skier’s arrival at a lift station is not unusual. Frequently something happens that causes a hold-up – often a wipeout, with the accompanying delay retrieving skis and getting them back on. It’s common, too, for a skier to take the wrong turn at a junction, and end up somewhere else on the mountain (Filipideedoodaa is especially good at this last one). A quick text message or phonecall usually sorts this out. We called DC’s mobile, but it went straight to answerphone.

We agreed I would go back up on the chairlift and ski down. Halfway up on the lift I saw a prone figure just off the side of the piste, with four skiers clustered around him. It was DC, no doubt. Fingers beginning to shake, I tapped out a quick text to let the girls know. I skied off the lift and back down the run, without stopping, thighs burning, panic rising. He was surrounded by five or six members of the piste patrol, and had taken a serious knock to the head.

In due course a helicopter arrived, landing on a flattish area between pistes. The medics took some time to sedate him, and then it took off. One of the piste patrollers with pretty good English kept us updated throughout with what was happening. He was headed for Moutiers, and then on to Grenoble. This later changed to the Centre Hospitalier in Chambéry.

We have been receiving a steady stream of text messages and phone calls from home ever since. Under normal circumstances, this would become wearing, but under these abnormal and distressing circumstances, they have been an immense source of strength and encouragement. Except that the text message alert on Lynne’s phone makes a noise like a distressed budgie complaining in your ear. Helpfully, it makes this noise on both sending and receiving text messages.

We made our way to the bus station in Les Menuires, passing après ski bars, viewing the revellers with a curious sense of detachment. The world just keeps spinning.

A bus and taxi ride later, we arrived in Chambéry and found DC in the Réanimation unit (ICU). Scans had revealed bleeding in his head. He was in an induced coma, and was lying, with his lower shins and feet protruding beyond the bed, wired up to a multitude of monitors. His face was swollen. They had shaved his head.

We stayed a couple of days in Chambéry, sleeping at a hotel within walking distance from the hospital, found via some sharp Google work by my sister back in London.

Jo, Paul and Derek, relatives and friends of DC from Edinburgh, arrived on Monday, and joined us in our hotel. They stayed on while we returned to resort.

Now back in the mountains, to ski or not to ski? Numbness, confusion and grief make this a difficult one to answer, and we haven’t answered it yet. Having considered packing up and coming home early, I think we are decided on sticking together here in resort. Crystal Ski have been extremely helpful and kind to us. Further, we are grateful to all the folks who have called, emailed and texted, and are praying back home – mainly for DC, obviously, but also for us as we try to come to terms with what has happened. Your support is greatly valued.

Starbucks and skiing

Howard Schultz, the Starbucks CEO, was interviewed in the Guardian today. I learnt of how he was inspired to build a chain after his first visit to Italy in 1983. Seriously? How can a visit to the home of beautiful coffee have spawned such a monster? How much better the world would be if he’d restricted himself to building daisy chains.

I read of how he’s planning to refit 100 UK stores this year, making their interiors more individual and in tune with their local area. Oh, the irony. Starbucks, the destroyers and growth-stunters of bona fide independent local coffee shops the world over, are to copy their approach. Stick to bland, bitter homogeneity Mr Schultz, it’s what you’re good at.

I also read how Peter Mandelson, responding to some derogatory comments from Schultz regarding the UK economy, launched a foul-mouthed tirade in his direction back in February. I found myself developing a soft spot for Mandelson all of a sudden. Perhaps I should stop reading the Guardian, it’s becoming unhealthy.

Still feeling the post-holiday blues after skiing, and wondering if I’ve maybe overlooked several hundred pounds in my current account somewhere that would allow me another trip this winter. I fear not. I have eulogised enough about the delights of skiing before now, but something new struck me on this trip – the uniqueness of each run down the mountain.

On Friday, we were making our way down the valley via a series of runs and lifts. Mel, one of the more talkative hobbits in the party, had fond memories of a particular run called Jerusalem, and en route to it, we found ourselves on a chairlift, ascending directly over a blue piste which was (a) groomed, (b) sunny, (c) virtually empty and (d) looking like a lot of fun. “Looking like a lot of fun” means it had a lot of bends which looked like they might like to be taken at high speed. So we postponed our pilgrimage to Jerusalem, temporarily, and bombed down this run instead. Twice, both times without stopping. Strictly speaking, I did come to something of a stop first time round, having misjudged the racing line somewhat through a bend, and slid horizontally off the piste, over a ridge and out of sight of MacRae and Kirsty, who claimed to be hard on my heels. Now, it being a fast run, and there being boys involved, it had developed into something of a race, without anything being expressly mentioned to that effect. When MacRae saw me crash and slide off the piste out of sight, potentially surrendering my hard-earned lead, he was (a) delighted, and then (b) momentarily concerned for my welfare. So he stopped, as did Kirsty, or so they tell me, and called out to see if I was alright. I did actually hear them call out, but considered the fact that I was back up on my feet and skiing on to be an adequate answer to their enquiry, so didn’t visibly acknowledge it. I didn’t realise they had stopped, and so as I got up, dusted myself off and skied back on to the piste, still in the lead, I quietly congratulated myself on being so far in front that I’d had time to fall over, laugh for a bit, and still be in front when I returned to the ‘race’. I didn’t hear MacRae loudly calling me a fascist at this point, but took all his abuse on the chin once we’d got to the bottom, and got our breath back.

It should be noted at this stage that Mel would have destroyed all of us in a race, real or imagined, had he been strapped on to his customary snowboard. However, he had chosen that day to temporarily reject the dark side, and use skis instead. I believe he had a grand old time, burning quads notwithstanding.

So the point of all that was to explain that the next day we went back to this piste and it wasn’t nearly so much fun. There were more people on it, which meant we had to ski more circumspectly, it wasn’t as sunny, and the piste wasn’t in quite such good nick. Every day is different, and the same run is different on different days. Which means that each time you do a run it’s a unique event, and adds to the joy of the experience such as we had on Friday, as you know that it’s not always possible to recreate those conditions again.

Carpe diem…

Airport déja vu

Another flight from Edinburgh airport, another lengthy delay. I find myself sitting beneath the same speaker that I sat beneath eight days ago, the interminable wait on that occasion punctuated with conversation and laughs with 11 friends all en route to Val Thorens. And DC, directing a baleful upwards look towards the speaker, as another cheesy Christmas song interrupted his concentration on the Sunday Telegraph.

This time there are no friends, sadly. More mercifully, there is no Christmas music. Airport delays, who needs them? Luncheon vouchers are only a small consolation, although BA win points for possessing a decency lacking in Jet2 last week by advertising their existence over the tannoy.

At least I have a good book or two for company. My Christmas presents this year were, let’s say, tinged with a cricketing theme. Two books – Marcus Trescothick’s autobiography and Harold Larwood’s biography, and one DVD box set of the 2009 Ashes. Have been looking forward to watching the series highlights since it finished – the TV coverage being exclusively on Sky meant that I missed quite a lot of the matches as they happened. So Stuart Broad’s destructive spell at the Oval is, as yet, a pleasure still to be enjoyed.

Trescothick’s book provides a harrowing account of his breakdown when on tour with England in India, and subsequent struggles with depression. However, in the early chapters which chart his ascent through the echelons of county and international cricket, he recounts how he frequently found himself declaring “Isn’t this great?” as he experienced the joy of scoring runs at higher and higher levels.

Last week, I found myself, not for the first time, thinking, and sometimes saying aloud to anyone who would listen: “Isn’t this great?!” as I carved up another sun-kissed piste. Or watched the sun sinking over snowy mountains, with a hot chocolate warming my insides, and the prospect of a rapid exhilarating descent to the chalet ahead.

If anything, my speed on skis this year was even faster, having borrowed Kenny K’s helmet, and experiencing its sense of security for the first time. Thankfully it was never needed, except when Mandy took it upon herself to test drive it with a forearm smash to my forehead. With friends like these…

My trip to London is to see John Mayer play live, he having the temerity to schedule his only Scottish date on Saturday night while I was still in France. At least he had the good sense to arrange a London gig within two days of Maggie’s 3rd birthday, so I can combine two showbiz extravaganzas in one visit.

Having been slightly disappointed with JM’s most recent studio offering, I am hoping his live show fulfils its reputation, and is worth the airport delay…

Back to work…

A week after returning from Les Arcs, the dust is settling on another fine holiday. There are remarkably few injuries to report, with Kirsty’s faceplant on the halfpipe remaining the most serious (witnessed) accident. She had a shiner for a while to show for her efforts, and I feel this made it all worthwhile for her.

In the first week, I came down a large percentage of the Refuge black run upside down gathering snow and ice in my nice new Christmas hat. Going back up to try again was born of stubbornness, but I was doubly rewarded by completing it successfully AND witnessing Tom falling on the moguls and sliding down on his belly, legs and skis up in the air behind him, rising and falling over the bumps in a manner vaguely reminiscent of someone floating on the ocean on a choppy day.

Not content with this crash, Tom then headed up the Aiguille Rouge in a cable car. With him were a group of doctors from Edinburgh, who regaled him with tales of two professional skiers who died skiing down some off-piste on the Aiguille Rouge. Unwittingly (he says), Tom headed straight down into the same area, had a fall, lost a ski, and slid for 150m. Somehow he retained his life, his limbs, and even had his ski recovered by the same Edinburgh doctors, who were following.

Mandy has been loudly pointing out to anyone who would listen, that I kept falling over. I keep protesting that I only fell over while attempting silly things, which is mostly true, but doesn’t shut her up. I did nearly clock a tree at one point, but managed to divert just in time. One of my skis came off in the avoidance manoeuvre and carried on to hit the poor tree.

Carol, our newbie snowboarder in the group, flounced out of her lesson with a petulant toss of her head only a few days after F… had done the same. *&?@#* snowboarders. I presume the instructors weren’t winsome enough for them.

The return to Edinburgh proved relatively uneventful, despite checking in only 15 minutes before the flight was due to take off. There were, inevitably, delays, although thankfully not due to Kirsty this time. She elected not to bring a penknife in her hand luggage on the return trip, perhaps because she no longer had one after it was confiscated by the nice security people in Edinburgh on the way out.

Back at our favourite harbour haunt on Friday night, Wiseman confided that he had been welcomed back to work with a six month ban on him even mentioning his coccyx.

“Apparently I went on about it a bit last year,” he explained ruefully.

While we were away, the gang have been in good form. Kenny D has been spotted going for a run, sometimes more than once a week. The times they are a-changing.

Nasty Jen was playing hockey when a girl in the opposing team swung her stick into Jen’s head, whereupon she crumpled to the ground in pain. She then realised that the stick had actually connected with the head of the girl beside her, and quickly scrambled back to her feet, hoping no-one had noticed.

DC was at an old friend’s for lunch today. His friend had just had a brand new bathroom fitted. For some reason DC decided to sit down on the toilet lid while putting some eyedrops in, and went straight through it. He has confirmed that he wasn’t even trying to get purchase at the time.

Plus ça change…

Le neige arrive…

Well, the snow arrived as promised yesterday. So did the wind. The advice, posted on blackboards at each lift, was to stay in one’s own resort – this for us in this case meant the Arc 2000 valley. So naturally, we headed over to the Arc 1600/1800 valley – last week’s stomping ground – with a view to skiing through the trees above Vallandry where the visibility was better. We got there, and the visibility was better, but the pistes were difficult to ski, with large piles of snow between patches of icy hard-pack. I am the skiing equivalent of a cricketing flat-track bully – fine and in control when the pistes are groomed and the sun is shining. At other times I struggle. Above the trees it was hail falling, not snow, and after a few testing runs, we decided to make for the lift back to our valley.

This is where the fun began in earnest. Many of the lifts up to the top were closed due to the high winds, but the Arpette wasn’t, so we gratefully jumped on. The lift seemed to move incredibly slowly, and as we got higher the wind was getting stronger. Not far from the top the lift stopped, and we could see the empty chairs on their way back down, swinging wildly in the wind, which still seemed to be increasing in strength. The lift started up again, and then stopped after a few metres. This pattern continued. Kirsty was beginning to get giggly, and started singing a hymn. A couple of chairs back, we learned later, Mandy was getting ready to inform DC that he was a great bloke and she’d really enjoyed his friendship over the years. After what seemed an eternity, certainly it was even longer than we normally spend waiting for F… to strap herself back into her snowboard after getting off a lift, we made it to the top, and gratefully issued forth on to the summit, where a kindly pisteur directed us to the relative shelter of the leeward side of a small building. The wind was whipping the snow into a fine icy mist, and flinging it against any piece of exposed flesh. Gloved hands were clumsily and frantically readjusting hats and scarves and collars and anything that would keep the wind and ice out. Once our lift had emptied of skiers and boarders, the pisteurs arranged us into groups according to the valley we intended to end up in, and we set off in a large frozen convoy. Periodically the wind would intensify and reduce the visibility such that the skiers only a few metres in front would disappear from view. This was fairly disconcerting. Apparently it was at this point that I skied off from the other three. I have little recollection of this, although I do recall turning my head to see where the others were, and getting a generous quantity of ice blown into my face, and ear canal in particular, for my trouble. Safely back in Arc 2000, I noted that it was the first time since we arrived that DC didn’t look keen to keep skiing.

Today was mercifully much less eventful. It snowed on and off, but the visibility was generally good. Despite an unusually good sleep last night, my legs felt tired and so after a lengthy lunch break, I headed back to the chalet early. I located an empty bathroom, found a bottle of something called “Hawaiian Spa” and poured some of that in. Mindful of MacRae’s experience last week, I checked the clearance directly above the bath carefully, then the water temperature, before gingerly lowering myself and all my bruises into the bath. I did forget to estimate the volume of water that would be displaced by my entry, but got away with it. Although, of course, the volume of water displaced by MacRae would be of a different order of magnitude than by myself. I shall say no more.

Now, later, after two cups of tea, two Cokes, a Twix and a jam sandwich, life seems quite alright. Skiing does make one feel quite justified in eating lots of chocolate and sugary foods. Energy replacement, y’see. DC, having finally had his day’s skiing ended by a combination of lift closure and impending darkness, is in the corner reading Hello magazine.

Altitude does funny things…

Halfway through…

One week is over. Gillian, MacRae and Tom departed, tearfully, this morning. Us five hard-core stalwarts have made the ascent from Arc 1800 to Arc 2000, and are in our new chalet, pondering our afternoon’s activities. All is quiet. It is the calm before the storm – Mandy and the other reinforcements are currently in the air somewhere over Europe, and our peace and tranquillity will be short-lived.

Arriving at the chalet ahead of the others has meant we have nabbed all the good rooms, which I feel is only fair. Wiseman and I have been reunited room-wise, after undergoing a trial separation last week. Wiseman was sharing with MacRae, which I believe was a sonorous experience for both of them. This week we share an ensuite room with something of an open plan feel to it. That is, there is no door to the shower room. Might make for eye-popping visual experiences in the morning.

The last six days have had beltingly-good weather and perfect visibility. The only thing interrupting the blue vastness of the sky has been the sun and an odd wispy cloud. Today more clouds are in evidence, and the temperature has risen noticeably, a sure sign that the promised snow is on its way. At least a foot of fresh powder has been forecast, and the resort is badly in need of it, the last snow that came this way having apparently dumped all over all the resorts nearby, bypassing Les Arcs completely. The pistes, while ok higher up, and covered with artifical snow lower down, are accordingly pretty hard, and unforgiving to those of us trying to learn new tricks.

Several of us were privileged to be under the tutelage of MacRae this week as he attempted to teach us 360 turns. Many hips and egos were bruised over the course of a few days, but many laughs were had, and the accompanying video footage will amuse us during the dark summer months (sic) that lie ahead.

MacRae didn’t restrict his entertainment to the slopes. One evening he arrived back in the living room, somewhat discombobulated, having landed heavily in a very hot bath, displacing most of the water onto the bathroom floor. The higher-than-anticipated water temperature then sent him shooting upwards in some distress, where he smacked his head off the low ceiling. Mercifully, he retained enough composure to remember to dry and clothe himself before running up the stairs to regale us all with the tale.

DC, also known as the Duracell Bunny, is itching to get back on the slopes, and even €29 for half a day’s ski pass hasn’t made him flinch. Kirsty, Filipideedoodaa and Wiseman are also heading out to get some skiing in. Me, I have decided to give my body a break, not to mention my throat, which has been sore all week. The sunny balcony is calling. However, being out on the slopes when the new arrivals appear is surely compulsory, otherwise some of the advantage of being here for two weeks will be lost…

Sunshine, snow and blonde moments

7.35am, Edinburgh airport. MacRae moved towards me threateningly, I took a step backwards and fell over my large cricket bag, landing hard on the unwelcomingly hard floor of the airport. The first injury of the holiday, and we hadn’t even checked in. I should point out that the cricket bag doesn’t contain cricket gear, but rather more prosaic items more suited to a two week skiing holiday. Such as two pairs of underpants. Plus an emergency pair.

Despite both Kirsty and MacRae being on board, the flight passed off relatively uneventfully. As we began our descent into Chambéry, the stewardess requested that I remove my jumper from where it was lying on the centre seat, and either put it on or place it under the seat in front. I wondered, aloud, to MacRae in the aisle seat, whether there was a risk of my jumper being thrown across the cabin in the event of a bumpy landing, and inadvertently warming an innocent fellow-passenger. It’s a very fine, 100% lambswool jumper, and the risk of incurring warmth when wrapped round one’s head would be quite high. The stewardess, if she heard my comment, remained impassive as she stood and waited for me to do something appropriate with it. Chastened, I put it on.

Dinner on the first evening in the chalet, the conversation turned to the temperature at which water is at its densest. I know. I think it might have been MacRae that brought it up. Embarrassingly, Wiseman knew the answer. 4 degrees C. Apparently, if it wasn’t 4C, the sea might freeze from the bottom up. We all agreed that this must be what happens to snowboarders, as they spend so much time sitting down on the piste.

In the evening, Wiseman and I took a walk into the village, to get our bearings a little. It was a stunningly clear moonlit night, some might say romantic, although we didn’t see it that way. Especially after I took a tumble on an icy path, meaning that I had landed hard on my backside in the late evening as well as the early morning. It gave the day a pleasant symmetry, I decided, while suppressing swear words and beginning to freeze from the bottom up. Wiseman, naturally was full of kindness and sympathy.

The sun rose this morning just to the right of Mont Blanc, and stayed in the deep blue Alpine sky all day. We headed over to the sunny side of the valley in the morning, and cruised down some blue and red runs until lunch. We have all opted for packed lunches this week due to the strong Euro, although the rumours of £50 lunches in “mid-priced” mountain restaurants, read in some newspaper only days before coming out here, proved to be outrageously wide of the mark. Unless the writer had three course lunches with two bottles of wine. In which case one assumes he didn’t do much skiing in the afternoons.

Kirsty is gaining a reputation for blonde moments. After heading to the entirely wrong gate at the airport yesterday and only just making the flight as a result, her rucksack (containing her passport and other unimportant documents) was left immediately beside the pile of luggage belonging to the outgoing chalet group (somebody moved it, apparently), and we only found out they had taken it when they phoned shortly before boarding the snow train. After lunch on the mountain today, she misplaced her bag (someone had “moved it”) and then wondered loudly where her sunglasses were. They were on her head.

The award for the most ironicly-named ski run of the day goes to a long steep black run full of moguls. They call it ‘Refuge’.