Today, we awoke to snow.

Heavy, glorious snow. The snow of Christmas cards. The snow of Narnia under the rule of the White Witch. The snow that makes traffic slow to a crawl and pedestrians shuffle and slide through the streets and skiers gulp down their breakfasts and make haste for the mountain.

We decided to stay in Les Houches, whose tree lined runs are perfect for days such as this one when the piste and the sky merge into one indiscernible infinite white. Unsurprisingly, we weren’t the only ones, and the slopes were a jumble of bodies, chopping the snow into moguls and scraping away the powder; combine that with a lot of people who had become accustomed to very different skiing conditions and, voila! wipe outs galore, which was often entertaining, if a little worrying when flailing arms and legs would come flying by…

On one reasonably steep red run, a small boy was in a tangle of skis and poles; when Ben approached, the boy proudly cried out, “I did a flip!” Parents arrived, cue much joking about skiing ability and affirmations that each party was trying to do as well as the other… Jacob asked me what I miss about England and today made me realise one thing: self deprecating humour.

Anyway, it was a wonderful day. Athletic, strenuous, ridiculously good fun. And the snow was so magical, even when it meant you couldn’t see a thing and had to throw your weight around like a jack in the box because you kept hitting unexpected mounds of powder. Especially then.

We arrived home wet, cold, exhausted and delighted. Craig, who was on his third day of skiing and first day of powder, flopped onto the sofa with a beatific smile. “I feel like I’m still gliding…” he announced dreamily as we tucked into steaming bowls of tartiflette.

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