High

After too much Breaking Bad (darned cliffhangers) and too little sleep, the planned early start was unwelcome. By 9ish we had made it up the impossibly twisty road from the village to the resort (I closed my eyes most of the way, and the car was at least as unhappy as me about the whole enterprise) and began the chore of reminding the kids how skis work - which end is the front, where you put your foot and so on.

Once we'd all had a quick nursery run warm-up we dropped the kids off at their morning lessons and headed up into the hills to try and get over my usual skiing holiday freaking out over height episode as soon as possible. (I'm sure this is a very unreasonable request, but could ski resorts just be a bit less, you know, mountainous?). It was, as you can see, bright and clear up high, but a bit chilly in the wind so I wasn't keen on hanging around thinking about composition or waiting for folk to move out of the way.

Mr B and I stuck to blues (easy runs) this morning, partly so we could remind ourselves gently that we can do this skiing thingummy after two years off, and partly to check them out as being suitable for Conor. The kids had had fun in their classes - with Katherine saying she was about average in her class, and Conor being promoted to the next level. Lunch in a cafeteria was as overpriced as you'd expect up a mountain, but the servings were huge and it was all very tasty.

Post-lunch the plan was some gentle skiing all together, but not too tiring a day... So, after the usual trek down the slippery metal steps to the loo (are there any ski resorts where you don't have to risk life and limb for a wee?) we had a little meeting about routes. Mr B overruled me and said Conor could easily handle the longest blue in the resort. Having hurt my thumb earlier avoiding an out of control child skier, I said he had to deal with picking him up if he fell...

And boy did he fall. In the first 400 metres he fell about 30 times. Not surprisingly, he wanted to walk down. I wasn't keen on a 4.5km walk, so sent Mr B and K off to have fun, and I escorted Conor down, one slow snow plough turn at a time. This particular blue had lots of narrow stretches with serious drop-offs into the valley; not ideal for someone easily distracted who doesn't always remember that he can stop....

Anyway, with lots of geeing up we did make it to the bottom (I think it took about 2 hours, and Mr B and K passed us twice with tales of daring-do on red runs) for a celebratory hot chocolate and much needed hugs. Having snow ploughed for 4.5km Conor was, of course exhausted. However, I'm sure any skiers out there will agree that 4.5km of snow plough is an even more serious undertaking when you're a slightly overweight middle-aged woman who hasn't done any exercise for two years. Walking up the stairs to the bar for hot chocolate was a little tricky...

Home now, after a warm bath, and I'm feeling more human, if a little sore. My guitar/foot injury has burst open in my boots, leaving it attached to my sock in a way I don't really want to think about. My wrist is almost unusable, my legs have gone on an indefinite work to rule... and yet the kids are leaping around the room playing MarioKart.

I feel very old.