Great escape

And so, just like that, we upped and went. A grand up in smoke, but what the hell? (the beginning of this was written before Bitcoins tanked) – we’d worry about that afterwards. It was, I told our therapist the night before we went, and also the day we booked – while simultaneously apologising for our profligacy and explaining away our Christmas spent in our Devon holiday, and the fact Tom hadn’t made it to this, our last session of marriage counselling – the most spontaneous thing we’ve done in years – perhaps the thing that we’ve missed most in our relationship since having two oft-tricky children who thrive best on routine. But Jonah’s random inset day was just too good to miss. And Ava’s barely missed a day of school in nine years. She was due a sore throat, at least.

Of course, half the fun was breaking it to them. Have you done your homework?, I asked in my sternest voice, because if you haven’t, I added at his protestations that he hadn’t much to do, we won’t be able to go skiing tomorrow. The kids looked at me as if I was mad, the quantum shift in expectation suddenly dawning, as if I’d suddenly produced a chocolate egg from behind the boy’s ear.

Ava, you’re looking really poorly, how are you feeling? She grinned, colluding in this most unparently of ruses, both of them lifting eyes up from screens at the unlikely prospect of a temporary hiatus in January austerity, and an unexpected return to to December frivolity.

Sat on a cramped and rather smelly Easy Jet flight back, late Sunday night, it’s with a degree of relief that the escapade has, so far, gone without a hitch – I say so far, because these days, I can’t rest easy until touchdown. Yet, it was the tonic we needed to drag us out of our midwinter rut, to breath untainted mountain air and pump flushy roses into pasty cheeks; all of us surprising ourselves with our prowess on the slopes; muscle- memory kicking in, along with the latent memory of shin burn and bloodless fingertips.

We arrived in time for pre-supper drinks and pain au sucre, giddy on the novelty of suddenly being displaced on foreign soil, or rather snow, since it had dumped on Jonah’s birthday, resurrecting Christmas in sugar-dusted pine and white capped peaks – of course, it’s always Christmas in Valberg. They simply never take down the lights and decorations till at least April, if at all.

We’d picked a snug little studio in one of the quaint 1920s timber-clad chalet-style apartementes, all dark wood floors and shutters, snowflakes carved into fretwork, decorated with ubiquitous Ikea modernity. It was perfectly adequate, for somewhere we’d hardly be in, and cost practically nothing, as had our last minute flights, which meant we could max put on mealtines, enjoying highlights from previous trips- hot coal steaak and roast potatoes, salade, washed down with pichet rosé and orangina – to hell with dry Vagenuary.

And then a game of whist, rhummy and down the river over chocolate chaud and Jet vingtsept at the Hotel Chalet Swiss before turning in, the kids into their bunks and us to a rather comfy sofa bed. Of course, ahvingbsold my pre-Christmas insomnia, before we went away, I tossed and turned after so much booze. Never mind, we woke to glorious, pristine sun, and once we’d faffed with boots and poles, we launched ourselves into the high octane peace of empty slopes: wide blues, hairy reds, choppy blacks which, of course, we never attempt.

Yet, as family, we came to life, having pushed through the pain of years gone by- where tantrums and hysteria driven by abject fear, burning thighs, crushed ankles and ungainly gracelessness transformed into lightness of being tinged with adrenaline, and the thrill of feeling at once in and out of control.

Jonah and I had philosophic conversations on ski lifts, Ava preferring the more pedestrian (that is to say, less esoteric) cable car banter and calme reassurance of Tom’s rather more confident ski-persona; The boy having well and truly outstripped me, skill wise, this time: initial caution thrown to the wind replaced by daredevil antics and slick manoeuvres. At his best, through a canteen lunch of stew and tarte framboise, he gamely sat through a meal of heated fromage which previously would have sent him into  an oversensitive meltdown, though he ate spag bol – I having banned yet another hamburger frites.

Sunday was steely cold and, with a latent memory of swollen shins, and frosty toes, we overcame tired and fragile tempers with plentiful stops for hot drinks, nand having made it down my nemeis, the long red, Tony, I called it quites and stuck out on my own, tentatively down the steep blue Dreccia, I’d now mastered, while the kids and Tom had a second go down the red at speed. Like I say, it’s always a relief to finish a ski holiday in one piece, and there was no way I was running the risk of turning our adventure into a nightmare.

In the end, we touched down safely, made it home by 11 and the kids had moreorless eight hours sleep before making it to school on Monday morning, bleary-eyed, but none the worse for their weekend escapade. Of course, reality had to bite at some point, and as I watched Bitcoins avalanche on Tuesday and returned home to find my tumbler dryer packed up, it was back down to earth with something of a bump. Afterall, it was perhaps boyant overconfidence in our financial situation which enabled us to go away in the first place. But, what goes up must comes down. that’s not to say it won’t go back up again. But exercising caution is always wise, even if I do believe it’s ok to bend the rules every so often – if it means we get to have a weekend we’ll never forget as a family.