Valberg, France

The skiing has been great so far. Next on our list of hills to try, was Valberg, a station de ski tucked away at the top of a twisting canyon, slightly northwest of Nice. It seems that the skiing in France is not what we should be anxious about; it’s the getting to the ski hill. Not only do you need nerves of steel to tackle the jaw-dropping, hair-pin turns (called lacet, or laces in French), the occasional thud of falling rock dropping from the sheer rock face onto the roof of your car, but also the oncoming French drivers, who seem to be infused with an unhealthy dose of fatalism, and drive the roads with fierce determination to beat their prior personal best time in getting to their final destination.

I’ve given up trying to stifle the odd, spontaneous swearword at the height of the most terrifying moments. Instead, I gave Hannah and Bronwyn a frank talk on swearing, why adults do it sometimes, why kids can’t, and a few examples of some blasphemies, and other assorted curses. They now know there is actually a worse “s” word than “stupid”. Bronwyn tried to get around the no-kid-swear rule by shouting out “Cheeses!” at near-misses with oncoming cars, but had that quickly scrubbed from her vocabulary.

In any case, we loved the hill once we made it to Valberg alive. DeeDee was ensconced in a very nice crèche, and Dave and the “bigs” and I skied all day, only to stop and eat lunch at a little spot on the hill, where we sat outside and enjoyed the sunshine and the steak frites.