For as long as our three children can remember, we’ve spent Christmas Day on the slopes – opening our stockings in the morning and then venturing out for a refreshing, relaxed ski and a light lunch somewhere really beautiful. Then, as the light fades, we head back for the full works in the evening, including mince pies, mugs of steaming glühwein and, of course, plenty of turkey. This year, for the first time anyone can remember, we’ll be doing things a bit differently, as our eldest son is jetting off for a wedding on Boxing Day. But no matter – we’ll just make it a week or so later. After all, our annual family skiing holiday is a sacred tradition and we’ll do anything, whatever everyone’s schedules, to make it happen.
My husband Peter and I are both skiing journalists, so it’s strange to think that I didn’t exactly relish my own early family ski jaunts.
My very first ski holiday was to St Moritz when I was just three years old, and I wore a powder-blue all-in-one ski suit. I know this because my mother
– a keen skier herself – avidly filmed every ski holiday our family ever went on, even though I could never quite muster the same enthusiasm. And yet, somewhere between tackling the moguls of the Hohe Mut run, and the Solaise in Val d’Isère, I began to fall in love with skiing. Now, it’s what I do for business and for pleasure.