Those with technology at their fingertips reported snow at home.  Then came news of possible flight delays.  Hey Ho, such is the lot of the winter traveller.

Amidst absolute chaos at Geneva airport, our flight home was cancelled.  Bad weather throughout Europe was blamed, and we joined thousands of other frustrated travellers to reclaim our luggage and rebook our flights.  Six tedious hours later, with our luggage finally returned to us, and a flight home to Newcastle booked for (wait for it) the following Thursday, we set off for Samoens.  My wonderful Dad had responded to my 9pm call, turned off his tv, and driven for 1.5 hours to the airport to pick us up.  We finally collapsed into bed at 2am, guiltily leaving the others to the mercies of Geneva taxi drivers, hotel reception staff and the continued chaos of alternative flights the following morning.

I realised after rebooking our Newcastle flights that we, too, could have found another airport to return to before Thursday.  But sometimes life serves up little bonuses, just there for the taking, and this was one of them.  A Dad who lived nearby, a business that could be held in a holding pattern for just a few more days, and most fortuitous of all, our ski gear with us.

Like many ski areas, the Samoens lift people give oldies (75 and older) who are still skiing a free lift pass.  However my oldie isn’t so keen on piste skiing any more (too sedate) and much prefers to sweat his way up a hill on skins.   And seeing as we are not old enough to get a free lift pass, and had just had a week’s  skiing, the idea of not buying another pass was very attractive to us.  And guess what?  We had our skins with us!

We had two excellent days with Dad and his very fit friends Pete, Les and Jane, another Dave and Tam.  They skipped up the mountains without showing any signs of effort, leaving me to plod slowly to the top.  The conversations were great, and I have long since perfected my technique of asking open questions of the fitter person alongside me, especially as we go uphill.  Jane used to teach at Nevis Range and we realised we had mutual friends, Les and Dave talked climbing and making money.  We had lunch huddled in the porch of a summer buvette, sheltering from the heavy snowfall, before skiing through crusty, heavy snow back to the car.  Jolly good job I’d just had a week of practicing my skiing.

Day 2 was clear and cold, and the views once we were out of the trees were fabulous.  A longer skin up this time (oh, my weary muscles) amidst splendid surroundings.  Dave stayed back with me and we followed the tracks upwards (ever upwards, sigh).  To distract me (!) Dave quizzed me on mountain and avalanche safety; the terrain, the snow, breakpoints on the slope, the weather.  The others were waiting patiently at the top, gallantly giving me time to wolf a sandwich and admire the view: Mont Blanc, the Aiguille du Dru, the Aiguille Verte, the Grandes Jorasses – wow!

Skiing down was a dream; untouched snow soft enough to billow about the knee.  Lots of smiles. 

Our last day saw us skinning along to the Lac de Gers, about 40 minutes of up followed by a couple of hours of gently rising track through forest.  We disturbed a deer in the woods and stood to listen to the silence.  The daylight was fading fast as we reached the Lac, too late to go for a restoring cup of tea in the refuge.  Instead we fixed down our bindings, took our skins off and had fun skiing down the Cascades run in the growing darkness.  Who needs to be able to see to ski?

The car headlights lit up the snowy road as Dad drove us home.  Thanks, Dad – you are good to us. xxx