February half term family ski trips: there should be an Olympic category for families that manage to make it to the slopes, fully kitted out without wanting to kill each other. This year, for the first time in years, all UK half term holidays are the same; add in the lion share of France and all of Belgium and you may begin to question the sanity of making the 14-hour trip to the Alps, strapping two planks of wood onto your nearest and dearest and sending them hurtling head-first down a 45 degree icy slope. All this for the princely sum of the GDP of a small African Nation.

This year, we did at least manage to make it to the English side of the Eurotunnel before youngest child filled a bag with car-sick. Travelling in convoy with three other families, all with cars packed to the rafters and excitement levels approaching stratospheric, we probably weren’t a shining example of British exportation. After stopping around every hour to accommodate children with no ability to synchronise bladder emptying, we arrived in Riems, the home of champagne and a very sophisticated French town seemingly full of totally inappropriate restaurants for a group of car-couped Brits. An overnight stop in Lyon and another early start and finally the mountains come into view and it all seems worth the effort. I wonder what the French make of the invasion of the British for this one week of the year; clogging up their motorways, driving in the wrong lanes, and driving their supermarket staff crazy by not weighing the produce before paying.

After an epic 28-hour journey, and more wee stops than I care to remember, we arrived in St Foy Tarentaise where the French appear to have evacuated to make way for middle England’s invasion. This being the second time we have attempted this “holiday”, we did at least know what to expect. Getting three children kitted out in a ski hire shop is an experience that should be used as a contraceptive. Our caveat of only taking children skiing when they are old enough to look after themselves flew straight out the window.

A usually competent and self-sufficient 10-year-old became a whimpering wreck because his boots wouldn’t do up and his skis were too heavy to carry. With stress levels at an all time high, the holiday began. Cue first of the extortionately priced vin chauds to set us on our way. Dinner of semi-defrosted lasagne that has been in the car since we set off and we’re good to go.

The battle to get out on the first morning may indeed make the preparations for the D-Day landings look straightforward. Trying to explain to a child in an apartment with heating controls set on tropical that the five layers of clothing are necessary is a negotiation skill that should be exploited by the unions. It’s not until the first run down through the trees with the sun shining over the picturesque mountainscape that it all becomes worth it. Ignore the drive, the stress, the second mortgage to pay for the damn thing and, on some occasions, even the French themselves and skiing is a holiday that we won’t forget. We may not be contenders for the next winter Olympics but hey, who cares. You just cant beat the feeling. Thank you St Foy, we’ll see you next year.