There’s not much to mention about my final day of skiing, other than the huge dump of snow of all over the mountain, especially in the mid and lower sections. As a result, our house had a fresh covering and even the village was transformed into a magical place. Unfortunately for the skiing, the fresh powder was no more than a deceptive sprinkling of icing sugar on top of a formidably frozen iceberg.

In other words, not great skiing.

I’d either career out of control then thump down hard in a fall on the ice or jolt unexpectedly to a standstill in the thick powder drifts.

All in all though, it was a great holiday (ahem, “work”) – and of course one prone to excessive poetics…

But I went to have a beer and a croque-monsieur at a café in Crans last night, and watching the snow falling gently outside, I was charmed. The décor of the “Café-Bar 1900” played its part in the entrancement – with frosted glass lanterns, somewhat anachronistic posters from the 1920s, and the ample spirits reflected in mirrors and gleaming from the polished wooden shelves.

There’s something about a steady stream of drifting snow that is so beautiful though – actually I think it’s the whole mountain atmosphere. It’s impossible not to get all Robert Frost or artistic airline commercial by just mentioning the evocative majesty of falling snow…

But you can tell you’ve got it bad when smile from the chairlift, watching the clutters of multiple ski groups on the slopes and thinking that they are unfurling like ribbons!

Oh, get me to stop – someone pinch me!