Among downhill aficionados the word "flat" often finds its way into descriptions of Norway's skiing potential, yet as I sat on our sunny terrace surrounded by precipitous pinnacles I put such comments down to malicious propaganda. Hemsedal doesn't boast the challenges of the Alps – of the 45 runs the majority are green and blue, but there are enough reds and blacks to keep my fanatical husband and children happy.
My favourite was a long, leisurely blue, winding its way from the top of the mountain, that took a good 30 minutes to ski and was virtually empty until the lower slopes. The only company on the descent was the whistle of the wind, the swish of my skis and the endless anecdotes of my seven-year-old son, who has an unparalleled ability to gabble and ski simultaneously.
Despite my Nordic genes I'll never be a champion skier. I'm brimful of fear, with not a gung-ho vein in my body, but my family are a different matter. I realised a couple of years ago during our debut ski trip that I was set to be a ski widow. Molly and Dan, five and six at the time, couldn't wait to hurtle down the slopes at terrifying speed. Such was their aptitude that my husband took them down their first black run on that trip. Luckily I only found out about it afterwards. My own earliest ski memory dates back to my kindergarten sports day just outside Oslo. I was five years old and lost courage halfway down the snow steps carved into the slope for our "fun run". I sat down and wept, and the snickering of my classmates still echoes down the decades.
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