Dancing on the Bar

Eleven year old Douglas's parents, who live in France, arrive to find all the grown ups standing on the bar, enthusiastically 'moving like Jagger' in the routine they put together last night over a few bottles of Prosecco, while the rest of us were engaged on a Gelatti hunt with 32 children, two of whom are accutely allergic to nuts.

Soon Douglas's big brother joins him on the floor, to demonstrate dancing gangnam style, while ten year old Wilbur does an Irish jig to 'I am Happy".  And we all are. This eclectic mix of adults and kiddies have bonded so well that no one cares who they find themselves sitting next to over the unremitting daily supper of rock-hard white rolls, kos lettuce, radiccio, olives, and tinned chopped carrots.

Prior to supper, evenings comprise two lines of adults and children sitting on their bums, back to the wall, legs in everybody's way, in the hotel passage, gaming, running their businesses, gambling, or checking out the talent on Times Encounters, as the free wifi doesn't work anywhere else.

Days involve forty-one Brits racing around the mountains on skis, from the first chair-lift up, to the last chair-lift down.  It is extraordinary that every single child appears to be mad about skiing, however much crying takes place in between runs. Meanwhile the adults oversee the action from the centrally located mountain cafe, tucking into something called Bombardino - an orange kind of advocat that you mix with coffee and cream - discussing children and parenting.  'Benevolent Neglect' appears to be our most favoured approach.

The sun is hot, the sky is blue, the snow is perfect, the runs are virgin, there's no one else here.  The mountain is our very own.

On the last day we are all such experts that we ski to France.  Here we find noise.  Hundreds of English people clogging up the chairlifts, all colour coordinated.  Some wear orange caps, lots of tiddlies are crying, some young teenagers sport purple sweatshirts, others have sky blue ski jackets, all with the names of their schools emblazoned on the back. School ski trips have clearly become big business.  The Bombardinos cost nearly double over here.  We are glad to get back to the peace of  Italy, where even the first-timer seven year-old skiers are now leaving me behind, as they ski their bittersweet last run, after a week of universal hilarity and joy.