As I write this I’m tucked up in the corner of the backseat of our car as we drive and drive through a wet France on the way home. We’ve unfortunately run out of biscuits so are fighting over the last crisp packet. (If you haven't guessed I wrote this a while ago - I've been wanting to upload it so much but I wanted to get up to date so had to wait to write my trip to Belgium first but thought why not upload it a day early. Hope you enjoy).
A few months ago I visited a place in France
where my Aunt and Uncle’s wedding was taking place. I wrote about it here A Trip To France: A Wedding. My parents just so happened to book our skiing holiday in the same place. The only difference from last time I visited was that snow had
fallen.
I’ve never been on a skiing holiday where I have been
able to see so little. For the first time it rained some days when I was up the
mountain and I ended up coming back to the apartment drenched.
It just so happened that the sunniest of days was our
last day. I even caught myself saying I was too hot. Unfortunately we had to
cut the skiing day short to get on our way to the euro tunnel.
Apparently as a child I was fearless when skiing.
According to my mum, from the moment I could ski, I would hurl myself down the
slopes. I have one distinct memory from when I was little, I hurtled past
my mum down the mountain and I could just hear her screaming my name but I
carried on trying to go as fast as possible. I guess it explains why I find it so
thrilling now to ski but only when I'm in control. It's rather scary,
understandably so, when your skiing down a mountain and you go over some ice or
something and lose control. 
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