I say "used to" but that's only because I haven't been for a few years.

"Andorra?" I hear you ask quizzically. "One of your favourite places to ski? Come on you can't be serious?"

Now I have skied in The Rockies, The Andes, The Alps and a few lesser-known ranges around the world, but I have a huge soft spot for the tiny Principality tucked up high in the Pyrenees squeezed in between Spain and France.

I have skied down frozen waterfalls, hit piste signs that were hidden just below the snow pack and buried by so much powder. I have leapt into couloirs, been hiking up distant peaks and got lost and had to walk out of remote valleys. I have stayed in some mountain huts and seen the sun rise over one of the most beautiful mountain ranges in the world.

Best of all though my kids learnt to ski here. They are 16, 14 and 11 now.  But they all began here at 4 years old.

Down many thousands of feet beneath me I can make out the capital, Andorra La Viella, and I follow a winding road to a peak with just a trace of snow on it. Arcalis. It is in my top 10 resorts in the world and on a powder day is up there with the very best of them.  It also has some great nursery slopes.

It's all a bit vague now but I remember the kids being too young to ski when we first passed through and they were reluctantly forced into the crèche while my wife and I enjoyed the snow.

I seem to remember feeling a bit guilty at the time, but it soon passed and doesn't seem to have done them any long-term damage.

After a few winters they were all out of the creche and on to the snow.  They can still remember  "the motorway run" as we nicknamed one particular rolling red run. As I fly over the mountains I can feel the sensation of hurtling down there hugging the contours and cambers.

Taking it easy so my kids could keep up and I saw them following in a line in my tracks I knew we made many years of family pleasure ahead of us.

It seems an age ago and only 5 minutes at the same time.

Our eldest Alex was almost 10 at the time.  Now he is 16 and a far better skier than me.  He beats me soundly in races and has just passed level 1 of his ski instructor exams. Not bad for 16 and I'm happy to take a bit of reflected glory.

I can't keep up with him anymore though he still bows to my greater experience and knowledge off piste. I can still keep up with the other kids, but the only thing for certain is that it won't last. Fact.

Before I know it they will be faster, stronger and have better technique and it all started on the mountains below me.

If I close my eyes I can see the innocent picture of a young family having fun on snow bonding and developing relationships through the wonderful, wonderful sport of sliding around on the snow.

I can see the tears and tantrums too. The frustration of not being to go off with my wife and friends on a powder day.  The cost of lessons. The necessity of returning to the main area for lunch. The need to think for them and remember all the gear. The toilet stops.

The endless driving to get round the resorts. The petty quarrels. The lack of après ski.  The sleepless nights when they were toddlers and teething. The nappies.

Memory plays a strange trick though and it is an effort to remember the bad times. I certainly can't feel them in the same way I can the good times.

As the plane passes the Pyrenees and the landscape below turns to the dry, parched brown of Catalonia in August I make promise to myself.

Next winter I will return. With the kids; while I can still keep up.

Bookmark this page