I’ve written a couple of blogs over the past few weeks which have not made it to publish stage yet, somehow all the negativity , worry and concern created by a potential Brexit and the utter stupidity from the Orange one across the pond, has seeped itself into my writing.

Thankfully, I know a cleansing is in the offing and as I board the plane I have the excited tingling sensation of a four year old anticipating gooey chocolate cake and the resulting sugar high; the mountains beckon.

We are here for a full 8 days and after the first day of purgatory where I’m still trying to break in my Surefoot custom-made ski boots which after 8 seasons of blister plasters, ibuprofen pain relief every 3 hours, and bruised shins, are obviously a lost cause, I give in and go to the hire shop. As I slip my feet into the padded softness of the brand new, rented, Alpina ski boots, I realise that this is what having cancer does; it shortcuts decision making. Yes it costs, but whether it’s a penny, a pound or millions of spondoolies, you can’t take it with you. I am here now.  My own blasted boots are never going to ‘spark joy’ and I want to enjoy my time on the mountains. What a fabulous decision this is proving to be. Free of foot and leg pain, I am able to go anywhere and do any ski run of my choosing.

There is a moment today, when the ice wind is cutting through my 7 layers of clothing, my 2 pairs of socks and gloves, my full face balaclava, goggles and helmet and eating into my very bones, when I look out and down the hill. In front is my husband and son together cutting sharp turns on freshly pisted virgin snow. We are the only people on this run. The lake at the bottom of the mountain glistens in the pale sunlight, the snow blows silently off the pine trees and drifts into the air as I pass, the only sound I can hear is the satisfying squeak-crunch of ski on snow. I momentarily stop, thinking I should take a photo to capture the moment before shaking myself to my senses. This is a moment for living, not recording. A moment of sheer aliveness and gratitude that no camera could ever hope to capture. Seared into my memory bank; the only way to thank the universe for my being here is to keep going.

One of the joys of skiing for me is the ‘present-ness’ of it all. It’s the best form of mindfulness that I know. There are no other thoughts than icy, bumpy, lumpy, pisted, groomed, deep powder, tracked-out snow and the kind of skiing and control it demands. It’s been 3 seasons since we last skied together as a family and in this time we have all experienced significant life changes – not least that Roscoe has grown over 8inches and his new body means he needs to adjust his skiing style. On day two we send him off on an advanced ski lesson and he returns wild eyed, exhausted and slightly deranged. From one of the chair lifts we look aghast at the places where he’s been and I’m so glad that I don’t have the burning need to prove myself anymore. As a boy with competitive mates, he probably has many more years of sheer stupidity and daftness on skis ahead of him.

Although the following day, his muppetry extends to a new unparalleled level , where mid-way through the morning he turns to me and says, “Mum, I’m just not feeling it today”. I leap to the conclusion that he’s lost confidence given his extreme ski the day before and reassure him we’ll take it easy. Later, as we tighten our boots after lunch, he makes a surprising discovery – his 70’s style clam shell boots (now coming back into fashion) are on the wrong feet and he has skied like this all morning. I reflect that he must be fairly reasonable on skis that he made this possible.

By contrast as Craig and I are inching into our middle years, our aches and pains seem to linger longer. These little creaks are gentle reminders that our bodies are not designed to keep going ad-infinitum. In the mountains the aches become muscular, deeper; a welcome reminder that we can still ski-fly down the hill but there are consequences attached to such decisions. I wonder if skiing decisions go the same way as life itself where the caring adult becomes the child and the child becomes the caring adult. Do black runs and the high of surviving off piste glide into the gentle delight of blue and green runs as the pine-tree snow-dust scatters in the wind?

When I was in hospital one of my best memories to replay was of a restaurant in Switzerland, full of some of my favourite ski friends, and us skiing from our lodge in Chatel in France, across the mountain and up on a T-bar to this shining bastion of good food and even better wine. Fortified with full tummies and the requisite amount of alcohol, we would all ski like demons home, making the last ski lifts as the clanging bells sounded across the valley. On our final visit, we didn’t acknowledge this was our last time, there remained the potential of another sojourn, another year.

Now of course, I am more aware of time; next time, last time, final times. So I don’t take for granted this ability to step into comfy ski boots and have an easy glide down the mountain. Who knows what lies ahead. Apart from today and tomorrow, everything else just stops, while the mountain envelops me in her magic of possibilities.

So irrespective of the absolute tomfoolery which is currently happening in the homeland; the plots, defections, confusion, concern and uncertainty, there will always be a mountain beckoning somewhere. A mountain of promise. A mountain of fun. And if we’re  lucky we might meet at the top of such a place and have a bite of something delicious and a toast, or two, to the sheer joy of breathing in the air of just being here.