One moment you'd be zooming down the runway, the next you'd be flying above icy mountains that had white glitter sprinkled on top of them. The vast difference from the view of English greenery and houses on houses on houses to pure white mountains with fairy-tale like chalets dotted across them and groups of ever-green trees was, alone, amazing.
It's like entering a new world, one where snow doesn't cause schools and shops and everything in the country to shut down, but one where locals are used to their surroundings being glazed in ice and snow during the winter months, where ski's and/or snowboards are a common item within households.
Up high in the Swiss mountains a blanket of snow stood on anything and everything, however it wasn't bleak nor was it desolate, the charming chalets powdered among the paths that were really just snow carved out by a snowmobile, made a warming and slightly festive sense to it.
The chalet we stayed at was called 'Chalet Du Duck' purely because small ducks were carved into the woodwork of the porch and the railing running up to the second floor. It was owned by my dads friend and was a spacious size acquiring 5 bedrooms, a hot tub and a heated room exclusively for ski boots which was perfect after a day of throwing yourself down ski runs and testing your ability of balance.
Of course, skiing wasn't a chore. It was thrilling. First you would get the ski lift up to the highest part of the mountain then you'd pick your route down. On black runs (the steepest of the colour coded) they could almost be a vertical drop or a field of moguls that would cause your skis to go wild winding around and over.
As the holiday drew to an end, we hesitantly had to break away from the story book and draw it to an end, maybe next year we'll return.
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