A February letter

The chalet is warm again and the half-term week is held, as it has been since the children were small enough to carry. Max’s boots were re-fitted in November — he grew two sizes and told nobody, which is what boys do; the fitting happened before anyone thought to ask, which is what we do. They are waiting at the chalet, laces loosened.

Anders is yours again for the week. He is not an instructor; he is a man who reads the mountain the way other people read a newspaper — over coffee, front to back, before you are awake. Twice last year he moved the morning to the other valley and both times the weather agreed with him by ten. Go where he points. The snow is not a matter of opinion to him.

This year’s one new idea — each season letter carries exactly one — falls on the Thursday, which is a full moon: dinner at the mountain restaurant after the lifts close, the piste to ourselves on the way up, and sledges home by moonlight. The kitchen stays late for us alone. The children will not sleep on the way down, and should not.

— E.