How we came to be on our first ever ski trip was rather bizarre.

A couple of friends who, incidentally, had only been on the one ski trip themselves (but loved it!) bored us senseless for a few months, telling us how sensational the scenery was, how extraordinarily warm it could be and basically that we HAD to all go next year!

And so, at a rather boozy dinner party with them in early December, for reasons known only to the wine, we agreed to go – and then subsequently forgot all about it.

The following week they rang…"it's all organised, we're booked".

Having been shocked into silence and vaguely remembering our agreement to go we decided that there was no going back. So we quickly organised three 2-hour ski lessons on a rock-hard dry slope beside the A40 and spent a couple of hours in C&A (remember them!) buying up all of the ski gear that was on the lengthy list we had been given.

Then, January 20th, a week before we were due to go on this nerve-racking adventure and our chums phoned to say they couldn't go.

WHAT?

It seems that he had got out of his car, slid on some ice and did something nasty to his ankle. Couldn't ski, could barely walk and she couldn't possibly come with us without him as it wouldn't be fair. Great.

7 days later we duly arrived at an Austrian airport wondering what the **** we were doing there and, amazingly, we had a week that would change a huge chunk of our lives. It was astonishing how good it was.

The little village was the proverbial chocolate box picture; the weather really was extraordinary and was bright, sunny and warm during the day and snowing prettily throughout the night and the hotel, ski-school, other guests and the après ski all far outweighed our expectations.

From that trip on we needed a couple of grand extra every year to cover our 'couldn't possibly be missed' annual ski trip. One thing we really did appreciate on that first trip was that throughout the whole escapade, from lessons to the piste, we were taught how to ski correctly by highly experienced Austrian professionals and learnt a great respect for the sport, for other skiers, for the mountains, snow and the fast changing weather.

And this all came into play a few years later (perhaps our 10th or 12th trip, I can't remember) in the Italian ski resort of Cervinia which nestles in a vast ski area and under the shadow of the mighty Matterhorn.

Through the hotel's reception, a group of 4 of us had arranged to join an intrepid bunch for a day's trip across to Zermatt in Switzerland which involved two new experiences for me – skiing with a passport, and skiing on a glacier (the latter, it transpired being rather boring apart from the stunning views!).

We set off about 10ish with our Italian guide, and as the day went on we discovered that Italian guides can be far more concerned about their image, ski style and sun tan than they are about the safety of their clients!

However, off we went, the group of 12, like The Fellowship in The Lord of The Rings, all different shapes and sizes, working out way up the mountains via mainly drag lifts, onto a piste that is actually on the side of The Matterhorn (wow, how cool was that!) up to the glacier and across into Switzerland.

We then took our long descent into Zermatt and I had my first nasty experience of the day, much to the amusement of the rest of The Fellowship.

This last long run was a fairly typical mountain road, probably descending about 1000 feet with a mountain on one side and an interesting 45 degree drop on the other of 4 or 5 hundred feet – thick with snow, of course, and certainly not something I'd like to drive down in summer.

As we swayed along left and right down this piste I could swear that I could hear a distant Strauss Waltz - and this was possibly my undoing.

I deliberately positioned myself second from the end of the line so that I could dutifully keep an eye on the others in front (or so I thought) with a nice Scottish chap behind me, him being the most experienced skier in the group.

I must have been on my third rendition of The Blue Danube when we approached yet another sharp bend in the road. The road veered 90 degrees right. But I didn't.

As I tried to quickly slow myself (?) I caught the inside of a ski and simply kept going, over the edge and tumbled about 50 feet down the mountain, amazingly missing all the rocks hidden deep in the snow.

Luckily, I had our Scottish friend behind me who stopped and helped me out of this mess, although our new friendship was tested somewhat over the next 20 minutes.

I was in a real heap with both skis still attached, one tucked up beneath my body and the other strangely twisted around my right ear – and every time I tried to move I slid and rolled another 10 feet or more down the mountain. I was getting very hot, rather angry and more than a little nervous.

But McFriend eventually came to my aid.

He took off his skis and slowly worked his way down the slope creating 'steps' all the way down until he got to me, by now about 100 feet down, helped me take off my skis without slipping further and we then carefully 'walked' back up the steps, carrying skis and poles.

We got back up onto the road, put the skis back on and gently swayed our way down towards the rest of the now, very concerned, waiting group, perhaps another half a mile further down this piste of a road.

As we approached them, two things became evident to me – firstly that I was obviously covered in snow, head to boot and even had the odd piece of mountain undergrowth attached – and secondly that my Scottish friend had totally lost his admirable concern and sensitivity and was giggling like a bleedin' schoolgirl.

We then continued down the rest of the road into Zermatt, with me now surrounded by 11 giggling schoolgirls and an Italian guide who was more concerned about being held up for half an hour than having the death of a customer on his designer ski-gloves.

I don't know what the Italian for ****ard is, but…"****ard!"

However, the highlight of the day was, without doubt, a fabulous and rather expensive lunch in a superb restaurant in Zermatt and the only slight downside was that no-one asked to see out passports.

That would have been nice.

After lunch, and possibly after just a little too much wine for skiing, we had a couple of excellent hours skiing the runs above Zermatt, including the extraordinary Testa Grigia which has a total vertical drop of over 6400 feet.

But one thing we weren't aware of was the time, something our guide should have had imprinted on his brain.

If you are a skier, you know that to get down anywhere you have to first get up somewhere and that means having a full knowledge of the ski area's lift systems, routes and times…and we'd blown the time big time.

It was about 4ish as we queued up to jump onto the giant cable car that can take over 80 odd skiers (Europe's largest) up to the very top of the mountains above Zermatt to an amazing place called The Plateau Rosa which, at 12,590 feet is as about as high as a skier wants to go without oxygen.

The Plateau Rosa run is not steep (a fairly gentle run) and not far (perhaps ¼ mile?) and takes you back across the mountains into Italy and on a beautiful, sunny, clear day I'm quite sure it's an experience to remember for the rest of your life.

An experience to remember? It certainly was, but for all the wrong reasons.

All experienced skiers know that, high in the mountains, the weather can change dramatically at the drop of a ski hat and it certainly did that day.

We got to the top of the cable car run at about 4.30 and all trundled out into the lift station area knowing full well that the weather outside was rather inclement as we'd seen it changing through the misted up glass in the ascending cable car which had been increasingly buffeted around in the wind.

But we had no idea.

For the first time that day, our Italian guide showed concern, great concern, in fact he realised that he'd taken us into real trouble with a capital T.

Most of the other skiers had stayed on the cable car and sensibly returned down with it but we, and a few other loonies were about to take on the only other possible way to get off this mountain – to ski down.

The route down into Zermatt was not even to be considered as it was a fairly serious black run and, I suspect, in this weather was certain death! There was only one other option and that was to yomp across The Plateau Rosa into Italy.

We all stood in the lift station not really knowing what to expect outside, although we could certainly hear it, and took instructions from our guide who had now lost his highly nurtured tan and was a nervous, pale colour.

We were all to put everything on that we had about our persons; masks, ski balaclavas, goggles or other such head things as well as the jacket hoods, well-tied down, and there wasn't to be any part of the head or face open to the elements except, in my case, as it stupidly transpired, my mouth!

All jackets, zips, trousers, salopettes, gloves had to be adjusted the same. And we were to move in a single line, keeping the person in front about 2 metres away at most and, importantly, NOT STOP for any reason whatsoever - and the reason for that was soon to become clear.

The big moment came and our guide (now officially renamed "****ard") opened the door to the outer world and we all went nervously quiet, which is more than can be said for the roar of the wind outside that greeted us – and out we trundled into the unknown and began our trek.

And my goodness, I would never have imagined that conditions could be like this as the 60mph wind hit you like a frozen truck (and actually hurt, even through all the ski gear) and you had to arch yourself forward almost touching the snow with your head to avoid being swept away – yet at the same time cricking your face slightly upwards to keep the person in front in sight.

Luckily, the route across the Plateau Rosa was fairly well marked and easy to find (although I was completely unaware of this fact until later) or we could have easily followed the leader over the side like a bunch of lemmings. We must have been half way across the Plateau when I began to understand the instruction about "not stopping" and the treacherous consequences that could result.

One rather important detail that our guide didn't pass on to us before we set out was the wind-chill temperature that was showing on the station weather dials.

IT WAS MINUS 42 DEGREES! (C or F, it's about the same)

Now that's more than just a bit nippy and as we cut our way through the screaming frozen trucks I strangely noticed that this vicious, terrifying weather seemed to become less intense the further we went.

What I didn't realise is that this happens when 'hypothermia' sets in and your whole body seems to literally close down and go to sleep – and I now fully understand how people can simply curl up and die in such conditions.

Rather frightening.

However, we all kept going, with our guide buzzing up and down the line making sure that everyone was OK, which, of course, we weren't, and checking that we neither stopped nor ventured more than 6 feet behind the person in front. Lose sight of that person and you could easily drift off in another direction and take all those behind you with you.

Eventually, and I've no idea to this day how long this took, we made it and all collapsed into the lift station on the Italian side.

There was a weird atmosphere amongst The Fellowship of relief, fear, excitement of having just done something stupidly 'extreme' (or extremely stupid!) nervous amusement and a little shouting but it really wasn't funny. And we also had a very quiet ski guide!

We all removed the excess bits of protection - gloves, hoods, hats and goggles all dropped onto the floor and it was then that I realised that I had left that one part of me stupidly exposed to the weather – my mouth.

It actually felt rather sore, to say the least, and I quickly rubbed my face with my hand to warm up and, to my amazement, my moustache was totally frozen and fell on the floor in bits, much the great amusement of everyone else for the second time that day.

But I also discovered later, back at the hotel whilst soaking in an extremely welcome bath, that I'd suffered a little drop of frostbite leaving a nasty black mark in the corner of my mouth.

After 10 or 15 minutes all our daft weather clothing and bits were stashed away in the numerous pockets and hidey-holes that ski suits have and we were ready to make our descent into Cervinia.

And this is where irony takes over.

The first piste immediately below the ski station was on the leeward side of the mountains and although still a bit blustery was only a shadow of the conditions that we'd just encountered.

But then, as we descended further, the weather changed into still, pure evening sunshine, and was more reminiscent of the Caribbean than the Arctic, and we gently skied the long final run down to Cervinia – straight into the nearest bar!

That was possibly the only time in all my ski trips that I have genuinely felt afraid – and certainly the silliest thing I've ever done on skis.

Or so I thought…until I discovered para-skiing.

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From the 'never to be published' book, THE RAMBLINGS OF AN ORDINARY BLOKE