The morning mist made sleep a more potential than skiing. Then something happened. The clouds broke apart about 10 a.m., the sun pocked the ground with bright patches, and I could not pass the chance to get ready in 15 minutes and run out the house with my ski gear on my back.

The valley at Les Bossons heated up under the sun. I looked high along the mountain tops and saw the snow heavy at the peaks. This would be a good day. The bus up to Brevent from Cham was crowded, but everyone wore their ski boots, while I had me boots inside my pack. So I ran up the stairs from the bus stop, saw no line into the telecabin, and got a bubble all by myself.

At the top, the runs showed fresh snow from the days before, where clouds hung high and consistently spread snowflakes across the Brevent. I skied down to the Cornu lift, found no line, and got onto the chair alone. Could this all be real? Looking across the slopes, I noticed many fewer skiers than just a few days before. Maybe the last of the tourist waves from UK and France had finally left the valley for we bumbs.

Off the backside of the Cornu I dove, cutting and dodging, leaping and screaming. The sun beat well already on the snow, and the spring conditions helped curb speed. I made five runs in a row, then had to sit down off piste for a sandwich and to work through my racoon tan from over last weekend. Afterwards, a few more lone runs down the back and I was knackered.

If you weren’t skiing yesterday in the valley, you might as well have been dead. It was that good.