Buckling up my ‘ABS’ backpack, transceiver concealed surreptitiously beneath my ski jacket and airbag toggle slung over my shoulder, I feel a little like James Bond off on a secret mission in the Alps. That’s until I fly off the chairlift 20 minutes later and go hurtling headfirst into the face of our guide Andreas, who starts to look a little more concerned about the prospect of us venturing off-piste as per the plan.
Admittedly, by this point I feel ever-so-slightly more Bridget Jones than James Bond, but I’m not going to let it stop me, and after a few haphazard runs, I start to find my ski legs again. It’s time to hit the powder.
