Life

Home on the slopes

In Austria Geoff Hill found ski schools and restaurants that are family run and mountain villages that haven't been purpose built for tourists. Why would you ski anywhere else?

SKIING. I had forgotten the bliss of it. And not just the skiing, but sitting on a chairlift gliding through the treetops in a perfect limbo between the sunlight sparkling on fresh snow below, the blue sky threaded here and there with jet trail silk above, and the cold, crisp air on your face, making you feel as if you have been born again into a world where every sensation is new.

And then the contrast between that serenity and hurtling down a mountain just the right side of control.

Like other activities, such as flying an aeroplane, riding a motorbike, wrestling sharks or opening your bank statement every month, skiing forces you to focus utterly on the moment.

And since much unhappiness is caused by regretting the past and worrying about the future, and thus ruining the present, skiing is therefore by definition happiness incarnate. "You know, your skiing is just about perfect today," said Hubert the guide as we swooshed to a halt in front of the Angerer Alm, an ancient farmhouse on the slopes above St Johann transformed into one of the Tirol's finest mountain restaurants by owner Annemarie Foidl and her daughter Katharina.

He was very kind; particularly since the last time I'd been in Austria, the instructor had said: "Yes, I think it is safe to say your skiing is a triumph of strength over technique." "Ah, Geoff, I remember your ski suit from the last time. Welcome back," laughed Annemarie as we clomped through the door.

Hardly surprising: it's an adapted flying suit which I'd ordered in bright pink as an antidote to the fact that all the other chaps at the flying club had dull green, black and grey ones.

Multilingual Annemarie is one of Austria's top sommeliers and Katharina (26) is a cordon bleu chef who rustled up pork and apple mousse, then cheese soup with apple and pear, then venison tortellini - washed down by home-made elderflower cordial and wine from a cellar which contains vintages dating back to a 1795 Madeira.

It took us all afternoon to ski that lot off on perfect slopes, then ruin it all by ending up in the pub atop St Johann's brewery.

Mind you, it was hard to resist, with a selection of beers at E 3.20 a pop. "The prices in Austria are incredible; about a quarter of what I paid in France a couple of weeks ago," said John, one of the group. Add to that the fact that the ski schools are owned by local families and the mountain restaurants by local farmers who feed their cows in the summer and tourists in the winter, and the fact that the little towns and villages like St Johann and Westendorf have been there forever rather than being purpose-built for tourists, and you have a cosy, authentic, welcoming and affordable combination which makes me wonder why you'd ever want to ski anywhere else. Particularly since the SkiWelt area of nine connected resorts gives you access to a whopping 279kms of runs.

The next day we decamped to Westendorf, above which is Kinder Kaiserland, a ski school where the youngest pupil that day was 14 months old. "Look, there's a suit to beat yours," said Anita the guide, pointing to a toddler in a liquorice allsort one-piece, with wraparound shades and a nuclear orange helmet. "That kid's got style. One day we'll both be back in fashion," I said.

As we tucked into onion soup with dumplings in the Tanzbodelm mountain hut, a miniature gondola whirred to and fro above our heads: at € 150 in the shops down below, a perfect gift for skiing hamsters.

After a hard afternoon's skiing on red and black runs, it was dusk as we stopped for hot chocolate with a dash of rum in the charming Sonn-Alm, and dark by the time we finally swished to a halt at the bottom of the mountain. All around us, the lights of Westendorf twinkled on one by one. "God, I'm knackered. Fancy a beer?"

I said to Anita.

"Not yet. I still have to show you our 10kms of floodlit runs," she said brightly.

I sighed, but the funny thing was that in contrast to the flat light of an overcast afternoon, the hard, crisp glare of the floodlights, combined with freshly groomed snow, meant that night skiing was fabulous, and it was a happy bunch who sat down to a bottle of red and perfect steaks in the Stock Alm mountain lodge.

Until a thought suddenly occurred to me. "Er, Anita, how are we getting down off the mountain?" I said. "Tobogganing," she grinned.

If you've never tried tobogganing after several glasses of wine, I can thoroughly recommend it, but not surprisingly, I was even more knackered the next morning. Thankfully, the government had thoughtfully provided brown furry pouffes sticking out of the snow at regularly intervals to sit on.

Further investigation, however, revealed that they were not quite what they seemed. You see, the tourist board had asked summer visitors to stop feeding marmots because they got so fat that when they tried to get back down their burrows in the winter, they got stuck and froze to death.

Sadly, some marmots never listen, so the furry resting places were, in fact, the rear ends of marmots who just couldn't say no. Still, serves them right, I thought as I settled comfortably on to a particularly plump specimen and reflected on the bliss of a few days' perfect skiing.

Then looked forward to the final bliss of all; replacing my heavy ski boots with normal shoes and feeling like I was walking on air as I made my way to the nearest bar for a small glass of sherry.

Quite possibly followed by another one.

* ON TOP OF THE WORLD: Austria's SkiWelt and Westendorf areas offer top-class skiing minus the hype