When we announced that we were off skiing last April, most people thought we were nuts. Not because the snow was a bit thin on the ground, but because our second son, Arthur, was only a few weeks old.

Skiing with a baby? Utter madness – is the general consensus. But never having been ones to allow parenthood to get in the way of going on holiday, my husband, David, and I decided to put this social no-no to the test.

We had been skiing twice before with our eldest son, Freddie, when he was 14 months and 16 months, but we did regretfully give the annual ski holiday a miss during his first year. Both holidays went extremely well – Arthur was conceived on the second one – so we thought, what the hell, we’ll carry on as usual this year too.

And thank goodness we decided to take the plunge because, if you get it right, a ski holiday can be exactly what you need when you have recently been smacked in the face with the reality of life with more than one child.

Sitting on the balcony of our luxury chalet, babies asleep downstairs, looking towards the sunset behind the snow-peaked mountains whilst sipping a kir royale and nibbling on a smoked salmon blini, I suddenly realised that it was all going to be okay.

In fact, it’s not surprising that it took a ski holiday in a catered chalet to step back and relax. After all, what could be more convenient than putting the children to bed, switching on the baby monitor and going upstairs for a delicious supper prepared by a professional chef, accompanied by good wine which you haven’t even had to remember to stumble out of the house to buy?

I am definitely not one for sticking my children into full-time childcare when on holiday, so we compromised with two days in the crèche for Freddie plus two afternoons with a nanny for both boys. The rest of the time, David and I took it in turns to look after the boys while the other went off skiing.

HERE'S HOW IT WENT.

We Take Arthur Up Chairlift To Mountain Restaurant.

Some responses we got:

- Quantity surveyor from Glasgow on holiday with his wife: “You’re brave! Har har!”

- French waiter, sternly: “Did you come up on foot?” (Is he mad?) I explain that we have come up very safely on the chairlift, thank you very much, as my husband kept Arthur strapped to him with a baby sling. Safety, apparently, is not the issue here. Indicating his ears – a common theme among the locals, we discover as the week wears on – the waiter proclaims: “Is not good!” I say I think Arthur’s ears are fine. He shoots back at me: “How do you know ‘e is fine? Can ‘e speak?”. Toss of head, stalks off into distance.

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