"Where happiness means the world"

We spent the week of the Chinese New Year holiday skiing in Sahoro, Japan. It was our first time at Club Med and I was all prepared for bun-fights in the dining room and worse.

The reality is a pleasant surprise. The hotel is pretty full, Chinese Week being one of the busiest times of its season. Our children are happy and therefore, by extension, so are we. The whole place is geared up to enable parents and their children to have the best possible time. Every need is catered for and there is such an array of activities on offer for the kids, even after a day on the slopes, that it would be quite possible not to see your children for much of the holiday.

We meet a myriad of other families: we recognise some from Hong Kong but there are Dutch from Seoul, Germans from Shanghai, French from Beijing, Brits from Sakhalin, Brunei and Oman, Canadian Indians from Singapore and Malaysians from Kuala Lumpur. The instructors are from Quebec, Japan, Korea, Australia, New Zealand and USA. Together we represent a whole melting pot of nationalities, colours, origins and residencies, all united by this strange need to ski fast down the side of a mountain.

At the end of our third day our two year old starts throwing up. The Kids’ Club and its single chap-stick approach to 20 kids might be held responsible. The fall-out, however, is our problem and for four days she remains volatile at both ends, reminding us intermittently in pitiful tones, I’m sick.

The Domestic God and I ski and play nursemaid in half day shifts. Our little patient is wiped out and sleeps for hours on end. In the meantime the boys make huge progress on the slopes. Our ten year old grows fast and fearless. His younger brother is slower but stays staunchly upright. Our four year old recounts his achievements after his first ever day on skis. The story involves a ramp and a backwards flip told with such conviction I think he believes it really did happen.

On an outing with the older boys our last run takes in the so-called Monkey Run, a horrifyingly narrow, tree-lined track of deep ruts and bumps which the kids love and the adults love to hate. Speed is inevitable as there is no room to turn or slow down. The only way to survive is to crouch low and try and scoot over the bumps. The eight year old goes first and snow ploughs his way down. I go last and pass the ten year old at break-neck speed as he rights himself after a fall. In trying to avoid him I momentarily lose concentration and it is enough to land me in the trees in deep snow, my skis above my head. I need a hand, I need a crane. Eventually I free myself from the skis and sink thigh deep into soft snow and struggle out of the drift and back onto the run. The ten year old has gone off in a huff. The eight year old is waiting patiently for me at the bottom, the only one of us not to have taken a tumble. Leave it to the monkeys next time, I mutter.

Japan is an experience in itself and the unusual combination of daytime skiing and après-ski sushi suits me down to the ground. The slopes are beautifully empty, several hundred Club Medders managing to disperse themselves so widely over the mountain that we never once wait more than 3 or 4 minutes for a lift. One feature which will remain in my mind for months to come as I wonder why it has not caught on in Europe is the Japanese heated loo seat – perfect for ski-cooled backsides as you come in from the cold!

Home once more, I am inclined to think we were lucky to get away with no more than a stomach upset. Five skiers have returned with not a twisted ankle nor a broken bone between them and to me that seems like quite an achievement and certainly enough to persuade me, credit crunch aside, we might even want to go back next year.