But I could live with that, as long as no one was going to urge me much higher than where I already was. Down on the slippery streets, meanwhile, the village had the insouciance of a spot thriving on leisure. You would expect somewhere as rich and famous as Val d’Isère to be up itself, but it wasn’t – not as far as I could see. Cafés, bars and hotels, restaurants and shops knocking out ski-wear covered most bases, from merely moderately expensive to positively royalty-friendly. I drank cocktails with posh people in a five-star bar – all black and red, fake fire and fake fur – before sliding down the street to Le Hibou, where English-speakers crammed in, beer came in several pints and Manchester City was playing on one TV, test match cricket on another.

A learned appreciation of ski

The strange thing about Val (as initiates apparently shorten it) as opposed to any other town I have ever visited was the ubiquity of skiers. In theory, I’d expected this. In practice, it was startling to happen upon an entire community of helmet-, goggle- and boot-wearing people, walking the streets and pavements as if this attire were normal. Skis sloped like rifles were quite able to take your head off in a well-filled shuttle bus.

There was a sort of clunky clumsiness abroad – until, that is, the skiers arrived in their proper element, hurtling down something like the über-famous Bellevarde piste. This involved them chucking themselves off a cliff halfway to heaven. 

Suddenly, in so many cases, clumsiness ceded to skill, speed, courage and even elegance. I was lost in admiration, which astonished me, given how insulting I had been in the past. The spectacle had me regretting an earlier life misspent being broke. And it starred people who had seemed absolutely ordinary when hitting me in the head on the shuttle bus. 

This was, incidentally, best appreciated from the piste-side terraces of restaurants such as L’Etincelle or the brand new and hyper-cool Loulou. Here you are mixing with people who know a thing or two about shades and champagne. The atmosphere was Italy-meets-Scandinavia, the music a little too loud, the food a little too expensive, but the sunlit midday setting superb. The great thing about not skiing is that you can watch others doing it. I’d be there yet, but Loulou does involve a hefty run on one’s euros.

I made instead for the Aquasportif sports centre, a key Val d’Isère facility for those who would play squash, soccer or volleyball, climb walls, practise golf, lift weights or do pretty much anything inside rather than be outside and ski. As a first non-ski activity – “dauntless” is my middle name – I headed for the bubble zone of the leisure pool. 

Through the giant picture windows, I could see cable cars and ski-lifts – and delight in the happy turn of events which meant I was in here, bouncing in warm bubbles and not out there, being rocketed skywards in a Christmas tree bauble. Clearly, only a halfwit would travel to Val d’Isère in winter specifically not to ski but, should you be a non-skier lumbered with a skiing partner (or skiing friends), then there are plenty of fine things to fill up a fortnight even if – like me – you have the head for heights of a sea bass. 

Six things I learnt as a non-skier in the mountains

Snowshoes no longer look like things you could play tennis with 

They resemble very short skis and are the finest way of exploring a snow-scape – especially if you have a good guide. Jean-Louis knew everything. We left the village for calmer country around the Tignes Dam. Walking in deep snow was almost a cinch and very tranquil – just forest, Jean-Louis and me and tales of trees, animals (we spotted hare, fox and ibex tracks) and the artificial lake Chervil, under which the old village of Tignes is submerged. The hullabaloo of skiing was distant, the quiet reality of the land to hand and rather wonderful. I still fell over, tangling my feet on a gentle descent, but Jean-Louis – like everyone in Val d’Isère – was limitlessly encouraging.

Moonbiking provides a novel way of falling over

Moonbikes are electric snow-scooters, with caterpillar traction at the back and handlebars attached to a short ski at the front. If you are familiar with motorcycling, you will find Moonbikes a doddle and thrust through snow, up and down slopes, with gay abandon and much excitement. If not familiar, you may rocket about unpredictably, avoid plunging into rivers by milliseconds and cause those nearby to dive for snowdrifts. Then the machine falls over and you fall off. “Falling off is a prerequisite of doing it properly,” said instructor Douglas, a tolerant fellow. “You enjoy the Moonbike?” asked my Val d’Isère friend, Chloé. “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ve rarely been less bored.”