I was leading my class of fourteen beginners down a narrow blue path in a whiteout. It was snowing hard and the wind was a chill northerly. The conditions were awful. 

The children had all reverted to a safety first snowplough, and we were taking it slowly. I pulled up just above a welcoming signpost, below which were standing three balaclavered skiers in helmets and goggles. I turned to watch the stately progress of my perfectly disciplined team of fourteen year olds, but saw instead the front three upended, hurtling towards the signpost and the three skiers. It was pure luck that all three managed to stop without hitting the skiers or the metal signpost, but it was a close call.

There was an angry shout from one of the skiers - 'HEY YOU! Can't you control your group - they're a complete shambles!'

It is a progressive instructor's dilemma whether to teach pupils to stop before getting them going and keep them on the baby runs, or get mileage under their skis at the risk of often going too fast. As a precaution I always tell mine 'if in doubt fall over', and this is what they did here.  Murren and the surrounding ski resorts do not have good beginners slopes which means we are having to mix novices with every other standard of skier - a potentially lethal cocktail.

Unfortunately, I took an instant dislike to Mr Balaclava. It was his aggressive manner that set my hackles up.

'Look, I'm sorry. What are you complaining about? They didn't come anywhere near you'. The three were now clustered around me with the rest of the class - like chickens awaiting the first thrust from the fox.

'So you call yourself a ski instructor do you? I suggest you've got a lot to learn before you take children skiing. What school are you from so I can tell them what a rubbish teacher you are?'

Oh dear. At this point I should mention that I have a way of winding up people who wind me up.

'I left school forty years ago chum'. This wound Mr Balaclava into such a fury that I cannot remember fully what was said next, but it did leave me saying 'All right, I apologise and as for you three', turning towards the three chickens who had crashed, 'you can walk back up the mountain and sit in the naughty corner with no gloves or hats on for twenty minutes and only come down when you're really really sorry and apologise to this nice harmless man who you nearly killed - yes I mean KILLED!'

For a second Mr Balaclava was speechless. To be honest the only indication I had of his emotions was his voice as no part of his face was visible. He looked more like Darth Vader than a normal human being. If there is anything beyond fury then maybe he was demonstrating it.

'I want to know WHAT SCHOOL you're from!' he bellowed 'I'm going to get you thrown off the mountain, you FUCKING IDIOT!'

I'd gone far enough. I knew I'd gone far enough because I heard teeth chattering behind me. 'OK girls and boys, let's go, follow me', and with that started to ski down the mountain. At this point Mr Balaclava started off as well, and deliberately tried to stop me by skiing over the front of my skis.

It's only happened once before in my life but a red mist descended in front of my eyes. He'd turned and stopped about ten yards below me across my path. I made a noise like a cow makes when it's giving birth and launched myself towards him with my head down.

I hit Mr Balaclava in the midriff with my head, my arms and poles thrust skywards. It was a bit like running into a brick wall. He didn't budge. Recovering, I discovered my face inches from his and my arms around his neck in a ghastly lovers embrace. I was close enough to see the stitching on the balaclava where his mouth hole was. Thus entwined we continued to hurl abuse at each other with violence imminent. Then one of the remaining Balaclavas skied over and tried to separate us shouting 'Dad, Dad, it's no good - what's the point, you won't get anywhere?', and within a few seconds it was all over. He pulled us apart and I was off like a rat from a drainpipe, and with the same trepidation that a chicken would have following a rat, my children came after me.

Later, I met the two Balaclavas who had stood on the sidelines and we sort of made up. That night the 'fight' was the talk of the hotel and everyone thought it was hilarious. My chickens, bless 'em, gave me an illustrated book about Interlaken when they left and wrote sweet little notes in the margins such as 'Why didn't you sock him one Simon?' and 'You should've cut him up'.

For my own part I found the episode amusing but also dispiriting and a little sad. It occurs to me that modern skiing in most of the resorts I ski is making a lot of people angry; it is becoming quite dangerous and somewhat alarming, and I'd like to discuss what can be done about it - if anything - in a further article.

Simon Dewhurst - 4 April 2008

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