This morning a wan sun shone on Wengen and a fairly wan Idle Skier made his way round the mountain.
I had spent the night coughing up nuts and bolts it seemed and today’s skiing was pretty much like Napoleon’s army leaving Russia, a slow trudge through the snow.
The early sun, such as it was, disappeared and the weather turned to snow again. By mid-afternoon, I had left Russia far behind and was experiencing my personal Waterloo. Thinking that reaching the village might be a near run thing, I pointed my skis towards Wengen and let them carry me home.
By the time I reached the Innerwengen chair, I felt slightly better. Alive anyway. So I had a few runs on the slalom course.
A shivery, coughy day brought 8,022 vertical metres in 20 lift rides.