I ache. Every part of me is rebelling. After a week's torture on the ski slopes of sunny Sauze d'Oulx, my body is in need of overhaul. On the other hand my thighs are now like tree trunks. Unfortunately they feel like they're suffering from Dutch Elm Disease and might need felling. But oh what a glorious tiredness, what a refreshing exhaustion.

Thing is, skiing is just so totally and utterly different to my everyday life. It is to most people's, unless you're a perennial ski bunny who follows the snow seasonally around the world, spending your entire life in winter. For the rest of us it's a once-a-year chance to get an adrenalin rush while also surrounded by the majesty of snow-covered peaks. I've always said it's the most fun you can have with your clothes on.

So daughter Catherine and I have spent the last six days skiing the pistes of this lovely part of northern Italy, surrounded by an endless panorama of stunning beauty. I don't always see it - often I have my eyes closed as I hurtle down a steep slope out of control, heading for the tiny tots in their ski school hi-vis vests, in imminent danger of sending them scattering like ten-pins. Hi-vis is no use to someone with no-vis.

While I enjoyed a last few hours of masochism today, Catherine didn't even get on her snowboard. In fact she didn't really get out of bed. Poor thing has come down with a cold, and the only mountain she was close to was the one of tissues beside her. I can hear her sneezing now in the next room.

She has that perfect of sneezes, the quintessential 'ah-choo!' Totally different to my wife Liz who sneezes through the back of her nose without warning, and then mutters a 'Tzu!'I (I can never do that because my internal air always wants to find a back way out, so I too favour the full-on ah-choo school of emergency sternutation) Hopefully she will recover soon and. not spend the rest of her hard-earned holidays in bed.

Still, she got some decent snowboarding done this week, and like me has been in awe of the scenery. I've used the majestic landscape as an excuse to pause frequently in hurtling down the slopes, to take photos. That's what I'm telling everyone. In reality my legs just cry out 'Stop!' every now and then. Either that or I realise I am on the verge of losing total control and windmilling down the piste - poles, skis, arms and legs flailing like the blades of a wind turbine gone horribly wrong. A person needs to know their limits - and have good holiday snaps to show everyone.

Unlike the young guy I got talking to on a chairlift today who had no limits and no fear. One of his friends was asking about the snazzy watch he was wearing and this young man of -I'm guessing - about 19, was explaining that it could measure speed, distance and how good you were looking on the moguls. Okay, maybe not the last. But I asked him what speeds he'd hit and he casually said, 'Oh, today? 102. But I'm aiming for 120.'

My eyebrows shot up so far they almost got caught in the chairlift cable. 'And what's your personal best?' I asked.

'One hundred and thirty,' he said, and then tugged at his ski suit. 'But you're not really supposed to do speeds like that in an ordinary ski suit.' Which is an excuse I will remember when it comes time for me to recount my mountain adventures - I wasn't wearing the right gear to go any faster.

I told him I admired his watch, but that personally I could use a calendar to time my runs.

I was so gobsmacked by his speeds that I completely forgot to ask him whether he was talking in metric or imperial. One hundred and thirty kilometres and hour surely. Surely.

I left him and his friends to search out the black trails. He said he'd been coming here every year for 11 years, so he knew the place backwards.

Anyway, we've had a great week, and Sauze d'Oulx has been good to us. At this time of year in particular the bars, cafes and restaurants do everything they can to draw you in for your apres-ski, and if you don't want to spend all your time on the slopes there's always the quaint old part of town to explore. And of course the mountains to look at, always the mountains.

One family I shared a chairlift with summed it up. They'd been going to Bulgaria for skiing for the last twenty years, but this year decided to try Sauze d'Oulx. 'No contest,' the mother said. 'This is where we're coming from here on.'

Me too. II suspect I will bump into her some time in the future. Hopefully not out of control at 130 kilometres an hour.