“Where do you think we go now?” I shout into the thin, icy air behind me. The question was directed at my husband, Hugh, a few metres below me on the ski slope (though I'm not sure he heard it). I’ve just wrested myself free from a button lift, so it can swing back round the pylon and trundle downhill to collect another skier. I've shuffled to one side, ski poles clutched in my left hand. As he arrives, Hugh looks just as unsure of our next move as I do – and so do the two snowboarders beside us. There are no signs, nor an obvious piste.
I’m at Glencoe Mountain Resort in the Scottish Highlands, prompted by a decent scattering of snow over the past few days. It’s -1C on a slightly overcast Saturday morning in mid-January. After last winter’s lack of the white stuff – which delayed openings at several Scottish resorts until February – this season is already off to a better start. So much so that I decided to come on a whim, after checking Glencoe’s snow reports the day before. I was drawn in by the promise of opening the top of the mountain.
