Soon, however, I found that I was cutting tracks in ever deeper snow and that the wind was freshening. I had crossed the ridge well below the Chasseral and was following the trench of a narrow dry valley on the north-east side of the mountain. The further I proceeded the deeper got the snow but at last, after what seemed an interminable struggle, I emerged on a bleak plateau down which a cold and clammy tide of mist was pouring to meet me. There were some guide poles at infrequent intervals but at last they disappeared altogether and I proceeded on a compass bearing and a prayer to emerge on the summit ridge of the Chasseral not far from the television mast. I descended the ridge towards the hotel which was frozen solid, like some ancient cake forgotten in a deep-freeze. I had a quick lunch on the hotel forecourt. Locked inside the ice were all the values of civilisation but outside I might as well have been in the frozen wastes of Labrador.

I descended the piste cautiously to find a busy world of skiers, cars and chalets down below. I set off along some tracks that seemed to be heading my direction, happy not to have to break trail for the moment. These climbed steadily up a gentle ridge, L'echalette, and then stopped suddenly. But I was now in gentle farming country. Although I was breaking trail, everything was still very civilised. Indeed, casting about for the onward trail I came across a "buvette" and stopped for some apple juice. Chatting to the locals, I asked them how far it was to the Vue des Alpes, my hotel for the night (I hoped). "An hour and a quarter," said the proprietoress. "No no, an hour," said some of the locals.

But either they were superhuman, or did not account for the conditions because an hour and a half later I was still making slow progress towards the col. But suddenly, I was over it and I could actually glide down hill. I gathered speed and soon found myself at the junction for the hotel. A short last effort and a brief climb and this particular adventure was over. I was soon sitting in the bar of the Vue Des Alpes, freshly showered, eating my supper and drinking a glass of red wine whilst all around me middle-aged couples danced to the music of a one man band singing, for example, "New York New York" in French.

Ten o'clock of the next day and I was again at the top of a black piste. I had broken trail for an hour between Vue des Alpes and Tête de Ran and then found myself at the bottom of a ski-lift that I paid to be dragged up. It started gently but I foolishly failed to let go at what I later discovered was the half-way station and found myself dragged to the top of what was an extremely steep slope. This being the Jura, I knew there would be an easy way off on the far side. I knew wrong. It was even steeper. A very delicate ten minutes followed as I descended a steep slope in fresh powder.

I was now able to follow cut tracks and even encountered fellow skiers going in the opposite direction. The mist was clearing and the sun was beginning to appear. I assumed, falsely, that I would now be able to complete the rest of my trip speedily. In fact it turned out that I had merely joined a local circuit. In a very short while I had slipped from civilisation into wilderness again and was breaking trail.

I had my lunch by a deserted chalet under the slopes of Mont Racine. It all looked rather steep but I thought that I could force a way up through the woods. I was wrong. Soon I was climbing in a steep gully. Then I was climbing in a steep and narrow gully. Then I was cursing and swearing in a gully so steep and narrow that all I could do was side-step. The gully narrowed further and I was forced to take my skis off. Carrying one in each hand and kicking steps I sweated my way up to the crest of snow above me. Suddenly I was there on a ridge with beautiful cornices and with a beautiful view to the Lake of Neuchâtel and the Alps beyond. Way back to the north-west I could see the Chasseral. It made me proud to think that I had come over there.

I was now very tired and beginning to look forward to my journey's end. But my skiing was not over yet. A complicated traverse followed, first along the ridge and then down an unofficial route along the summer path to the meadows in the valley below. Much to my surprise I managed a few telemarks. Another ridge followed for me to climb and then another valley and then another traverse but finally I was bowling along on a steep track and unsteady legs to the hotel at La Tourne where I hope to spend the night. Sliding, clattering and striking sparks from my edges I swept round a corner of the track and back into civilisation. I was soon in the bar drinking a beer and discovering to my disappointment that the hotel was full.

But, it didn't matter. An hour later, I sat back in the bus as it sped towards Neuchâtel, reflecting contentedly on my tour and congratulating myself on having escaped my own stupidity. This was one tour in which I had overestimated my strength or underestimated the terrain and the conditions or both. I promised myself a fine Fondue in Neuchâtel and it did, indeed, turn out to be delicious.