Getting the band back together is always huge, because, knowing each other so well, we are experts at which buttons to press for the most dramatic reactions.

Luckily, we spent most of our time so physically exhausted from climbing up and sliding down icy mountains that our passion for pyrotechnics was quenched.

Only copious amounts of pizza, chocolate and cheese kept us upright as the ski-lifts and other out-of-control skiers attempted to knock us down.

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One of our physically drained daughters found herself sprawled in the snow after being knocked in the back of the head with a ski lift after executing an awkward disembarkment.

Late afternoon and the last straw saw tears overtake all other sensibilities, so when mountain staff asked if she was okay, she sobbingly admitted that she was simply suffering from embarrassment.

Another daughter found herself tangled in a fence on the mountaintop, rescued by a masked stranger, as the rest of the family were too far down the hill to help.

I saved my best laugh until last, as we left on Sunday morning.

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Moving our departure forward, our over snow transport was heavily booked, so I convinced the family we could walk our luggage down.

Loaded-up with suitcases on wheels, over shoulder bags and laptop cases, we began the decent.

It immediately became clear that I was the only member of the family who had packed away her snow boots in preference of her everyday boots with lots of tread that looked the part.

It turns out, pure shiny plastic provides very little grip on black ice and hard packed snow.

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With the man of the house leading us down and mum bringing up the rear, I certainly made good use of it, as I slipped and slid down the road on my behind.

By the third time the family was forced to look back up the mountain at the sound of me crashing down, we were in hysterics.

Putting our tears on ice, we finished our family's high-country time on a high.