There is definitely a defining moment of family bonding when trapped inside a small family hatchback with three children, one with the bladder which is apparently the size of a table tennis ball for 14 hours.

Last week we found ourselves stranded on the main French motorway from the alps with approximately 20,000 others, who had also subjected themselves to driving to half-term skiing holidays.

I can report that despite snow being a much more predictable occurrence in France, the French cope no better than us Brits when the roads are coated in a dusting of the white stuff and there was nothing we could do other than share frustrated looks with the other drivers and try desperately to remember any French swear words we once knew.

When I was growing up, skiing always seemed the preserve of the wealthy; only the child who had parents loosely related to the royal family ever spoke of such extravagant holidays.

It’s fair to say that it still wouldn’t be regarded as a budget holiday, but for the last few years we have attempted a family ski holiday on a shoestring; albeit a slightly gilt-edged shoe string. With my hatchback Golf literally packed to the rafters and three children wedged into the remaining space, we set off on the long trek to Morzine to borrow a lovely friend’s apartment. There is a time and a place for screens and devices and none better than the 14-hour drive to the resort.

After drip-feeding digestive biscuits and seemingly stopping every 50 miles for marble-sized bladder son number three to relieve himself, we arrived for a week of action.

Skiing could never be described as a relaxing holiday. After battling with the equipment; boots, skis, helmets and poles of assorted sizes, we were almost ready to throw the towel in.

Eldest son thinks he skis like an Olympic champion and second son has the fearlessness of Eddie the Eagle. Youngest son continued with the frequency of bladder emptying, which is a lot less amusing when it involves removing 15 layers of clothing whilst midway down a 45-degree slope.

All around could be heard the strained voices of over-eager parents trying desperately to encourage their offspring, despite the fact that most children under 10 just want to roll around in the snow and throw snowballs. The budget didn’t extend to ski lessons so watching them career down the slopes blissfully unaware of any potential danger was a challenge for me, and more than once I found myself picking through heaps of snow trying to reattach a child to his skis.

There is probably no other week in the entire year when so many people want to do the same activity at the same time.

Coupled with the fact that it was French half term as well as British, the resort was swamped with kids out of control and parents looking fraught, whilst simultaneously wincing at the price of a hot chocolate.

However, when the sun is shining and the air is cold with fluffy white snow to enjoy, suddenly it all becomes worthwhile.

Doing something as a family that everyone enjoys is enough for us to suffer the downsides.

Even though it took over 24 hours to get back to Blighty, we’re already planning next year.

I guess we’re gluttons for punishment.

Next year I’ll make sure I know a few more French swear words before we leave...