“You see these big turns I’m doing? It’s because I like to feel the mountain. Otherwise you could be anywhere.”

It’s one of countless pieces of ski wisdom imparted by instructor Pedro, all sweeping silver-streaked hair, nut-brown ski tan and infectious, deep-bellied laughter.

“Skiing is about so much more than going down fast. It’s about the air on your skin, the sun on your face, the landscape.”

It’s ironic to hear Pedro, a former downhill racer who competed in the Winter Olympics in Japan, preaching about slowing down. But he’s quite insistent.

He asks if I’m up for “an exercise” – I prepare for technique drills and inwardly sigh.

“Look up at the landscape while you ski, not down at the slope, not at the next turn,” he says. “Then tell me how you feel.”

This is more like it. I do as instructed and it turns out to be revelatory – I can’t remember the last time I properly looked around me while skiing. Part of what makes it such a heady experience is the surroundings: it’s not the French Alps nor even the rose-tinted splendour of the Italian Dolomites that I see. Instead, I’m staring out from the Sierra Nevada mountain range near Granada. Here, the whole of southern Spain seems poured out before me, sun-scorched browns and greens stretching to the horizon from this snowy cloud. 

“Doesn’t it feel like you’re flying?” asks Pedro. Yes, yes it does.

From the top point of the ski area, which has 110km of pistes (it somehow feels like much more), you can see all the way to the sea on a clear day – it’s one of the very few resorts where you can ski in the morning and swim in the afternoon. Not that I can see me tearing myself away from this white-painted paradise for the beaches of Malaga, some two hours away by car, anytime soon.

The sun beats down, the sky that untouchable cornflower blue that only seems possible in the mountains – but somehow the snow is the best I’ve ever experienced late season. It feels like witchcraft: the super high altitude (all runs are between 2,100 and 3,300m) means slopes are still smooth and powdery even in April. I’d expected to be waterskiing by lunchtime, but if anything conditions are even more enjoyable as morning drifts into afternoon.

“Feel that? It’s like butter; like cream,” Pedro grins.

We take our time exploring the three sections of Sierra Nevada’s ski area – it’s as close to ambling as you can get on skis – winding our way down nice and slow. As soon as we get away from the central thoroughfare, all is quiet, all is calm. Pedro stops us often, instructing me to take it all in: the landscape, the silence, the feel of the mountain beneath my feet. It’s like I’m on an unofficial mindfulness course.

“Skiing is all about enjoying yourself, not racing down,” he adds for good measure, perhaps sensing a slight impatience from me to get going. Message received.

Another instructor, Borja, teaches my partner (who has only skied once in his entire life), and does such a fine job of it that by 12pm I’m getting a flurry of delighted texts about how much he now loves skiing. The next morning we foray to the nursery slopes minus the instructor, where we boil in our thermals and he shows off his smooth, controlled snowplough turns while I look on like a proud mother hen. The beginner area is extensive and ideal for learning, with three chair lifts that go up to a clutch of all-green runs from the main hub at the top of the gondola. It’s the perfect first-time-back ski experience, especially when combined with a stay in our superior digs, El Lodge, where effortless ski and boot fitting from the inhouse equipment hire shop and on-call transfers to the gondolas serve to complement Sierra Nevada’s warm temperatures and clear skies.

Our hard work earns us a San Miguel and a massive Greek salad with truffle fries on El Lodge’s sun deck come lunchtime. Then it’s time to swap skis for hiking boots – Sierra Nevada’s enviable position means we can nip down the mountain to Los Cahorros in under 30 minutes. It’s a completely different world, as we trade in snow-covered slopes for eye-poppingly green fields, bright, jewel-like leaves and clear-as-can-be waterfalls cascading from on high. Guides Manu and Santos lead the way as we take on the trail, which feels like a mix of Lord of the Rings (very Rivendell meets the Shire) and Indiana Jones: we make our way over swinging rope bridges, cut under a giant fallen rock, and scramble around thin passes using metal hand-holds driven into the stone. It makes for a thrilling route. Bird song peppers our journey; climbers can be seen scaling the sheer rock faces. 

“All this used to be under the sea,” Manu translates for Santos, who keeps pressing unnecessary (but welcome) snacks into my hands as we go. It’s chilling to imagine where we’re standing was once a deep underwater cave, but the fossils found here don’t lie.

All that walking earns me a sleep-inducing ritual at the spa back at El Lodge, 80 minutes where I’m gently rubbed and stroked with warm oils until rendered rubber-legged and jelly-headed. It’s all I can do to pour myself into the private hot tub on our balcony.

That night we decide to fully indulge in some mountain food, ordering a raclette to share and taking it in turns to scoop thick, melted cheese onto plates brimming with raw mushrooms, broccoli, roasted tomatoes, bread, crisp cornichons and capers. I finish up with a chunky brownie webbed with salted caramel, and fall into bed on the edge of bliss. (Or gout. Who can tell?)

I don’t know whether it’s the skiing, the hike, the spa or the meal – but I really do sleep like a baby that night. And when I wake, I’m just as convinced: Sierra Nevada is as close as I’ve ever come to ski resort perfection. You heard it here first.

Travel essentials

Getting there

Ryanair, Jet2, EasyJet, Norwegian, Iberia and British Airways all fly direct from London to Malaga from £20 return.

Staying there

Doubles at El Lodge from £339, B&B 

ellodge.com

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