Having survived an exceedingly silly seven days, completely devoid of snow but laden with sunshine, Sunday came - ordinarily known as 'travel day', but on this trip it was to become 'Detour Day'.
Feeling utterly gutted and not so devoid of braincells - though you tried your best Jagermeister, a worthy adversary for sure - to be unaware of the bitter irony raining down on us in frosty flakes while we packed up our skis and boarded the bus to Innsbruck airport.
Thoroughly miserable, as after any group ski holiday, we held one another in the departure lounge and awaited our fate. Only fate had faffier plans for us yet.
So much snow was there, in fact, that our plane was unable to land. Apparently, the only acceptable touch down was hours and hours away by coach across the border into Germany.
So back onto the bus we bundled. I imagine there was a brief headcount, the like of which you may remember from school. And we all settled in for another snooze, as bus and trailer trundled across international lines with a full belly, like a metal snail after a heavy meal. But it wasn't until we reached our replacement German airport, and ordered takeaway pizza in the corridor before Security, that we realised we'd lost Mark who had, in turn, lost his skis.
Or rather, whoever is Chief Incompetence Officer at Innsbruck airport had managed to mislay a bag larger than your average man somewhere between the plane and the coach.
Because "we waited and waited" does not a good story make, I shall cut to our emotional farewell at Gatwick...
Another epic ski trip over. This one the biggest we'd ever had. 50 people, 7 days, 1 goal. We came, we skied, we jager-ed; we battled slush moguls, basked in sunshine, partied with The Blobbies; we sauna'd and watched gnarley dudes; we bruised and boozed, and we reached new levels of faffing: We faffed so hard, we detoured to Germany.
So, how many days until Ski Faff 2015?