Snow - any colour except white. Palest lilac or creamiest peach, startling violet or brightest cerise. A setting sun casts long dagger-like shadows of skiers swooshing by. Aching legs, face a-glow, a feeling of achievement and of realising a dream.

I had always wanted to give skiing a try, but it seemed such a complicated affair - organising equipment hire, lift passes, transfers...

And then, what if I didn't like it? I would have had to spend a whole week watching others come swooshing by.

However, the ideal combination for the skiing virgin might be a city weekend break with fantastic skiing less than 30 minutes away, all organised by one company. I took the plunge and went with Ski Oslo.

The fact that the capital of Norway has recently earned the dubious title of the world's most expensive city - overtaking Tokyo - is offset by cheap flights from Newcastle by Ryanair (the day I travelled, flights were £7.99 each way).

We landed on Friday evening and the hour-and-a-half coach journey from Oslo/Torp airport to the city centre was enlivened by the friendly banter of Geordie lads on a long weekend and the sight of a moose peering out of the darkness by the roadside.

The next day, Saturday, and a feeling of excitement and apprehension. Bindings adjusted, boots on, skis and poles at the ready.

Standing up wasn't the problem - stopping was. My feeling of inadequacy was compounded by watching six-year-olds zoom past at breakneck speed.

My instructor, Randi, a lady of infinite patience, took me through basic moves - while skiing backwards in front of me.

Just as I thought I'd got the knack, my skis decided otherwise. The first time I lost control, I narrowly missed some trees and came to a vaguely dignified halt. The second time, not so lucky. Bizarrely my skis didn't respond to my pleas of 'stop, stop'; nor did I to my instructor's cries of 'triangle, triangle'.

She was trying to get me to turn my toes in and perform the snowplough stopping manoeuvre. Instead, I gathered speed and when the steep drop of the end of the green run came into view, I realised drastic action was required. So I sat down, and tumbled to a slithering halt. It all looks so easy on Ski Sunday.

Lunchtime - refreshed. A hot chocolate and some deliciously calorific almond and chocolate confection and I was ready for another attempt.

Randi had more faith in my skiing ability than I did so she cruelly abandoned me to my snowy fate. There is no dignity for a skiing beginner trying to stand up after a fall. After inadvertently ski-jumping off the piste into three feet of powdery snow among the trees, I felt like a beetle stranded on its back, legs flailing uselessly, poles and skis replacing spiney legs.

After being helped back to my feet, I managed several runs before my legs decided that perhaps the unaccustomed exertion was too much and cramp set in. Common sense prevailed and I returned to my hotel for a much-needed soak in the bath.

Virtuous exercise leads to a voracious appetite. The last time I was in Oslo, ten years ago, my partner and I decided to sample some native Scandinavian food. We randomly chose a restaurant, sat down and perused the menu. As a lover of pickled herring, I was undaunted by the fish courses. The waiter came over and could not have been more helpful in translating the menu. But rather than take our orders, he actively discouraged us from trying certain dishes.

"You will not like this," he said in immaculate English, pointing to 'Lutfisk' a dried-cod Norwegian speciality.

"Definitely not this one," he added, pointing to something that had been fermented and buried in ice for six months.

With his help, I opted for a 'mildly salted' cod dish, which, when tasted would have made the Dead Sea taste like spring water. It was accompanied by gritty boiled potatoes and anaemic-looking cauliflower.

What a difference ten years make. At the Voksenasen Hotel in the residential forest area above Oslo, I dined on shrimps with mango sauce and rocket salad, tuna (with the option of reindeer steak) on a bed of tomato and potato pure with eggplant and red peppers, followed by the most exquisite baked chocolate tart with vanilla ice-cream

"You'll get the skiing bug you know," colleagues said before the trip, and I believe I have. The urge to ski again in Oslo is strong. It's the whole package. The unbelievable snow, dripping like soft meringue from roof-tops. Crystal-laced twigs highlighted in a setting sun. The chance to saunter round the city, only a half-hour tram ride from the slopes, to watch boats heave through a frozen sea or to visit world famous galleries and museums. Oslo has it all.