Ever since I discovered that a sea cucumber was definitely not a vegetable, I pledged to do away with my preconceptions about anything in China even if I thought it was something with which I was already familiar.

Foolishly, I forgot this as I sat on the coach this weekend, bound for Lianhuashan ski resort north of Beijing. I indulged myself with memories of long days in the Alps, maneuvering over moguls, gliding over glaciers and skiing down endless different runs.

The day's program showed we were to hit the slopes at 11 am, stop for a Chinese banquet at 12:30 and then be off the mountain by 4 in order to hand our kit in by 4:30.

A banquet? In the midst of a day out skiing? My friend and I balked. Lunch on European slopes was a quick sandwich grabbed between trying to cover all the routes.

When we arrived, we could make out one large slope and perhaps five short runs. "I expect there'll be more round the other side," I said.

In the kit room, an army of workers distributed everything we'd need, from skis to clothing.

Luckily, we were not in St Moritz and this was no fashion parade. I donned my sickly pale blue jacket, elbows threadbare from decades of wear, over newer but no less nauseating, iridescent lime green salopettes. I felt like an 80s jumble of disco-ball and shell suit.

Prepared, we rushed to the chair lift, which was to take us up to the main slope. The lift operator refused to let us on because we hadn't practiced on the preliminary slopes, which were packed. After some persuasion, we piled on.

Within half an hour, I knew the contours of the one slope, and was getting used to the sight of the shepherd and his sheep in the field adjacent to the run, below the lift.

By 12:30, I was cold and bored, and welcomed the idea of a sit down meal. The food was abundant and we munched on juicy prawns, stir fried vegetables and beef, washed down with Tsingtao beer.

I'd been watching the hordes on the smaller slopes and concluded I must be missing out on something. Other people hadn't rushed to the biggest slope after a few goes on the small runs as I'd expected.

I stopped pretending I might be in the Alps and decided to muck in with the crowds. I nudged my way into the throng waiting for the lift on one of the smaller slopes, ski poles braced lest anyone dare try and get in front of me.

I grabbed my lift and swayed and teetered to the top. I was nearly taken out by the schemers who stood right next to the lift's path looking to grab any spare lift that someone at the bottom had been too slow to catch. I grunted and stuck out my poles.

From the top it was another gauntlet to descend. Ski classes, mid-slope picnickers, and unpredictable children were all obstacles to negotiate.

I enjoyed the experience so much that I tried another two easy runs before returning, with a new philosophy, to the big slope.

On the way up I photographed the shepherd. I stood at the top watching the ant-like skiers below. I decided that skiing in China is as much about the journey as the destination, so I launched myself down and focused on weaving a smooth wave down the slope, rather than speed.

At the end of the afternoon, I didn't hit the bar for schnapps to quell my adrenalin rush after bombing down every slope at 160 kph as I would have in Europe. But I did feel happy and refreshed after a fun and novel day out.

And I reaffirmed my pledge to do away with those unhelpful blinkers: Preconceptions.