Late in December, on the plane to Harbin, we flew straight into a snowstorm from Russia. We had left frenetic Shanghai just three hours earlier and it was like landing noiselessly into a Chinese landscape scroll-painting with softly falling snow. The snow piled up, muting traffic noises and outlining the city in inky black with smoky smudges. Shaggy-haired ponies pulled carts.

Harbin taxi drivers, when talking about the weather, relate temperatures as "15" or "18" - the part about "degrees Celsius below zero" is understood. We heard snatches of radio bulletins about officials preparing for bad weather but my husband and I decided to press on with our plan to go skiing at Yabuli, where China's ski team practises. We braved the gelid night, slipping and sliding over pavements at a bustling train station to buy soft-seat tickets to Yabuli.