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“Bond didn’t pause. He went straight for it and over the edge. Bond got down into his old Arlberg crouch, his hands forwards of his boots, and just let himself go. His speed was now frightening. Like a black bullet on the giant slope, he zoomed down the 45 degree drop.”

Although Bond’s creator Ian Fleming could certainly ski, his 1963 novel On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (the movie followed six years later) drew a certain amount of affectionate criticism from members of the Ski Club of Great Britain.

It was pointed out, in the Club’s “Ski Notes and Queries”, that Bond skied almost 7,000 vertical feet non-stop and virtually flat out in moonlight, for some reason wearing goggles (which would have made it even more difficult to see, especially as he was being shot at and was the target of hand grenades). This was followed by a “crowning achievement” – his Galändesprung over the railway tracks “to escape his would-be assassins”.

“What other members of the Club” asked one correspondent, “would like to attempt this, even if young and fit, at the end of a 7,000 foot descent?” In spite of this gentle teasing, the writer recommended that “James Bond be elected an Honorary Gold Racing Lion of the Ski Club of Great Britain”.

I am not too handy with guns, knives or gadgets, state-of-the-art or otherwise. But, when one is invited to sample a “James Bond” experience in the mountains, it is an intriguing prospect. Having put my host Dean Pollen to the test, though, he got off to a disappointing start; as we purred up the Autoroute Blanche towards the dizzying needles of the Mont Blanc massif, he suggested, rather to my distaste, “I thought we’d stop off for a pizza en route.”

I had only just met the amiable Mr Pollen (ruggedly good looking and mountain tanned, 40ish, former Naval helicopter navigator, designer stubble, and far more appropriate for the role of Bond than me) whose company Pollen-Brooks Leisure offers five-star “alpine indulgence” in and around Chamonix. So I was anxious not to upset him. “Pizza?” I chided. “I don’t think Bond would have been impressed!”

“You’re right” said Pollen. (Did he blush slightly under that caramel skin?) “Bad idea. Let’s go to Munchie. It’s a really nice restaurant run by some very pretty Swedish girls.” This was more like it. Bond would definitely have approved. I had Nori rolled salmon and scallop tataki for a mere 10 euros, followed by slow-cooked filet of salmon, with crispy sichimi fried squid, julienne vegetables and Ponzu beurre blanc (19 euros). And, to finish, strawberries and basil in sake jelly. I was now all set for a spot of Bond-style derring-do – taking a helicopter to the top of Le Petit Combin, across the border in Switzerland.

But first, unlike Bond, who rarely seems to need sleep, a spot of shut-eye – in a rather remarkable hamlet called Les Chalets de Philippe. The Philippe in question is Philippe Courtines, a former theatrical impresario and erstwhile chum of Francis Bacon and Andy Warhol, who has scoured rural France for antiquities and re-assembled them in a somewhat haphazard but delightful home-made hamlet of seven chalets in Le Lavancher, between Chamonix and Argentière. It’s like sleeping in a glorified antiques shop. Russian guests in particular seem to love it.

“It’s my passion” says M. Courtines. “It touches my heart. It’s my dream. I am 64. I was beautiful once, but now I have maybe only another 10 years.” Like some modern building kit, the components for the final two chalets are piled outside. After that Phillipe has plans for a library and a proper restaurant. Predictably, perhaps, the hamlet already has its own cosy little cinema.

The next day Dean Pollen puts the Bond adventure into action with some late season heli-skiing (although the concept had hardly been thought of when Bond’s creator, Ian Fleming, died in 1964). We duly drove across the Swiss border to a field full of lush green spring grass where an equally green Ecureuil helicopter awaited us. We were joined by our guide, the diminutive and amiable Nick Parks, who, before the day was out, would earn my gratitude and admiration.

We landed excitedly on the Petit Combin (12,041ft) one of the Swiss peaks used regularly for heliskiing (banned in France – hence our border crossing). Things went well at first. The snow, a mix of powder and corn, was good, and there was a particularly satisfying couloir – tough enough to be challenging, but with good enough snow to be exhilarating. I’d have liked to have known its name, but no-one seemed to know.

The problems started around half way down the 2,000 metre descent to the tiny hamlet of Fionnay. Nothing serious – we just ran out of snow. Or at least a regular deposit of snow. This meant we were for ever taking off our skis to walk in steep, muddy grass or pockets of slush or putting them back on again to ski for the odd 20 yard stretch of surviving snow. This pattern became quite wearisome and when Parks suggested a detour up a slippery grass slope to reach a snowier adjacent valley, I was feeling distinctly drained of energy. Almost without a word, the wiry Parks, scarcely more than half my weight, grabbed my skis as if they were bamboo or balsa poles, and carried them up and over the next steep ridge. I felt immensely relieved but also ashamed – more 003½ than 007. What had happened to the macho Bond spirit that had propelled me down that couloir in fairly gutsy style? Would Bond have ever allowed anyone to carry his skis for him? Somehow, as we settled down for a long lunch in a mountain restaurant, it scarcely seemed to matter. Guides are used to carrying clients’ skis. I just had to get over the fact that I had let him. And after all, I like to think I had been rather bullet-like as I zoomed down that couloir.

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