I was skiing in Scheffau, Austria in February 1984, a few months before my wedding day. One afternoon it was getting misty, so I decided to ski back to my resort. The guy manning the T-bar lift said, “It’s very bad on top.” No one else was getting on but I thought, “He wouldn’t have let me on if it was dangerous.”

The wind was ferocious. I had to cup my face to breathe and couldn’t see anything. Two and a half hours later, the lifts closed and I was lost. I found a shepherd’s hut, broke the window and climbed in. Snow was blowing in horizontally and I blocked the window with a cushion.

By morning, the wind had dropped and I could see more. I skied down what I thought was a piste. It began to narrow and steepen until I was falling from tree to tree, cutting my face as I fell. I collapsed into a ravine. The snow came up to my shoulders, and more was sliding in. My feet were in rushing, ice-cold water and I tried to pull myself out, using my skis for leverage. After four hours I’d gone about 15 yards, while screaming and shouting for help. Eventually I managed to crawl out of the ravine. I emptied my boots, took my socks off and squeezed them out. Ice crystals were forming between my toes. I went to put my socks back on but they were frozen; I had to shove my feet in them.

It was getting dark. I could see distant flashing lights of piste-bashers. I thought, “I’ve got to get to them.” I needed to cross a brook, so I stepped on what I thought was a snow-covered rock and fell through. Freezing water came up to chest height. Looking up, I could see an inky circle of night sky. I smashed a trench through the snow to the bank. My whole body convulsed and my teeth chattered. Suddenly I went completely still. I thought, “This is death.” Then I thought, “Fuck that, I’m not missing my own wedding” and started pummelling myself to keep warm.

I began to walk, making little steps up a hill. Eventually I sheltered under a tree, and put my arms inside my jacket. To stay awake I kept putting my arms through the roots of the tree, releasing them every now and again to jog on the spot and punch myself all over, to keep warm. At one point I saw a Ford Capri, the wheels spinning up the snow. I shouted and waved, then blinked: it was a hallucination.

When morning came, my gloves were frozen to the rock. I smashed them off, peed into them, and poured the contents into both boots. The slight tingle of warmth in my toes made me feel better.

Eventually, I found a farmhouse. I banged on the door. Silence. I peered through the window and saw their fridge, and whimpered… I hadn’t eaten for two and a half days. The farmer looked at me wide-eyed – my eyebrows were iced to my woolly hat, I was covered in cuts, and my trousers had split. I said, “English, two days, mountain” in bad German. His wife appeared. I said, “Water, water.” She got me two glasses of water but didn’t invite me in. They pointed me towards the nearest village, so I let my skis slowly roll me down to Söll. I was fuming that they hadn’t helped me, and neither did anyone else – taxi after taxi refused me; I had to shuffle across a dual carriageway to the village. I bought a foot-long bar of chocolate and posted it into my mouth.

I managed to get a bus to my hotel. My friends were in tears, police were everywhere: 25 people had died in the blizzard. My hands and feet were numb for months. Thinking about it still makes me emotional because I know how lucky I was. I went skiing again with my wife a year or two afterwards, to get back on the horse – though I still don’t like the cold.

After the police interviewed me, the inspector said, “So when were you in the army?” I said never. He frowned: “Which mountain club do you belong to?” None. “Did you do the Duke of Edinburgh award?”

“No. I just played football.”

I’ll never forget the way he shook his head, as if to say, “You shouldn’t be here, boy.”

• As told to Erica Buist

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