So a recent Thursday evening found me at Heathrow, fully loaded with three pairs of socks and an emergency Mars bar, ready for a weekend of skiing Chamonix. One day off work, three days on the slopes, back tanned and relaxed for Sunday evening. That, at least, was the plan.
Was it going to be a leisurely weekend, I wondered. Or was it going to be an exhausting dash - all downhill from here?
Though the plane left slightly late, we still arrived in Geneva at about 10.30pm. At that time the airport was deserted and we swiftly passed through into the arms of Ski Weekend. They had £429 of my money and in return I was expecting scheduled flights, transfers, bed and breakfast accommodation, and the assistant of their resort staff, including "ski orientation".
The other Ski Weekenders, already assembled, comprised:
three entertaining brothers called Muggleton with a combined height of 19ft and humour twice as broad; a curvaceous lady known as Moose; and an antiques dealer called John who looked younger than his 66 years. Into a people-carrier we climbed, arriving in Chamonix soon after midnight.
With only a weekend to play with, every minute counts. So the Big Mugs and Moose decided to get as much sleep as possible by going out for a few sporific beers first. I headed to bed.
This now being Friday the 13th. Not everything could go smoothly, and it turned out no room had been reserved for John. Uncomplainingly, he made do with the attic, hopeful perhaps of finding forgotten antique treasures there.
Though Chamonix has the advantage of being within easy reach of Geneva, the disadvantage is that it is a big town, necessitating a drive from your hotel to the slopes. Friday the 13th continued ominously with one of the Ski Weekend minibuses refusing to start.
Yet by mid-morning, with skis hired and lift passes delivered by Hannah, the resort rep, we were up the mountain above the village of Argentiere. Less than 20 hours ago I had been at home gazing out on the grey skies of Hampshire.
In the Alps the air was invigorating, the snow light and deep and falling fast. Cornelius, our guide, headed off into the blizzard with the Big Mugs and me in tow. We plunged into the whiteness off-piste, leaving our cares behind; Cornelius hadalso let large chunks of his brain behind in the bars of the night before. By lunchtime he had left us completely, apparently to assume a horizontal position somewhere quiet with his eyes shut.
Still, by the end of the day, at about 3.30pm, we had had as much powder as we could handle. My legs, despite a rigorous training programme of walking to and from the bathroom that morning, had gone all wobbly. Our group, which now included Andrew, a City banker who had arrived the day before, was grateful for the minibus whisking us from the slopes back to the hotel.
On Saturday the snow had stopped, though visibility was still limited. Two of the Big Mugs decided to give snow-boarding a try. The necessary kit was speedily arranged by Ski Weekend.
Our ski guide had his half-day off that afternoon, leaving our group of disparate talent to disintegrate and cruise the empty pistes in misty white-out alone. But it was an enjoyable, ethereal ski in the clouds.
Then suddenly it was time to think of leaving. Since we would be departing for the airport straight after skiing the next day, the only time to pack was the evening before, which was only the day after having unpacked. Clear? I was grateful I had only the three pairs of socks with which to grapple.
The forecast for the final day had predicted clear skies and good weather, which inevitably meant we woke to impenetrable cloud. But as we drove into Argentiere, the sparkling sunshine burst onto the slopes. High up the views were glorious and the snow perfect. We had an exhilarating morning, and I particularly enjoyed seeing the snow-covered Big Mugs on boards looking like out-of-control polar bears.
The minutes, however, were ticking away, which compounded the mistake made by those of us skiing in the afternoon of taking Andrew up a high lift and heading off-piste. Unknown to us, Andrew was more used to negotiating multi-million pound deals than deep powder and a long slope.
I stuck with Andrew for nearly an hour as he tortuously made his way down. By the end of it he was, rightly, so mad at our foolishness in letting him attempt the run he was barely able to talk, let alone ski.
That's the risk with a weekend trip: trash an afternoon and you lose a large chunk of the available skiing time.
However, because we packed a lot into a little time, it seemed like a long break. We left the slopes after a full day's skiing at about 4pm on Sunday, had a quick shower and still had time for a drink before leaving the hotel at 5.30pm. We arrived at Geneva at 6.45pm and, thanks to the time difference, at Heathrow by 9pm. By 10.30 on Sunday night I was back in Hampshire. Easy.
Including ski hire, passes, meals and drinks, the long weekend cost about £550 - roughly the equivalent of a whole week's ordinary chalet holiday. By and large it worked well, though the ski guiding could be sharpened up.
Was it worth it? Several of the others were already thinking of a second trip. You see, that sensation high on the mountain in sun and snow has the curious ability of making you forget about the mundane inconvenience of money.
"Chamonix for the weekend?" as several friends asked with incredulity. "You lucky bastard." It's a recommendation, if you can afford it.
Ski Weekend (01367- . 241636) has trips to Chamonix from £359 for two days, £389 for three. Other companies offering short breaks include, at the lop end, The Ski Company (0181-858 9535) and for the more price-conscious, First Choice (0161-745 7000) |
