How much of an activity must you do on holiday for it to take that label? I only ask because I’m working on a glass of rosé at lunch while watching three cabaret dancers clad in enough lycra to set the building ablaze, writhe and spin, belting out the lyrics to Elvis Presley. I’m on what you call a ski holiday. However, having spent a grand total of four hours clipped into my bindings, I’m unsure if I can call it that. Rid me of my thermal long johns and woolly hat, and I might as well be in Vegas. I hobble in my ski boots to the outdoor terrace to join hordes of inebriated snow bunnies dancing on tables. Aperol in left hand, pint in right, I shake my salopettes-clad rump to throbbing Euro house while tassel-festooned dancers pump their groins to the high heavens. I am reminded that skiing in the Alps is, in fact, a sport. It’s just one where skiing is only a single part of the package.
I’m in Val D’Isere, birthplace of La Folie Douce, the mecca of high-altitude bacchanalia. What started out in 1974 as a poky cafe serving food with no running water or plumbing near the lifts at La Daille by Luc Reversade has morphed into the biggest name in après ski. Wanting to provide an alternative to the typical stein-sloshing après scene, the Folie opened its outdoor terrace in 2007, inspired by the sparkling clubs of Ibiza. Tables to dance on, DJs, spraying bottles of Ruinart, cabaret dancers and snow-proof speakers so thunderous they might cause an avalanche – the Folie was a party for all. Seasonaires, billionaires and commonnaires could come together in harmony over magnums of Whispering Angel, tartiflette and the dulcet tones of David Guetta for as long as their current account would allow them.
Seasonaires, billionaires and commonnaires could come together in harmony for as long as their current account would allow them
I’m shown behind the scenes at the Folie, through a seemingly neverending network of corridors, kitchens and trapdoors for dancers in the bowels of the building. With the seamless pouring of grog, it’s easy to forget what an elaborate operation this is. Two tonnes of food are hurled up the mountain each day (the cheese table with 87 different varieties won’t replenish itself), not to mention the electricity, water and manpower required to fuel the business. In general, the Folie mirrors the feat of running Europe’s most revered alpine ski resorts, such as Val D’Isere, in that they seem to defy what’s achievable on planet Earth.
Dancers perform on the roof of La Folie Douce to hundreds of skiers
Val D’Isere is positioned at a lofty 6,188 feet, making it one of the highest resorts in Europe with consequently some of the harshest weather conditions, yet the whole place operates with white-gloved elegance. Ski chalets and grand hotels, fine boutiques and finer food. An elaborate, rapid network of 88 gondolas, chairlifts, and pulleys propel skiers to the top of summits every single day. A fleet of snow ploughs militantly grooms the whopping 186 miles of piste (including Tignes next door) each night. The majority of runs are blue or red to cater for intermediate ability, of which some 60% of the world’s skiers are, despite the fact nature is rarely so middling. After all, Mother Earth might have made the mountain, but it’s man who makes them skiable.
While neighbouring resorts have garnered a reputation as conservation areas for Moncler Jackets and dermal filler, Val D’Isere has long been the polestar for the experienced skier. This town is not a purpose-built resort and has a storied past long before it was a snowsport epicentre. Perhaps surprising considering house prices here now, Val D’Isere was historically a small, humble farming community. Being isolated at such a high altitude amid mountainous terrain doesn’t do wonders for economic development, so the village was historically poor. Post-WWII was a major turning point for Val D’Isere when mayor Marcel Chervin suggested that villagers rent out rooms to generate income – transforming the small village into a major ski destination. Revered for its good snow and challenging pistes, including La Face de Bellevarde, created for the 1968 Olympics, Val D’Isere established itself as a world-class ski resort that people (including the likes of Margot Robbie, Hugh Grant and Jamie Oliver) would aspire to spend a week at.
Val D'Isere lit up at night
Corentin Valencot
Despite this remarkable transformation, when I walk from my chalet at Silverstone Lodges into the town, I don’t feel it’s changed an awful lot through the decades. It’s laid out like many traditional alpine villages, with close-knit architecture, narrow, snaking streets and a central square. A handful of stone buildings still have two wooden doors on different stories in case heavy snow locks you out of the lower one. Les 5 Frères – the oldest family-run hotel, which opened in 1929, still stands strong alongside Chapelle Saint-Jean-Baptiste, constructed in the 12th century. It’s where village dwellers would pray to Saint Anton when they had the plague.
Having spent the previous evening consuming fondue and enough génépi digestif to sterilise a wound at L’Alpin, I wake up the next morning feeling that I, too, should be begging at Saint Anton’s feet. But in the spirit of skiing in the French Alps, you don’t lie in because your head hurts. Mais non! There’s no ailment that one cafe au lait, two paracetamol, and three minutes in the rejuvenating alpine air can’t mend. You will be at the lifts the moment they open, and you’ll be carving the powder until the claxons of the Folie sound.
A pot of fondue at La Grande Ourse
Airelles Val d'Isère
A skier walks through an opening in the mountain face in Val D'Isere
I am somewhat hoping the claxons sound earlier than usual because the conditions are far from ideal. In keeping with Val D’Isere’s snow-sure reputation, heavy snowfall has continued overnight into the morning, so there’s no distinction between piste and sky. It’s an oblivion of whiteness. I board the Olympique Gondola with ski instructor from Evolution 2 Teddy, heading towards Bellevarde, and we watch the scenes unfold through the window. It’s Armageddon. The whole piste is awash with well-dressed folk skiing terribly, determined to make something of the day despite the whiteout. Chicly dressed ladies are upturned in the snow, legs akimbo. Children are floating torsos, legs buried deep in the powder. It’s clear that Mother Nature doesn’t take notice if you’re sporting your finest Bogner suit; everyone is her victim.
“Zis is a bit shit,” Teddy turns to look at me. We are skiing through Le Village Perdu, a tree-studded trail and stunt park that translates to the lost village, which is ironic considering the visibility. The wind screams past our ears, and temperatures hang around -6°C, so I’m shaking like a chihuahua. I concur with him, but it’s not in the psyche of the alpine skiers to give up at the first inconvenience. After all, the vin chaud tastes sweeter when there’s a struggle involved.
The shutdown of the resort’s après scene during Covid meant it had to get canny with activities that don't involve dancing in your hundreds
We spend the rest of the morning skiing in the runs around La Daille, taking chair lifts to try and rise above the clouds, only to find they’re set in as solid as concrete. The pistes here might be lionised for their meticulous grooming, but it’s no match for this deluge of snow. Thighs throb with every turn in the powder, releasing a polystyrene-sounding crunch. My eyes lock onto Teddy’s luminous blue jacket, but as I clip out of my bindings every five minutes, he dissolves further into the distance. As uneasy as it feels, there’s not too much that can go wrong here. Skiing in Val D’Isere is a relatively treeless affair, and as long as you ski to the right-hand side of the yellow-tipped piste poles, you shan't fall off the mountainside.
If this breed of type-II fun isn’t where you get your kicks, you can very well head to Val D’Isere and steer clear of its pistes altogether. While this could involve parking up at one of the many high-altitude bars for as long as you have a supply of Alka-Seltzer and legal tender, there are other options off the slopes. The complete shutdown of the resort’s après scene during Covid meant it had to get canny with post-ski activities that don’t include dancing in your hundreds, exhaling Jägermeister-enriched breath into the faces of strangers. On the second day of my trip, I try out one of these new activities, which involves zipping myself into a giant, insulated orange dry suit and sliding into a frozen lake at an altitude of 8,245 feet. To the bystander, I look like a giant Marigold washing-up glove lost in the sink.
A skier tackles the off-piste terrain in Val D'Isere
Corentin Valencot
Not the forlorn by-product of the dishes, this is in fact the Nordic-inspired activity of ice-floating led by explorer Alban Michon with Evolution 2. When he’s not arctic diving along the Northwest Passage, he’s spending three hours digging this rectangular hole in Lac de l’Ouillette. Lake temperatures are so cold they’d induce hypothermia, but thanks to our heavily insulated sheaths, the water feels, dare I say it, balmy. We’re given mugs of green tea to sip on by the side of the frozen hole – delicious albeit impossible to drink when you’ve got giant rubber gloves for hands. The buoyancy of these suits means it’s not possible to do much other than float, staring at the sky and snow-cloaked mountains in silence. Once you’ve overcome the hysteria of bobbing in the water like an oversized lobster, the experience is strangely meditative.
Once you’ve overcome the hysteria of bobbing in the freezing water like an oversized lobster, the experience is strangely meditative in a way
If you prefer dry land over dry suits, there’s also the option to fat bike the 40 miles of trails carved through the valley. Former World Cup ski racer Frederik Van Buynder launched the experience after retiring from a knee injury, going for gold with his fleet of 13 thick-tyred bikes, which he excitedly tells me have the same engine as a Citroen. The air is bitingly cold, so Buynder asks me if I’ve got shoes for my hands. Presuming it’s an endearing translation mishap, I slip on some ski gloves, clip on my helmet, and we set off.
“E-biking is girl power,” he exclaims as we trundle along the larch-lined road. While I’m not sure a pack of ladies setting off on a collection of motorised mountain bikes is what Emmeline Pankhurst set out to achieve, it does summarise nicely the inclusivity of fat-biking. Buynder says he’s had customers well into their 70s hopping on the saddle, and it’s the prime low-impact mountain activity for those with knackered knees.
A group of five rides fat bikes along the marked tracks in the snow-covered valley
Corentin Valencot
The sun drops further in the sky and starts to retract its warmth, and I give thanks for my hand shoes as we navigate marked trails with the occasional off-piste segment, threading through small villages and hamlets clustered around Val D’Isere’s central town. Buynder stops periodically to point out significant places in his life, including the village where he met his wife. You see a different side to the Alps when not at the top of a run; the human side. Gossamer thin net curtains diffuse the glow from chalet windows onto the snow, and you catch the odd silhouette hunched over a kitchen stove or cleaning boots at the front door. I feel my stomach growl as I continue to pedal – it’s come to realise that almost any physical exertion in the French Alps culminates in various medleys of meat, cheese and alcohol. What could she possibly want this time? As it turns out, a trolley back at the chalet laden with steak frites, tarragon-spiked bearnaise and bottles of pinot noir.
I pack my suitcase on the final morning, strategically tucking paper-wrapped tranches of vacherin and bottles of génépi into ski socks. Body bent over the case, I feel my waistband gasping for air as my head throbs. It’s not every sporting holiday you can say you’re leaving heavier, happier and marinated in rosé. As I depart, I am reminded of a poignant quote I saw plastered on the wall of a bar near Lac de l’Ouillette. ‘Avec mon bikini, et mon mojito’ it reads. I’m not sure if it was Confucious or Plato who said those words, but they summarise beautifully what skiing in the French Alps is all about – having a darn good time.
Ski-in-ski-out accommodation at Silverstone Lodges by Alpine Collection from £22,915 per week for eight people with a pool and half-board meals. Find out more silverstone-lodge.com
