We’ll provide almost anything, as long as it’s legal,” says Hanna Wilkins, chief operations officer at Bramble Ski. I nearly choke on my cornichon. Almost anything? My mind fizzes with possibility. Over the next two nights I spend in Courchevel, I learn that “almost” extends far beyond spare towels and late check-outs. One guest, insistent on a chalet with a grand piano, had Bramble fly one in and resize an entire window to squeeze the keys into the building. Another, forbidden from bringing their dogs to the chalet (urgh, company policy), instead had them installed in a penthouse suite at the nearest five- star hotel. Their carrots had to be remade several times to achieve the desired canine consistency. I’m also told, quite ingenuously, that a Dover sole once made the pilgrimage from Billingsgate to the French Alps on the whim of a guest’s craving.
So, naturally, a day into my stay with Haute Montagne (the sister company to Bramble Ski), I am rubbing my hands together like Mr Burns, brainstorming the most outrageous requests possible. A chalice of holy water filched from the Vatican? A vase thrown by Seth Rogen? Harry Styles’ used Berlin Marathon shorts? Let’s go.
Lord of Snow exterior at Courchevel 1850
The chalet I’m staying in, modestly named Lord of Snow, sits in Courchevel 1850 – the resort’s highest, and highest-priced, village. It’s a ritzy, snow-sure adult playground magnetising magnates and potentates alike. Once dubbed “Bourchevel”, the name has since fallen out of favour after the oligarchs evaporated under Ukraine-related sanctions. Money, however, still falls here like fresh powder. On the climb to the chalet, you’ll pass Chanel, Loewe and Louis Vuitton boutiques sitting shoulder to shoulder with an art gallery selling an enormous canvas of a leopard perched beside Cara Delevingne draped over a Chevy. Most chalets up here are ski-in, ski-out, and the two beside Lord of Snow are worth around £100 million each. For context, €500,000 here buys you around 20 square metres of floor space, equivalent in size to a large garden shed.
It’s a curious thing to learn, amid the Moncler, dermal filler and Swarovski-encrusted skis, that Courchevel began with rather earnest intention. Dreamed up in the aftermath of the Second World War, it was to be a socialist paradise – a resort purpose-built to create jobs and make skiing available to the everyman. Fast-forward a few decades, and the socialist idyll has been replaced by something closer to a luxury logo. Courchevel now functions less as a town and more as a brand: synonymous with grandeur, where the pavements are heated, the stars are Michelin, and the bags designer.
The town’s fortunes, of course, are not accidental. Courchevel’s rise to prominence in the 1990s as the Russians’ ski destination of choice coincided neatly with the construction of its Altiport – a tiny airport with a runway sloped like a ski jump, allowing the wealthy to land directly in the resort. The completion of the Three Valleys lift links in the early 1970s helped the cause, making Courchevel part of the world’s largest interconnected ski area.
Lord of Snow is a hulking larch temple to excess spread across six floors, conveniently close to the seven-storey chalet that Will and Kate are rumoured to favour. It comes with a butler named Pierre, a private chef and chalet girls in dirndl-esque uniforms. There’s – inhales – a boot room, cinema room, billiards room, hammam, pool, poolside bar, hair salon and a general sense that restraint has long since skied off a cliff. A week here costs a cool £126,862.
The billiards room
I’ve done the other ski holiday: ham sandwiches flattened in rucksacks, choked down at altitude; woowoos in nightclubs where your shoes stick to the floor; ten-bed dorms so close to the loo you could flush without rising from your mattress. So, as the coin flips and I’m no longer vomiting Smirnoff Ice next to a bin to the soundtrack of Avicii, I wonder: how wildly different is a £100,000-a-week stay from the Andorra stag-do circuit? I’m here, bravely, to find out.
Your stay begins with a chalet girl knocking on your door to unpack your suitcase. Juliette appears in a long black skirt and pressed blouse, and tends to my suitcase without so much as flinching at the sight of my sagging gussets. From there, I make the 30-second trek to the boot room to get kitted up. At this level, guests are spared the indignity of schlepping to a ski shop. My boots await, fitted with a Boa system – ideal for women, whose feet expand and contract more than men’s. My skis are Faction twin tips, made in Verbier – perfect for anyone harbouring delusions of skiing backwards and performing aerial tricks. The room is calm, almost surgical: no flying boots, no height and weight shouted across the room, no damp socks soaking up the snowmelt. Shelves are neatly stacked with ski maps, Piz Buin suncream and lip balm.
A chalet girl tends to my suitcase without so much as flinching at the sight of my sagging gussets
What you’ll learn quickly about Courchevel is that altitude is no obstacle to spectacle. On my first day skiing, I pass a gigantic Batman sculpture positioned at an improbable elevation, and over lunch at La Cave des Creux, a man dressed in a tuxedo plucks a ginormous double bass, presumably squeezed into a gondola to get there. The chalet kitchen operates with a similar disregard for geography. One evening, we eat a Japanese spread from the head chef, Alex, that could have been plucked straight from a Tokyo izakaya: bouncy slices of sashimi, neatly arranged nigiri, uramaki, sticky wings and gyoza, accompanied by shiso leaves, fresh wasabi and pickled ginger.
Wilkins explains over cucumber maki that there is no price attached to food here. “You may want to spend over £50,000 and have your favourite olive oil flown in from Puglia.” Guests must never feel a ceiling on their possibilities. The wine, however, does stay true to its surroundings. We settle in for a tasting by the swimming pool (terrible idea, perhaps) and work through a line-up that’s 90% from Savoie with the guiding words of Phoebe Roth, a wine consultant who fled London for the Alps and now lives in Chamonix. We begin with a crémant made from jacquère grapes before moving on to tipples from the Alpine vineyards of Savoie, including Altesse, Cruet, Chignin and Isère.
A bedroom at the chalet
All these frivolities perhaps detract from the fact that you can ski very well in Courchevel. With 600km of pistes, the Three Valleys is the world’s largest interconnected ski area. On my first day under the guidance of our ski guide Gemma, we shimmy towards Meribel. It’s the end of the season with scorching 14°C temperatures and near-empty slopes as most haven’t bothered to ski in the slush. Courchevel has an abundance of gentle terrain, which has made it accessible for beginners and families alike, and particularly favourable for those flying down after a jaunt at the Folie. There are also miles of accessible backcountry for anyone hunting private powder stashes and avoiding the crowds. Break up the day with pitstops at the feted on-mountain cafés, ripe for celebrity spotting. For the noughties daytime TV enthusiasts: yes, I did happen to lock eyes with the one and only Trinny Woodall (AKA Trinny and Susannah) over a chocolate-dusted cappuccino.
While it’s possible to visit Monaco and never gamble, you don’t have to come to Courchevel and ride the cliché either. You can pose as the glitterati, or make the trip whatever you want it to be. I find that out on the final morning, when I slip on my snow boots and head out for a walk.
Aiguille du Fruit mountain peak between Courchevel and Méribel
We ascend up a few ski runs and wind up in a forest. From there, in a clearing overlooking the valley, we unroll yoga mats and begin our practice. It’s completely silent – save for the caw of birds and the hush of wind through the trees. The yoga class is a welcome reprieve from those Cara Delevingne-on-the-Chevy moments. I, for one, did not expect my time in Courchevel to conclude with shavasana in an alpine forest accompanied by a warm cup of turmeric tea.
So, of the £126,000 per week, what’s the most valuable thing? The ceiling of possibility is, admittedly, lost on me (still yet to request papal water). But you can’t put a price on Pierre. I’m sure he’s been plucked from a Wes Anderson flick – thin moustache, expressive brows, pointy winklepickers, and an instinct for human need sharper than Nato’s crisis team. Like a duckling imprinting on its mother, I find myself shadowing him around the chalet, fascinated by how he manages to anticipate everything while appearing perfectly at ease. Want someone who remembers how you like your eggs in the morning, laughs at your jokes and can sabrage champagne on cue? Pierre’s your man. When I ask how much it would cost to whisk him back to London, he estimates £80,000 a year. Londoners in search of a butler-slash-best friend: look no further.
The hammam
Pierre notwithstanding, is a week-long stay at a chalet that costs the equivalent of a two-bed house in Lancaster worth it? It’s complicated. Some will point to the caviar, the candlelight and the wayfaring Dover sole. But perhaps the real luxury lies in the invisible: the erasure of life’s minor inconveniences, the errands not run, the time not wasted, the thoughts not thought. For a brief moment, you’re carried through life as if wrapped in a gravity-resistant swaddle, freed from consequence, mundanity and the burden of unpacking your own knickers. And for some, that’s worth every penny.
Rates for Lord of Snow start from £126,862 per week on a fully serviced basis. For more information visit hautemontagne.com
