Skiing
In the valleys
Alistair Horne
Over the past twenty years I suppose I must have skied down most of the best slopes in Europe. Now, late in the day, I think I have discovered what the Andalusians — in their boundless optimism — call /a penultima (the ultimate being still somewhere around the corner). I am talking about the Val d'Isere — Tignes complex in France's Haute Savoie. First, because of the bad Swiss and Austrian exchange rates, France (though by no means cheap) offers much better value in terms of ski hours per pound. Secondly, rising to over 3,500 metres, Val d'Isere often has snow in December when Klosters and Verbier are paddling on rain-sodden meadows. Thirdly, as latecomers to the game, the French have learned a great deal about the inter-linkage of ski-lifts.
This, in practice, means that —apart from endless local ski-runs — from Val d'Isere you can make excursions to neighbouring resorts like Courchevel, Meribel, La Plagne and Les Arcs. Last winter, hardened up by a week's course of deep-snow skiing, I went with my two daughters and a guide on a cross-country outing to La Plagne, thirty miles away. We started at nine by skiing over to the neighbouring complex of Tignes, linked by a series of lifts to Val d'Isere. On the other side of Tignes, we had to climb for forty-five minutes, then thread our way over several avalanches like piles of concrete snowballs. Melted by the Foehn and blown into crust by the wind, the snow was often far from perfect. But for three hours we skied down beautiful valleys empty of any human beings, with Mont Blanc glistening distantly in the sun above our heads, and along rushing streams with silver birches dipping over them.
At the bottom, in the unspoilt Savoyard village of Champagny, came another reward; lunch at Le Bouquetin (`The Ibex'). Though only the simplest of country pubs, we had artichokes, raclette and smoked ham, a delicious local stew called potee de Savoie, and crepes; finally a dubious firewater called eau de vie de Vipere, complete with dead adder in the bottle ('to give it that extra bite'). After lunch we took a long chair-lift up over myrtles and junipers. At the top, we skied arrogantly down the pistes to La Plagne (in itself a superbly organised new ski resort, less challenging than Val d'Isere). After the trek over from Tignes, it was like floating on zabaglione. Then, up again, and down to yet another pretty village — Montchavin — a descent almost equivalent to the height of Ben Nevis. A welcome vin chaud at a bistro, then home in a taxi driven by a Moroccan James Hunt. Dusk was drawing in and the mist was turning to frozen breath on the trees in the valley. We felt half-dead that night, but it had been one of the skiing days of a lifetime. Combined with Tignes, Val d'Isere is, in my opinion, possibly only rivalled in Europe by Austria's Zurs-St Anton runs (though Austria is now much more expensive). Standards are higher than most other places, and skiing incomparably more exciting — though not ideal for beginners, and avalanches have to be watched for. Guides are excellent, and essential if you want to do the kind of oulings we did.
The impatient French have also spent a great deal of money on the lift systems, so that in busiest times one seldom has to wait more than twenty Minutes. (I have spent one and a half hours in a cattle-crush at Klosters, and ski time is literally golden these days). On the other hand. I am not sold on the anti-social, single-button lifts which remove the prospects of talking to stray blondes, and start with such a jolt as to threaten to remove much else besides.
There is, of course, for the greedy, the unrivalled benefit of the French cuisine. Against this, like most of the new ski centres, no-one could call Val d'Isere aesthetically pleasing (Tignes less so). Apresski has nothing special to offer; but then most of the time one is just too damned tired. Communications are perhaps the worst aspect of Val d'Isere, although it is little further (three to four hours) from Geneva Airport than Verbier. You are at the mercy of a not very obliging bus service, and, arriving at Geneva. it is often hard to discover where, when (or even if) the buses run. Rene, our guide. suggested chauvinistically, 'maybe those Swiss just don't want you to know about Val d'Isere!'
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