Kilts, Auld Lang Syne and Ropey Reels

Publication: Active Snow Magazine
Date: 2008-11-01
Author: Isobel Rostron

3 days in Chamonix. Kilts, Auld Lang Syne and Ropey Reels – Isobel Rostron finds out what happens when the French and Haggis collide at the inaugural burns night celebration in the Alps’ extreme mountain sports capital.

Friday, 1 February, 08.30h  Another powder day in paradise. I bypass breakfast to join friends heading up to the Grands Montets ahead of the crowds to make the most of the new overnight snowfall.

It’s only the early skier that catches the Grands Montets top lift these days, thanks to the new ‘bin-bagging’system – you can book (bag) a cable car (bin) online in advance, often causing chaos and leaving skiers unable to get up the hill. – run by Chamonix’s lifts wisdom! Our timing is perfect and we get three epic runs down the Argentiere glacier before heading back to meet my boyfriend Nick’s family, who are just arriving for their annual ski trip.

14.00h Six weeks into the season, and we’re all ready for the change from the daily Savoie diet of cheese and ham. Chamonix’s first official Burns Night celebration certainly promises alternative dining options, as well as something different from the usual Friday night après at Chambre Neuf. The first attempt to transplant historic homegrown Highland partying to and Alpine resort is, handily scheduled to coincide with the France vs Scotland 6 Nations rugby match.

My boyfriend’s family, the suitably Scottish Clan Lang, arrived laden with kilts and sporrans. A fellow Scot, the Easyjet check-in girl, kindly overlooked the extra addition of full traditional costume to skis, boots and the other usual alpine necessities. Only the Sgian Dubhs – the small daggers fully-attired old-school Scots wear in their socks – don’t make it. Spotted by an eagle-eyed security guard, they now languish in Edinburgh airport’s left luggage.

16.00h The last time I wore tartan, I had bunches in my hair and my mother got me into it, kicking and screaming to please my grandmother. So I’d hoped Chamonix’s shopping streets would supplement my wardrobe. As it turns out, tartan isn’t the easiest thing to find in the Alpine ski town. Sanglard Sports stocks a Scott tartan ski pole, but the potential for harm while ‘stripping the willow’ seems too great. Fortunately, black tie is permitted for tartan-deficient Sassenachs. That’s me sorted then.

19.00h Chamonix may not stock tartan but it does a good line in single malt. Fortified nu a few swift whisky sharpeners to get into the, er, spirit, my Burns Night crew heads up to the Hotel Prieure for the main event. We look pretty authentic, despite the Wee Jimmy wig Nick has decided to wear. Ginger curls making him look more like Orphan Annie than one of Braveheart’s fellow men. Our tartan kilts and hairy sporrans barely raise and eyebrow as we walk through the streets of Chamonix, probably because we look understated compared to the stag party dresses as zoo animals we pass on the way.

19.30h Blue and white St.Andrew’s flags are draped from the wooden rafters in the hotel’s ballroom. Chamonix residents – French, Brits – and Scottish holidaymakers are not out in force to celebrate Rabbie Burns, poet, balladeer and, for one night only, Chamonix’s favorite son. Burns Night brings out the latent inner Scot in all of us, n’er so true than of Jean-Michel Platen, the professional bagpiper who plays us into dinner. As he’s based in Annency and originally from Breton in northern France, we wonder when he first discovered his desire to play Scotland’s most iconic instrument. (Technical fabric fans will thrill to know that these days bagpipes often share a certain affinity with a skier’s wardrobe – the bag is often made from Gore-Tex rather than the traditional animal skins).

20.00h Burns Night is the ultimate celebration of Scottish heritage, and Chamonix version follows the form. Bill Nolan, from the Irvine Burns Club in Scotland and an old hand at Burnsing, leads the traditional addressing of the haggis. Performed in Scottish, French and English for good measure, it makes equally little sense in each language. With the single malt in full flow, nobody seems to mind. Next up is the Auld Alliance celebrating France’s amity with Scotland, which is almost as old as the hills (and absolutely nothing to do with thinking the English are crap, honest). We finish off the formal part of the evening that has brought together a new combination of nationalities in the resort.

20.30h The room suddenly fills with suspense. Maybe it’s because haggis doesn’t translate well into French – when it’s presented as panes de brebis (stuffed sheep gut), there’s no way to ignore what you are eating. Or maybe it’s not the prettiest dish, but at least half of the people in the room look like they are facing an I’m A celebrity challenge as the food is served. The rest of us happily tuck into the traditional Scottish dish with neeps and tatties, as well as Coq-a-Leekie soup and some delicious Scottish salmon.

22.30h The dance floor is a whirl of red, blue and green as Tich Frier, folk singer and caller for the evening, leads us through some energetic Scottish dancing accompanied by the Lismore Ceilidh Band. The Scots in the crowd are pretty patient as the rest of us fumble our way through the Gay Gordons. The dashing White Sergeant and a Highland Fling it’s a hazardous way to work off the cardiac-testing whisky trifle Tipsy Laird, but the dancing passes without incident, other than a few squashed toes (mine!) from one over-enthusiastic dance partner. By now Nick is regretting his Wee Jimmy wig – not only ginger, it’s also getting a little toasty for Scottish reeling.

1.45h Tich bellows again and we are summoned to take a few more dizzying turns, before a somewhat slurred reprise of Auld Lang Syne. By the time the band plays their last notes, we’re totally exhilarated despite aching feet and ringing ears. Another wee dram a’fore we hit the high road?Well it is cold outside…

Saturday, 2 February, 9.00h Something terrible has happened during the night. I seem to have been struck by a sledgehammer while sleeping. A quick phone survey confirms the whisky hangover is strong with us all this morning, while a sheepish peek through the curtains reveals a double cruelty. Chamonix’s towering peaks always throw up a crisp bluebird day just when you can handle it least.

11.00h After helping the boys out of their kilts and into their salopettes – bare a Scottish leg at 20 below isn’t a good look – we heard for the Aiguille di Midi cable car. Only a blast of icy alpine air and a bagful of croissants will take the edge off this particular ‘night before’. Two hours later and 5kms down the Vallee Blanche, Chamonix’s infamous off-piste glacier run, my head starts to clear enough to enjoy the stunning scenery of the Mont Blanc range.

Sunday, 3 February, 15.00h A night on the Scotch and day ripping up Chamonix’s backcountry has taken their toll on us all. We’re as bedraggled as the English after the Battle of Bannockburn. Thankfully, this provides all the excuse we need to slink off to the Elevation café to watch Scotland play France in the rugby match. The score? This time it’s the tune of France 27, Scotland 6. Revenge, perhaps, for making their kin eat haggis?

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