The Piste

Publication: Irish Mail
Date: 2008-12-07
Author: Robert Mayes

….and the powder’s perfect, says Robert Mayes after a stormer in the highest resort in Europe

‘You’re doing what? Came the water-cooler chorus when I said I was going skiing in the last week of November. ‘You’d better take some good boardgames’. Ah, I shot back, there are glaciers in the Alps where you can ski all year round, sometimes wearing as little as a T-shirt.

But I was thinking: what if I arrive in France to find the slopes untroubled by the merest hint of a snowflake, my long weekend snowboarding with my brother turned into a marathon of Scrabble and French TV?

So you can imagine the relief when the skies started chucking down snow as I steered our hire car deeper into the Alps – except for two small details.The ‘Neverlost’ satnav that came with the hire car at Geneva airport was, how shall I put it – lost.

We asked for Val Thorens, but it seemed to prefer Meribel, which might have been close as the crow flies, though as a local pointed out, it would require a ski lift that takes cars to get over the peaks that lay between us and our destination. Then there was the snow. As the roads iced up, the car didn’t seem to like going in a straight line – which is when it dawned on me what those chains in the trunk were for.We were, it might be said, a pathetic sight at 10pm wiping fat splodges of snow off the instruction manual as attempted to fot tire chains for the first time in our lives – in the dark.

In the biting cold, my fingers had become about as useful as French fries when we were saved (shock!) by a friendly Frenchman. He whipped the chains on and sent us embarrassed on our way.

We drove what felt like halfway back to Geneva again and up the next valley, arriving four hours late but to the sight of the village twinkling under a layer of fresh snow and for our three days ahead the promise of perfect powder.

Val Thorens is the highest resort in the famous Trois Vallees, the biggest ski area in the world with 600km of pistes accessible by a system of interconnected lifts. At 2,300m, it is also the highest resort in Europe, and reputedly your best bet for early season snow.

I was taking my younger brother for his first taste of the slopes, and the fresh dump of 40cm of snow was the perfect start for some of the best snowboarding I’ve had.The beginner’s piste was a short walk from our four-star apartment in the Village Montana, organised through Directski (which, I should point out, usually has a bus shuttle service during peak season to save you all those satnav shenanigans).

Unless you’re a veteran, it’s a good idea to have lessons. For the first day we had Christophe from Pro Neiges ski school dispense his snowboarding wisdom. Soon, he had got my brother off his backside (one of his favourite positions) and had him tackling more challenging gradients, and we were soon taking lifts high into the mountains.

Given our timing, only a limited number of lifts were open, but the slopes were blissfully uncrowded. The big plus in all of this is that in Val Thorens, no one can see you fall. And boy, did we fall.

We also had a lesson with Luc from the Ecole du Ski Francais, an interesting character who sails yachts single handed across the world. His last trip was from France to Denmark, taking in Ireland – and Dun Log Air, as he insisted it was pronounced.

After our lessons, he took us for lunch at La Galoubet, a restaurant right in the centre of the resort where all the main pistes end. We devoured pork chops and escalope Savoyarde, (turkey smothered in ham and cheese), followed by rich chocolate cake – just the fuel for another afternoon on the slopes.

The advantages of early-season skiing extend beyond uncrowded pistes (and privacy for your falls). It can also be excellent value. You can get a week in a chalet with ski passes and ski hire included for a few hundred euros. If you’re feeling flush, however, the resort offers every last luxury, including Oxalys, the highest Michelin-starred restaurany in Europe.

We were on a credit-ceunch budget so we stocked up on food and spicy red wines from the nearby Cotes du Rhone. After hearty dinners, we hit the pubs, making a beeline for the Frog and Roast Beef, the highest pub in Europe. We didn’t get round to using it but there was a huge sports centre, with a large pool and a full gym for ‘masculation’ as the French translation goes.

We hit the pistes with such enthusiasm during the first two days that by the final day we were rather stiff. But the sun was blazing without a cloud in sight, so it was time for the bug one: taking the cable car to the highest lift station at nearly 3,000 metres above sea level. We fortified ourselves with Irish coffees at the lift station café, drinking in breathtaking views of the jagged Alps, before heading off for the big one.My brother opted for the modest blue run, while I fancied the red – which occasioned an object lesson in the perils of sibling rivalry. It was all going so well: I was carving my signature in pristine pistes – until I spied a little off-piste action. Off I went, like someone who thinks he knows how to snowboard, until crunch, I landed on a rock, board and then butt.

I was a sorry sight as I clambered back to the piste. I made it back thrilled yet chastened by the experience. Suffice to say, I’ve had to sleep on my front for a week – and my brother is still laughing.

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