It begins on the M20 motorway, as Operation Stack grinds the traffic to a halt 10 miles from the coast - high winds diverting every container truck towards the Channel Tunnel along with us.
Why are we driving? Apparently the dog is at his very happiest in the mountains so who am I to complain as I squeeze myself into what remains of the passenger seat, surrounded by vital foodstuffs and a very long pair of skis. The man of the house is insistent he takes his Salomon 240 Downhills from 1978: “those rental skis are a bloody rip-off and far too short for my standard!”.
As we finally make it to the train, it becomes clear that we are not the only ones who have decided to eschew the charms of Easyjet. Under normal circumstances no family would volunteer to sit three in the back with luggage piled on top for more than a short trip to school. But the lure of the snow and a determined father means the family must hold position with little room to even breathe for around 12 hours, with the occasional stop to put the wrong petrol in and break down.
On the other side, it doesn’t get much better. The French autoroute heading towards Lyon is littered withUKnumber plated estate cars driving in a worryingly erratic way. In most cases this is because:
The driver can nearly see out from under the pile of luggage and children
Being a man, the driver insists he must drive the whole 600 miles himself (“you need real experience to drive these dangerous roads”).
Being a man, he still clings to the old myth that “there’s no speed limit on the continent!” and thus pushes the car over a 100 throughout the journey, so picking up a sheaf of speeding tickets which will arrive 2 weeks after their return.
Finally, 6 weeks after leaving Folkestone, the car draws up at the ugly multi story car park at the bottom of the mountain, where we are informed that you must reserve a parking space and that the car must be left in the nearest town, 10 kms away .
Saddled with the dog as my husband went off to test his Downhill 240s, I made some discrete notes about the types of Brit who hit the slopes:
The Colonel
A regular at the resort since 1947, the Colonel and his wife lead a posse of retired couples who still cling to the belief that “it was the British who invented skiing” and march around the town berating younger skiers for unsuitable attire or for generally having fun. What seemed to be a dying breed, this group are being naturally replaced by new old fogeys, who – despite being only 47 – have decided to adopt the resort as their spiritual home and uphold the Regimental Rules for how a man should behave above 1000 metres.
The Mid Life Crisis Skier (and Trophy Wife)
Having left his wife for the marketing assistant and inherited a new family of under 5′s, the Mid Life Crisis Skier realises the only way to escape is to wear the highest, brightest ski wear and head for the off-piste for an all-day session, leaving his trophy wife in the nursery slopes with a non English-speaking instructor, who would rather be anywhere than teaching 3 snotty English brats how to do pizzas.
After one attempted run off-piste, Mid Life Crisis Skier retreats to the AlpiBar at the top of the mountain and tries to pick up a dizzying selection of gap-year girls working their student debts off. He fails, then rips his metatarsal while trying to ski a black off-piste behind shapely Annabel From Durham Uni. It proves there is a God.
The Professionals
Despite only hitting the slopes a week a year, Mr and Mrs Hampshire decided at an early age that their perfect children Harry and Phoebe would be the first Brits to win Gold in the Olympic downhill. Every year, they don their expensive slalom kit and are forced up the mountain, usually in blizzard conditions, to train on icy slopes while being provided with a limp baguette for lunch. As a result, by age 16 and 15, Harry and Phoebe are in open rebellion. Harry has decided he’s gay and spends most of the day admiring the design of the ski gear of passing French skiers. Phoebe has taken a strong interest in the moody and mysterious French ski instructor who she spotted on day one. Within minutes of the first slalom, she peels off from the British Schuss Club to chase Philippe. Their parents will, of course, know nothing continue their planning for the next Olympics.
The Chalet Girls
No European resort would be complete without the British Chalet Girl. Fresh from St Marys and ready to throw off years of Catholic imprisonment, Tamara and Olivia have been given a 10 bedroom super-chalet to staff by the owners, in the vain hope that the Russians will give up on Courchevel and come to this charming but ‘low’ resort. Tamara and Olivia have just finished their Putney cooking course, so provide the baffled guests with a selection of hearty British winter meals, all cooked to destruction or nearly raw. Within a week those have been replaced by microwave ready meals as Tamara and Olivia discover that everyone who was in St Tropez in the summer is Chalet Girling or bar-staffing in their resort. Beds go unmade and loos unblocked as they hit the inevitable British pub for all night sessions and hit the slopes for hilarious ski adventures with their super friends all day. The chalet owner is to be found with his arm down the loo, while placating furious clients who’ve paid £25,000 for a week of slush, rain and Co-Op microwave lasagne.
Britain Goes Skiing!
It begins on the M20 motorway, as Operation Stack grinds the traffic to a halt 10 miles from the coast - high winds diverting every container truck towards the Channel Tunnel along with us.
Why are we driving? Apparently the dog is at his very happiest in the mountains so who am I to complain as I squeeze myself into what remains of the passenger seat, surrounded by vital foodstuffs and a very long pair of skis. The man of the house is insistent he takes his Salomon 240 Downhills from 1978: “those rental skis are a bloody rip-off and far too short for my standard!”.
As we finally make it to the train, it becomes clear that we are not the only ones who have decided to eschew the charms of Easyjet. Under normal circumstances no family would volunteer to sit three in the back with luggage piled on top for more than a short trip to school. But the lure of the snow and a determined father means the family must hold position with little room to even breathe for around 12 hours, with the occasional stop to put the wrong petrol in and break down.
On the other side, it doesn’t get much better. The French autoroute heading towards Lyon is littered withUKnumber plated estate cars driving in a worryingly erratic way. In most cases this is because:
Finally, 6 weeks after leaving Folkestone, the car draws up at the ugly multi story car park at the bottom of the mountain, where we are informed that you must reserve a parking space and that the car must be left in the nearest town, 10 kms away .
Saddled with the dog as my husband went off to test his Downhill 240s, I made some discrete notes about the types of Brit who hit the slopes:
The Colonel
A regular at the resort since 1947, the Colonel and his wife lead a posse of retired couples who still cling to the belief that “it was the British who invented skiing” and march around the town berating younger skiers for unsuitable attire or for generally having fun. What seemed to be a dying breed, this group are being naturally replaced by new old fogeys, who – despite being only 47 – have decided to adopt the resort as their spiritual home and uphold the Regimental Rules for how a man should behave above 1000 metres.
The Mid Life Crisis Skier (and Trophy Wife)
Having left his wife for the marketing assistant and inherited a new family of under 5′s, the Mid Life Crisis Skier realises the only way to escape is to wear the highest, brightest ski wear and head for the off-piste for an all-day session, leaving his trophy wife in the nursery slopes with a non English-speaking instructor, who would rather be anywhere than teaching 3 snotty English brats how to do pizzas.
After one attempted run off-piste, Mid Life Crisis Skier retreats to the AlpiBar at the top of the mountain and tries to pick up a dizzying selection of gap-year girls working their student debts off. He fails, then rips his metatarsal while trying to ski a black off-piste behind shapely Annabel From Durham Uni. It proves there is a God.
The Professionals
Despite only hitting the slopes a week a year, Mr and Mrs Hampshire decided at an early age that their perfect children Harry and Phoebe would be the first Brits to win Gold in the Olympic downhill. Every year, they don their expensive slalom kit and are forced up the mountain, usually in blizzard conditions, to train on icy slopes while being provided with a limp baguette for lunch. As a result, by age 16 and 15, Harry and Phoebe are in open rebellion. Harry has decided he’s gay and spends most of the day admiring the design of the ski gear of passing French skiers. Phoebe has taken a strong interest in the moody and mysterious French ski instructor who she spotted on day one. Within minutes of the first slalom, she peels off from the British Schuss Club to chase Philippe. Their parents will, of course, know nothing continue their planning for the next Olympics.
The Chalet Girls
No European resort would be complete without the British Chalet Girl. Fresh from St Marys and ready to throw off years of Catholic imprisonment, Tamara and Olivia have been given a 10 bedroom super-chalet to staff by the owners, in the vain hope that the Russians will give up on Courchevel and come to this charming but ‘low’ resort. Tamara and Olivia have just finished their Putney cooking course, so provide the baffled guests with a selection of hearty British winter meals, all cooked to destruction or nearly raw. Within a week those have been replaced by microwave ready meals as Tamara and Olivia discover that everyone who was in St Tropez in the summer is Chalet Girling or bar-staffing in their resort. Beds go unmade and loos unblocked as they hit the inevitable British pub for all night sessions and hit the slopes for hilarious ski adventures with their super friends all day. The chalet owner is to be found with his arm down the loo, while placating furious clients who’ve paid £25,000 for a week of slush, rain and Co-Op microwave lasagne.