Financial Times

Switzerland without skisTwo decades after her last – disastrous – ski holiday, Lucy Kellaway returns to the Alps to visit aremote hamlet reinvented as a luxurious retreat for those who love mountains, but not falling over

W hen I was 25, I went toSaas-Fee for the firstand last skiing holi-day of my life. I hatedthe happy, shouting

crowds and the garish clothes theywore. I liked neither the overpricedhot chocolate nor the sickly glühwein,in which all traces of alcohol had longgone. But, above all, I loathed theskiing: the endless falling over on theway down the slope and the terror ofthe button lift on the way up. Evennow, the sight of a ski boot withits unnatural, forward sloping anglemakes me feel very unhappy indeed.The first thing Montagne Alterna-

tive has going for it is that it’s not aski resort. Instead, it’s a collection offour converted barns that used tohouse cows with alpine bells but nowhouse affluent humans, seeking a fewdays’ peace in the mountains.The second good thing is that for a

remote place it is remarkably easy toget to. The train to Martigny oblig-ingly waits at Geneva airport andwhisks you along by the lake, pastsome of the most ludicrously beautifulscenery in the world. At the station isEduardo Ramos, a Mexican who livedmost of his life in Belgium, whodrives you up a mountain in his jeep.From noisy, grubby London to silent,Persil-white Commeire, the journeytakes less than six hours – about thesame at it takes to get to my usualremote spot in north Cornwall.Commeire is a tiny hamlet close to

the point where France, Italy andSwitzerland meet. It has a permanentpopulation of 12 elderly locals whodon’t wander around shouting inbright anoraks but prefer to stay qui-etly indoors. Eduardo explains how aBelgian friend of his came here eightyears ago, fleeing both wife and corpo-rate life, bought a barn for a song andconverted it for himself. Before long,another friend came and did the same.

Now there are four of them, eachwith plenty of experience of midlifecrises but with none of tourism, andtogether they own and run this glam-orously eccentric business venture.Outside our barn, firewood was

stacked impossibly neatly; inside, thebig space was filled with the warm drysmell of wood. Apart from a bunch ofdried flowers and some minimalistmodern furniture, there was little todetract from the main event: walls ofglass giving out on to mountains.The look was austere and luxurious

all at once. The towels in the bath-room were not fluffy and white butsmooth and slate grey. There were nopictures on the walls; the only adorn-ment was antique quilts on the beds.At first I felt as if I was a guest insomeone’s vastly tasteful holidayhouse, only with the advantage thatthere was no social obligation to thehost, who showed up occasionally tolend waterproof boots or offer advice.But after a bit I realised it was betterthan this – this wasn’t his place, itwas surely mine, only I had miracu-lously acquired style and attention todetail somewhere along the way.There are several small ski resorts

nearby (and Verbier is less than halfan hour away) but there’s also plentyto occupy non-skiers: photography,cooking or various sporty things. How-ever, as my daughter and I sunk on toour beds to relax after our most untir-ing journey, it was instantly clear thatthe main attraction of Montagne Alter-native is doing nothing at all.It’s not quite Eat, Pray, Love. It’s

more eat, sleep, vegetate while staringout of the window down the Vald’Entremont towards Italy or, for vari-ety, gazing into the gaily dancingflames of the fire. We had been therenearly 24 hours before we stirred our-selves to go for a proper walk. MartinVanderborght, the nephew of one of

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Date: Saturday February 23, 2013Page: 7Region: UKEdition: 01

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the founders, showed us the littleshed where the snow shoes were kept,and helped us put them on.We clipped the plastic paddles on to

our walking boots and set off, crunch,crunch, crunch. Within the first threesteps I knew I had found my thing.The trouble with skis is that theyencourage you to fall over, whereassnow shoes are designed to keep youupright. Trudging along in them is abit tiring but you feel so secure thatyou can look around you, which issurely the whole point.The snow, which had fallen in vast

quantity just before our arrival andagain overnight, was fresh and deep.

The temperature was minus 13C butthe sun, on our south-facing stretch ofmountainside, was hot. Within 100steps we had left the village behind usand seemed to have the entire moun-tain range to ourselves. I flung myarms out wide and started to sing,“The hills fill my heart with thesound of music.” The twirl was hardto execute in snow shoes and in anycase my daughter pointed out thatThe Sound of Music is set in the sum-mer. The right text for our trip, shesaid, was Frankenstein.Although we were in the middle of

nowhere, a touch of the iPhonereminded us how Victor Frankensteinfeels about the view: “The sublimeecstasy that gives wings to the soul” –which seemed to do nicely.Victor, like me, preferred to have

the place to himself and writes: “I waswell acquainted with the path, andthe presence of another would destroythe solitary grandeur of the scene.”Only in my case I wasn’t remotely

acquainted with the path and, fancy-ing a clever shortcut down a precipi-tous slope, fell into deep snow. How-ever, this was not the freezing,impacted ice of Saas-Fee’s beginners’slopes. This snow was soft and almostwarm, and were it not for the quan-tity that got down the back of myjeans, falling into it would have beenan entirely pleasant experience.After our walk there was a yoga

class before supper. Here was anotheraustere, sweet-smelling barn withheart-stopping views that doubles as ameeting room for corporate retreats. In

it we swapped the posture of upwardfacing human for downward facingdog, which was OK, though seemed abit pointless when a superior form ofrelaxation was also on offer back inour own barn: sitting by the fire beingoffered a glass of local wine.That Saturday night our barn was

full – we were sharing with four othercouples and were 10 around the table.Such a crowd might have spoiled thewhole thing but turned out to be mysort of dinner party. Partly it was thelaid-back style of Eduardo and Martin,who drifted in and out in an agreeableway, dispensing wine.But it was also because you didn’t

have to discuss schools or houseprices. You didn’t have to talk at all.You could just concentrate on thefood. This had been prepared by JamieAnderson, a chef from Dundee whonow lives nearby, and consisted oftender slabs of lamb, ratatouille andquite the best lemon tart I have had.At my favourite hour for going to

bed – 9pm – we said goodnight and fellinto the sort of deep sleep that followsa satisfying encounter with nature. Iwould have slept through till morningwere it not for noise from a neigh-bouring bedroom suggesting that twofellow guests were having a satisfyingencounter with one another.

By breakfast all was forgiven.Indeed, this breakfast would havemade me forgive anything. Bread andapricot jam is a perfect start to theday, and the Swiss baguette is vastlysuperior to the French. And with theapricot jam, made by someone nearby,it made me want to eat nothing elsefor the rest of my days.On Sunday night, after another rich

day spent doing not much, we had theplace to ourselves again, and ordered atakeaway. This was no Domino’s pizza,it was duck à l’orange with saladserved like a bunch of spring flowers,driven up the mountain from LesAlpes, a famous restaurant nearby.By the end of the weekend I was

well-eaten, well-slept (mainly) andwell-walked. I had bonded with mydaughter, with strangers but mostlywith myself. In a place such as this,one might even bond with colleagues.The only thing I had not bonded withwas the book on office politics I wasmeant to be reviewing. In the majestic



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silence of this corner of the Alps, itwas hard to credit that such a thingas office politics even existed.As a PS, sharp-eyed readers may

have spotted a discrepancy between

the words of this article and the pic-ture that goes with it. I appear to bewearing the very sort of garish skijacket I’m most scornful of.The truth is that it belonged to the

photographer who made me wear itas, otherwise, I would have disap-peared into the mountains behind.Thus my silhouette is visible in thepicture. But what the photo doesn’tshow is that my soul is not there: itflew off into the mountains, just asVictor Frankenstein’s did, and I stillhaven’t got it back.

Details

Lucy Kellaway was a guest of Swiss(www.swiss.com), Switzerland Tourism(www.myswitzerland.com) andMontagne Alternative (www.montagne-alternative.com). Doubles cost from!200, a week’s stay from !500 perperson. Swiss has 11 departures a dayfrom London to Geneva, from £113return. Swiss transfer tickets allow onereturn trip from the airport or borderto any destination, from £92, seewww.swisstravelsystem.co.uk

I f lung my arms outand started to sing. Mydaughter pointed outthat ‘The Sound ofMusic’ is set in summer



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SW I T Z E R L A N D

FRANCE

ITALY 10 km

MartignyCommeire

Aiguilledu Tour

GrandCombin

Chamonix

MontBlanc



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From top: LucyKellaway, inborrowed skijacket and snowshoes, admiresthe alpine view;the MontagneAlternative’sconverted barns;a dining room atone of the barns

Sébastien Albert



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