Whilst my body constantly yearns for a bit of sun (regardless of the season) once in a while it craves something a little different, Fresh clean air, brilliant white and vin chaud to be precise. So come 20th March it was time to swap the daily commute and ever-full inbox for snowy Morzine.
After stealing just four hours is precious sleep my alarm sounded and it was time to go. Having to wake up before you’ve even been asleep long enough to warm the chilly slice between the mattress and duvet is always a terrible state of affairs. But when the purpose of your aborted snooze is a holiday then the blow is considerably softened. It is perhaps the only occasion in which it can be justified.
Bleary eyed and with a dressing gown wrapped over my clothes and jacket I slumped into the back of the car, did the obligatory panicked pat-down to locate the passport and set off. It is inevitable that on arrival at the airport the same frantic search for the passport will play out again in spite of the fact the zipped pocket where it’s being safely stowed hasn’t been opened since the last check!
But anyway, with passport on person and having entered international airspace my holiday had officially begun. Powder snow, icing-sugar topped peaks, and mountain food beckoned. Family friends own a chalet in Morzine so for the sake of convenience (and for the sake of great skiing) it was going to be home for the next four days. It’s definitely somewhere I would recommend, the perfect (and tricky to achieve) balance of somewhere that has enough to do and see, but not so much that it’s Mecca for coach-loads of drunken snowboarders.
Whilst my normal blog posts and reviews take the form of day-by-day diaries, that hasn’t been possible with this trip. Ski, eat, sleep, repeat- it would read like a broken record would sound. I could advise on which runs are best, but again this entirely depends upon ability, conditions and preference, and besides, I’m not the best at keeping track of which run is which! It’s usually a case of just careering down whatever’s in front of me and following whoever last studied the piste map.
What I can do, however, to compensate this complete lack of blogging substance is show you some pretty pictures of the snow.
Days were spent traversing across vast expanse of cotton-wool chill, with the odd adrenaline-filled fling down mogul-infested runs…where speed comes at the expense of finesse. No matter if it’s a beach, a field, a desert or a mountain, a certain sense of contentment comes from being outdoors in a landscape so big that makes you feel like a tiny speck of dust. With just the faint whistle of wind across cascading rifts of snow and the distant rattle of an ascending ski-lift, the slopes suddenly feel incredibly peaceful. Gliding down tree-lined paths, meandering mountainside roads, and broad pistes laden with a thick blanket of powder (the kind that creaks under your skis) brings with it a wholesome offering of idyll that isn’t always expected on an action-packed holiday of exertion and sporty vigour. It’s always a pleasant surprise, so be sure to ski outside of school holidays where possible.
Lunchtime was more often than not spent at Les Ancelles – a lovely family-run restaurant at the bottom of the Mossettes chairlift. Take the sweeping blue Abricotine down and turn off at the piste-marker number 9. In the past I have found mountain food to be a bit of a shock to the system, so it’s refreshing to find a food spot where the usual carby cheesy delights are in fact accompanied by salad and not just a feeble garnish and chips. The Alpine salad and the tartiflette were by far my favourites. And the lovely affectionate canine friend was another favourite of mine (for stroking not eating, of course).
Evenings were spent curled up in heavenly soft pyjamas and thick cable-knit Sandro jumpers…the perfect outfit for achy limbs and the consumption of copious amounts of cheese and Champagne (my kind of Après!). If you’re about to hit the slopes, why not snuggle up in my favourite shopping picks…