You couldn’t have picked a more wonderful way to start skiing. Zermatt had heavy snowfalls 2 days before we arrived, but for the 4 days we stayed there, the sky was a deep gorgeous blue and the sun shone down intensely on the pristine winter wonderland. The trip was a company incentive that G had won for being so good at his job. And we were given 5 star treatment all the way. Indeed, we stayed in the same 5 star hotel Prince William had stayed at the week before. We ate in the same restaurants frequented by Robbie Williams, Britney Spears and Mick Hucknall. We never saw any of ‘em, but never mind, we were certainly looked after like celebrity rock stars ourselves!
We flew into Geneva on Monday, and after a coach and train ride, arrived high the Alps that afternoon. Zermatt is a small alpine village, filled with picturesque wooden granaries and houses, cut through by a river, and overlooked by the awesome solitary Matterhorn – beautiful, menacing, stark. Our suite was massive, with a solid granite bathroom, matching “His” and “Hers” gowns for the Spa / Sauna / Jacuzzi / Pool area downstairs, a huge lounge area and a private balcony overlooking the mountains, alpine huts and cable cars.
We had a formal dinner that night, to which I wore my first ever strapless gown. I have to say – my boobs are not the perky pair they were 10 years ago, but G was awfully gallant and complimentary ….
The next day, we were kitted out for our own snow gear – everything from salopettes to ski jackets, thermal underwear, boots, skiis and poles. If you want to know what any of those words mean, look ‘em up, I have no idea ;)
We flew into Geneva on Monday, and after a coach and train ride, arrived high the Alps that afternoon. Zermatt is a small alpine village, filled with picturesque wooden granaries and houses, cut through by a river, and overlooked by the awesome solitary Matterhorn – beautiful, menacing, stark. Our suite was massive, with a solid granite bathroom, matching “His” and “Hers” gowns for the Spa / Sauna / Jacuzzi / Pool area downstairs, a huge lounge area and a private balcony overlooking the mountains, alpine huts and cable cars.
We had a formal dinner that night, to which I wore my first ever strapless gown. I have to say – my boobs are not the perky pair they were 10 years ago, but G was awfully gallant and complimentary ….
The next day, we were kitted out for our own snow gear – everything from salopettes to ski jackets, thermal underwear, boots, skiis and poles. If you want to know what any of those words mean, look ‘em up, I have no idea ;)
The most hysterical part of the entire experience was trying to walk in the ski boots. Try and imagine you 
have met the Mafia, and they have immersed your feet in two large blocks of solid concrete, each about 1 square half-meter in size. They let you live however, because they want to die laughing while watching you walking in these monstrosities. You discover that the boots are set to angle your knees slightly forward. So you walk like Arnie the Terminator. Slowly. Stumpily. Menacingly. With your entire body. Loudly, mechanically. Just like a robot. And – like something out of The Stepford Wives movie – every single other person in the entire village walks like that too.
Beyond funny, I tell you.
But incredibly tiring. By the time we had the boots on, and our gear loaded into the tiny electric taxi to take us to the cable car at the bottom of the mountain, I was exhausted. Then we were faced with long walkways, tunnels into the mountain. Here, thousands of brisk, cool (unexhausted-looking) skiiers rush past you, in a monstrous traffic jam in both directions. You are lucky not to be decapitated by some idiot carrying his skiis funny. Like me. There is a definite trick to hooking your skiis together, flinging them over your shoulder and tucking the poles parallel on top, then loping elegantly and knowingly past the ski-pass check-in machine, up to the funicular. I never got the knack myself. And they tell me the busy season is over. I shudder to contemplate peak skiing season, and the number of “death by dumb skiier” in those underground tunnels.
We finally made it to our station on the mountain and emerged (after another shattering tunnel walk) into gorgeous sunshine, white mountains, and a flat white stretch of snow. Flat??? Now look here, I know I’m a novice, but flat??? I thought skiing was about slopes! Ha! After 5 hours on the Nursery area, that flat expanse became an Everestian fall, a slope with the steepest gradient on earth, a killer–speed-freak-death trap, I tell you. Oh, skiing is a taxing experience for the newbie!
The worst of course, is that the Nursery slope is peopled by – yes, you guessed it – 4-year old pro-skiers
floating past you like superstars, each with a little sneer of disdain as they leave you flailing and swivelling your arms in their wake. The cool thing was that 3 of us newbies got to share an ex-champion private instructor, who must’ve cost a fortune. She was so patient, so not patronising, so very kind. And we paid not a penny for her loveliness, because G’s company paid for it all. By the end of the day, we were coolly gliding down the flat expanse, asses in the air as she cried “snow plough! Stop! Relax! Look up! Don’t tense! Make your skiis a perfect triangle! Stooooooooooooooooop! Argh, crunch.”
No, we really weren’t all that bad. Well, the other two weren’t. And to be honest, we never hit anyone, or anything. And each of us only fell over twice. It’s the wierdest feeling, falling over, landing on your skiis and floating all the way down on your back. And then not being able to get up, because you’re glued into a long pair of flat duckfeet. But once you’re up, you fight against the tremendous pain in your legs, the total numbness of your feet, and allow the air, and sun and sky and laughter to invigorate you into trying yet again. Each time, you step onto a tiny little conveyor belt, just wide enough for a pair of skiis, and roll gently back up to the top of the little slope (far too exhausting to walk), and manoeuvre your way into position for another fabulous float down the slope.
Meanwhile, all this time, G and a few colleagues had been dicing death in the tops of the mountains, on red and black ski runs, the lucky B%&*$£s! Oh, one day I’ll be good at this, I SWEAR I will! I’m hook
ed, I’m convinced, I’m a total convert, I loved it all.
One of the highlights of the trip came for me that afternoon, when -after a long, still, beautiful tramp through the high hills of snow, we came to the top of the toboggan run, and I tried this exhilarating sport for the very first time. We flew down the hill for a solid hour, hitting speeds of up to 20kph (probably more) and shrieking all the way down. At one stage I could hear myself yelling, in one long breathless scream “Overtaking on the inside, here comes Michael Schumacher, we’re in the video game, no wait WE ARE THE VIDEO GAME!” People were pissing themselves laughing at my running commentary. Only one bloke – who happened to be The Big Boss – made a mistake, and flew over the edge of the mountain, looking spectacularly like a Nigel Mansell high-speed car crash, bits flying all over the place as he launched into space, and was later found, clinging by his fingertips to the guard rail, laughing hysterically and making gleeful whoooping noises to all and sundry.
It was a blast I doubt I will ever be able to top.
No, wait, hang on a minute. There was still the helicopter ride! The next day, we walked out at the heliport at Zermatt, to the head-pounding, stomach-churning noise of chopper blades and engines thundering in the skies. Someone was heard to mutter“I love the smell of napalm in the morning” as three choppers came roaring up between the mountains, flying in formation, to land right beside us, one after the other. When we took off, the chopper dipped under me, and I was lying on the glass, looking down 10 thousand feet to to
Zermatt and the alpine valleys below. Then we flew up into the whipped cream world of the Matterhorn, and I wanted to cry, it was just so intensely beautiful.
We saw the very top of the mountain, and the cross where the climbers make it to the summit. Then we flew across to the Rothorn, and landed stunningly in the snow. They off-loaded all our ski boots, skiis and poles, and made us stand, crouching knee-deep in the whirling snow under the howling blades as the chopper took off again from right beside us. It felt like every James Bond movie come true. Then we were up and away, gathering gear and shaking ourselves off. In fact, the next 10 photos I took were completely incomprehensible – I was shaking with such an intense adrenaline rush, it took an hour to wear off.
We sat in the baking sun for hours, suntanning and watching the very best snowboarders and skiiers taking off around us, as we drank red wine and ate a divine three-course meal. Bit fatal, that, really, as we then had to gather all our gear and make our way back down the stomach-heaving cable chairs all the way back to the Nursery slopes, back to pain, pain, pain and more pain. Ah, sweet bliss!
Actually, the bliss came after, when G and I spent several hours going round and round in the Spa, first from the Ice Room (minus 2 degrees) – like a little Ice cave (eeeeeeeeeeeehhhhh!), to the Alpine Room at 36 degrees, then the Steam Room at 46 degrees, then the Sauna at 86 degrees (aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!), then the jacuzzi (oooooooohhhhhhh)., and back all over again. Then, shattered beyond description, to the crisp white duvets on our beds. Oh god, sweet heaven.
In between, we had fondues, and red wine, and courvoisier and gin and tonic. We ate meat, and rosti and reclette, and other food I can’t even begin to describe. We talked and laughed and made friends and took photos and generally behaved like 10-year olds. I think the two of us certainly kept everyone entertained!
I ran out of adjectives and superlatives half way through the trip. There are no words to describe how wonderful this trip was – a once in a lifetime experience, and no possible better way to be introduced to the wonderful world of skiing.
I will go there again!
have met the Mafia, and they have immersed your feet in two large blocks of solid concrete, each about 1 square half-meter in size. They let you live however, because they want to die laughing while watching you walking in these monstrosities. You discover that the boots are set to angle your knees slightly forward. So you walk like Arnie the Terminator. Slowly. Stumpily. Menacingly. With your entire body. Loudly, mechanically. Just like a robot. And – like something out of The Stepford Wives movie – every single other person in the entire village walks like that too.Beyond funny, I tell you.
But incredibly tiring. By the time we had the boots on, and our gear loaded into the tiny electric taxi to take us to the cable car at the bottom of the mountain, I was exhausted. Then we were faced with long walkways, tunnels into the mountain. Here, thousands of brisk, cool (unexhausted-looking) skiiers rush past you, in a monstrous traffic jam in both directions. You are lucky not to be decapitated by some idiot carrying his skiis funny. Like me. There is a definite trick to hooking your skiis together, flinging them over your shoulder and tucking the poles parallel on top, then loping elegantly and knowingly past the ski-pass check-in machine, up to the funicular. I never got the knack myself. And they tell me the busy season is over. I shudder to contemplate peak skiing season, and the number of “death by dumb skiier” in those underground tunnels.
We finally made it to our station on the mountain and emerged (after another shattering tunnel walk) into gorgeous sunshine, white mountains, and a flat white stretch of snow. Flat??? Now look here, I know I’m a novice, but flat??? I thought skiing was about slopes! Ha! After 5 hours on the Nursery area, that flat expanse became an Everestian fall, a slope with the steepest gradient on earth, a killer–speed-freak-death trap, I tell you. Oh, skiing is a taxing experience for the newbie!
The worst of course, is that the Nursery slope is peopled by – yes, you guessed it – 4-year old pro-skiers
floating past you like superstars, each with a little sneer of disdain as they leave you flailing and swivelling your arms in their wake. The cool thing was that 3 of us newbies got to share an ex-champion private instructor, who must’ve cost a fortune. She was so patient, so not patronising, so very kind. And we paid not a penny for her loveliness, because G’s company paid for it all. By the end of the day, we were coolly gliding down the flat expanse, asses in the air as she cried “snow plough! Stop! Relax! Look up! Don’t tense! Make your skiis a perfect triangle! Stooooooooooooooooop! Argh, crunch.”No, we really weren’t all that bad. Well, the other two weren’t. And to be honest, we never hit anyone, or anything. And each of us only fell over twice. It’s the wierdest feeling, falling over, landing on your skiis and floating all the way down on your back. And then not being able to get up, because you’re glued into a long pair of flat duckfeet. But once you’re up, you fight against the tremendous pain in your legs, the total numbness of your feet, and allow the air, and sun and sky and laughter to invigorate you into trying yet again. Each time, you step onto a tiny little conveyor belt, just wide enough for a pair of skiis, and roll gently back up to the top of the little slope (far too exhausting to walk), and manoeuvre your way into position for another fabulous float down the slope.
Meanwhile, all this time, G and a few colleagues had been dicing death in the tops of the mountains, on red and black ski runs, the lucky B%&*$£s! Oh, one day I’ll be good at this, I SWEAR I will! I’m hook
ed, I’m convinced, I’m a total convert, I loved it all.One of the highlights of the trip came for me that afternoon, when -after a long, still, beautiful tramp through the high hills of snow, we came to the top of the toboggan run, and I tried this exhilarating sport for the very first time. We flew down the hill for a solid hour, hitting speeds of up to 20kph (probably more) and shrieking all the way down. At one stage I could hear myself yelling, in one long breathless scream “Overtaking on the inside, here comes Michael Schumacher, we’re in the video game, no wait WE ARE THE VIDEO GAME!” People were pissing themselves laughing at my running commentary. Only one bloke – who happened to be The Big Boss – made a mistake, and flew over the edge of the mountain, looking spectacularly like a Nigel Mansell high-speed car crash, bits flying all over the place as he launched into space, and was later found, clinging by his fingertips to the guard rail, laughing hysterically and making gleeful whoooping noises to all and sundry.
It was a blast I doubt I will ever be able to top.
No, wait, hang on a minute. There was still the helicopter ride! The next day, we walked out at the heliport at Zermatt, to the head-pounding, stomach-churning noise of chopper blades and engines thundering in the skies. Someone was heard to mutter“I love the smell of napalm in the morning” as three choppers came roaring up between the mountains, flying in formation, to land right beside us, one after the other. When we took off, the chopper dipped under me, and I was lying on the glass, looking down 10 thousand feet to to
Zermatt and the alpine valleys below. Then we flew up into the whipped cream world of the Matterhorn, and I wanted to cry, it was just so intensely beautiful.We saw the very top of the mountain, and the cross where the climbers make it to the summit. Then we flew across to the Rothorn, and landed stunningly in the snow. They off-loaded all our ski boots, skiis and poles, and made us stand, crouching knee-deep in the whirling snow under the howling blades as the chopper took off again from right beside us. It felt like every James Bond movie come true. Then we were up and away, gathering gear and shaking ourselves off. In fact, the next 10 photos I took were completely incomprehensible – I was shaking with such an intense adrenaline rush, it took an hour to wear off.
We sat in the baking sun for hours, suntanning and watching the very best snowboarders and skiiers taking off around us, as we drank red wine and ate a divine three-course meal. Bit fatal, that, really, as we then had to gather all our gear and make our way back down the stomach-heaving cable chairs all the way back to the Nursery slopes, back to pain, pain, pain and more pain. Ah, sweet bliss!
Actually, the bliss came after, when G and I spent several hours going round and round in the Spa, first from the Ice Room (minus 2 degrees) – like a little Ice cave (eeeeeeeeeeeehhhhh!), to the Alpine Room at 36 degrees, then the Steam Room at 46 degrees, then the Sauna at 86 degrees (aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!), then the jacuzzi (oooooooohhhhhhh)., and back all over again. Then, shattered beyond description, to the crisp white duvets on our beds. Oh god, sweet heaven.
In between, we had fondues, and red wine, and courvoisier and gin and tonic. We ate meat, and rosti and reclette, and other food I can’t even begin to describe. We talked and laughed and made friends and took photos and generally behaved like 10-year olds. I think the two of us certainly kept everyone entertained!
I ran out of adjectives and superlatives half way through the trip. There are no words to describe how wonderful this trip was – a once in a lifetime experience, and no possible better way to be introduced to the wonderful world of skiing.
I will go there again!
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