AH, skiing. For some, the very pinnacle of alfresco sporting prowess, an elegant balancing act of style, strength and technique. Man versus mountain, civilisation against Nature, pride before a fall. And the committed skier is single-minded in his approach to the sport—up at the crack of dawn to lay tracks through the most virginal of spring powder, a quick break for a spartan snack, followed by a full afternoon’s off-piste adventure, racing to catch the last chairlift home. Only then will they allow that first glühwein to pass their lips. For others, however (and I place myself firmly in this category), skiing is simply a means to get down the mountain to a seriously good lunch.
The cheese itself has that unique pong (which permanently permeates all the best establishments)
Because why and smoked sausage, gratin, tartiflette, croziflette (made with small, square pasta rather than potatoes), a shot or three of schnapps, drenched in butter, and rösti, topped with a fried egg. My friend George and I have a well-oiled routine when we visit Zürs, in Austria. Which, for me, beats Klosters and Verbier as the most civilised ski resort of all. After dropping off the children with various serious-looking instructors and waving goodbye to those strange folk who actually want to ski all day, we potter towards the chair lift, ascend the mountain at a leisurely pace, and indulge in a gentle run or two. With the majority of our exercise for the day pretty much done, we retire to the outdoor terrace of some civilised ski-slope bar, gaze out over that craggy vista, and settle in for a couple of sharpeners.
