Why Spectator readers are the nicest people

Gstaad

It feels like a sepia-tinged melodrama, one directed by the great schlock master Sam Wood. Driving along the winding valleys through 17th-century villages, Gruyères Castle on one’s right, the heartbeat would quicken as Gstaad beckoned in the distance. Gstaad in those days meant beautiful women, parties galore, challenging, snow-covered slopes to swish down, and a friendly atmosphere. Only the lucky few knew about the place.

All that has gone down the drain, except for the prices, which have gone through the roof. It’s called progress. I used to be able to identify the mood of a time, especially here in Gstaad, but no longer. For starters, there is no more snow from upstairs, only the man-made white stuff. The last February with no snow whatsoever was back in 1964, and I spent it hitting tennis balls with Irwin Shaw on the Palace hotel outdoor courts.

Nobody talked about climate change in those days, and those who did were as wrong as the modern maniacs trying to shove it down our throats. One such Extinction Rebellion asshole who drives a Porsche tried to collar me the other day, and he got a somewhat rude response. ‘Talk to the Chinese, tell the African Bushmen to stop burning wood, and the Markles to offset their carbon footprint by staying put in Hollywood,’ I said. ‘I use a sailboat, a mini, and walk everywhere, so shut up.’

From my chalet high above on the Wispile, I can see green all around me. The white stuff is far away, up on the glaciers in the distance. Man-made paths of snow have the suckers going up and down the ski lifts like robots, après-skiing being the operative word. Still, there are those, like my own son, who insist that there is snow and good skiing, but the venue changes a lot — daily, in fact.