High life | 2 March 2017

Gstaad

Back in the good old days a funicular used to take skiers up, bucking all the way and stopping from time to time when the snowdrifts across the track got too deep. We used to wax our skis at every opportunity, deposit them in the baggage car, and ride the outdoor car. Most of us had a flask with good stuff in it, and once on top we’d push our laced-up boots into the toe irons and clamp them shut. We’d then wrap the long leather straps of the skis tightly around the boot, and presto, we’d be ready to ski. Skiing back then was an adventure, not just something to say you’d done. You had to put on lots of pullovers to ward off the cold, and top them off with a bulky ski jacket. Dressing alone took close to 30 minutes, what with long, buttoned underwear, and lacing up boots was exercise in itself. Skiers made jump turns as the two-metre-plus wooden skis were resistant to curve. Woe betide anyone falling forward. If the shin didn’t shatter, the ankle did, and it was time for the meat wagon, as it was called. One crouched so as to be close to the ground for more control, and travelled in a straight line whenever possible, sticks trailing behind. The snow was uneven and there were no bumps, or man-made moguls as they’re called. Very few people skied. As I said, those were the good old days. Papa Hemingway came up to Gstaad some time in the Twenties. He checked into the Posthotel Rössli, which is still here and retains the traditional feel of a Swiss alpine inn. There is a table reserved for the locals, who drink their beer and used to smoke their pipes before the health assholes of Brussels stopped them.