High life | 7 February 2013

Gstaad 

Sir Roger Moore told the Sunday Telegraph

that he enjoys the slow pace of life in Switzerland. As do I. One cannot have too much of a snowy peak under a blue sky, any more than one can have too much of Schubert. Looking out from my bedroom window, all I can see are pine forests, rock cliffs and snow, not a bad scene for the winter blues. Yes, Nature has been degraded, with chalets being built ever higher in the mountains, but old N can take it. After a heavy snowfall everything is still, greed takes a back seat, and the only sounds one hears are those of the skis beneath one. I cross-country ski during the busy month of February, the worst time to be in Gstaad because the ‘chic’ people arrive en masse ready to party. After 55 years as an Eagle club member I am putting my name up for the committee in order to stop the barbarians at the gates. I am a long shot as some of my views are considered extreme. Such as banning non-skiers, or at least not giving them access to the good tables on the terrace. I also would like to see the old and the ugly banned from the club at weekends, but as someone pointed out, that would be self-defeating. Oh, well, I can always start my own club, which I am seriously thinking of doing. I cross-country ski in the old-fashioned manner, naturally. On parallel tracks, in the classic form as opposed to the much faster kick-glide skating motion far more popular nowadays. At times it is a long grind up meadows and small, almost level glaciers. But the going is never difficult, the surroundings always magnificent. The land, the snow and the trees swaddling the trails create pockets of solace, with the swishing of the skis making the only sound. As someone wrote, ‘snow bestows silence’. I used to ‘langlauf’ late in the afternoon, just before dark. The tracks are empty, the pests have gone home, and I am alone with my thoughts. One does a lot of thinking when skiing cross-country. Many consider it tedious, but then they’re the types who like rock music, Twitter and Facebook. Two years ago I wrote about the shock I had when I thought I had crossed paths with a large brown bear, only to discover she was a Saudi woman in a large fur coat. (I think she was Saudi because she was fat and covered in jewels, but she could also have been Kuwaiti or from the Gulf. One thing is for sure, she was not German.) There is something very civilised about non-oppressive landscapes. The only thing one sees in the Alps are lakes and mountains. And forests. Just like Birmingham on a rainy afternoon. The truest thing Sartre ever said was that hell is other people. Hell for me is modern man. Dressed by Armani with the manners of a footballer. Even worse is the modern celebrity. No looks, no talent, no brains, no class, no pedigree and no likability. Compare my old friend Roger Moore, a real star and gentleman, with, say, some of those Hollywood whippersnappers who resemble the homeless in their expensive couture rags. Last Saturday night at the Palace Hotel bar, I was close to getting involved with such a type, as he leaned on me for no reason except my white hair and age. With a heavy glass about to make contact with his fleshy Slav face, he backed off. The 19-year-old I was romancing got scared and disappeared among her age group. My hollow victory went unnoticed. It didn’t get any better. I ran into William Astor, who brought up Bruern Abbey, his uncle’s pile I had once rented in order to give parties and not disturb the neighbours. William likes the sound of his own voice, and can be quite snobbish, as well he should be, being a fourth generation descendant of a German butcher who did well in America. His wife and children could not be nicer, but I have yet to hear Astor not mention his background. Brit snobbism may still work in the shires, but not among some of us who remember them asking for handouts and freeloading when a Brit could only take out £20 from the rainy island. Still, better that than the frosty contempt and withering looks one gets when skiing with dogs. The mother of my children takes the two I own everywhere, and the farmers don’t like it. The canines grab a baby chicken or two at times, as hunting dogs tend to do, and she has to whip out her wallet and pay right then and there. Or else. Good old Helvetia is a wonderful country but there’s no free lunch. And the charity ball is becoming the thing to do for social climbers in the mountains. New York started it, London followed, and now the charity ball has come to the Bernese Oberland. Jewellers are the prime suspects. Thick envelopes arrive in the post inviting one to attend functions for — you name it — at a price. How much ends up going to those whose name the ball is given in is a matter talked about as much as the crazy aunt in the attic. Like the old Olympic slogan, what matters is taking part. At times I’d rather be in Nottingham on a rainy afternoon.