St Moritz is unique among ski resorts

Once upon a time, not that long ago, St Moritz was the world’s greatest resort, an exclusive winter wonderland for royalty, aristocrats and shipping tycoons. I’d say the place reached its peak between the 1940s and the late 1960s; like the rest of the great old resorts around the world, it’s been downhill ever since. The reason for this is obvious: the newly rich barbarians outnumber the old guard, and resorts rely on big spenders. The big spenders live in hotels, eat every meal out, attend nightclubs, and enrich the boutiques that line the streets and sell only expensive bling. In St Moritz Dorf, down by the lake, yellow-stone apartment houses that remind me of council flats have proliferated since the last time I was here, arousing my suspicion that someone somewhere has taken a rather large bribe to allow these horrors.

St Moritz is now a large, traffic-choked town, but the slopes, the Nordic skiing valley paths, the ice-covered lake where polo and horse-racing take place, plus the bob-sled and cresta runs make it unique among ski resorts. As I was there for only two days I had left my skis behind, and while speed walking on the huge lake I heard English cries of ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘howzat’. I looked and there they were, a bunch of Brits wearing dark coats over their whites playing cricket in the deep snow. They looked ridiculous but it was clearly great fun, and they were having lots of it. A bit further west of the lake is the 1864-built Grand Hotel des Bains, now the Kempinski, a graceful white belle époque structure whose entrance adjoins the beautifully kept Nordic ski tracks that run for tens and tens of miles.

I first visited St Moritz in the 1950s, stayed at the Palace Hotel, and looked down on a pristine valley and lake surrounded by trees, now encircled by ugly buildings. It’s called progress. But as I’ve previously written, the Corviglia Club hasn’t changed; its membership is young, attractive, friendly and elegant, the way it was when I first came into the club one or two generations ago. For the Saturday night grand party for 300 I was flattered to be seated on the right of the president’s wife, and on my right I had the great beauty Mafalda of Hesse. I saw many old friends such as Michel de Carvalho, Rolf Sachs, Jean de Yturbe, George Livanos, Pavlos of Greece, plus lover boy Arki Busson, and even managed to fall down drunk at the end dragging down the sweet Darcy Rigas with me. The president of the club, Prince Augusto, helped me up and announced that it was time to go home. So much for an elegant exit, which is a pity, because deep down I think this was the last time for me in the Engadine.

Once back in Gstaad, I put myself on a strict diet of one drink per night, and managed to do it for two nights running. Oh yes, I almost forgot, kick boxing. Nicolas Anouilh and I arrived ready for action in the Saanen gym but it turned out to be a bit one-sided. By this I mean that both the locals and the visiting rich of Gstaad can dish it out but they do not have to take it. Let me explain: one’s opponent wears baseball catcher-like gloves and the attacker follows the commands of the catcher: left, right, hook, uppercut, kick, kick, left, right, hook and so on. Most of the participants looked ferocious, punching and kicking as if there were no tomorrow, the only trouble being nobody hit back. This is not the way I learned karate and boxing. You throw a right at your own peril, as a stiff jab in the nose is the antidote. Jab, jab, right cross, low kick, high kick, back fist strike, jab… It’s easy when there’s nothing being thrown back at you. As Mike Tyson memorably said: ‘They all have a plan until I hit them in their mouth.’

Mind you, as far as exercise is concerned, it’s among the best I’ve ever had. After 60 seconds your heart is pumping a mile a minute and you’re gasping for air, but you throw leather and kicks and more leather until you hear the word stop and then you try to breathe as deeply as possible and then it starts again and again and again. After an hour, one’s drained of any desire (even for Lily James or Greta Gerwig) except to lie down alone in a cool place, close one’s eyes and think of nothing at all. But the real thing it is not. And that’s why everybody’s doing it. There’s no fear involved, no danger, no thrill of conquest – a bit like making love to a plastic doll. But it is still the greatest workout ever.

And now for some ugly truths. For too long, indiscriminate bombing of Gaza by the Israelis or Yemenis by the Saudis has been treated as old news by the media. Now that European Christians in the cradle of Orthodoxy are being massacred, it’s headlines. They are my co-religionists, the Ukrainians, and as I write this column they’re holding their own. But the murder of innocents is murder in any language, and if you believe for one moment that Russian billionaires will be expropriated and snubbed in London or New York, you’ll also believe that Boris’s wives cheated on him and were at fault.