Let’s cherchez un violon petit! Skiing is now too pricey for the middle classes. According to a recent flash poll by the Telegraph’s ski section, 70 per cent of readers now think skiing holidays are unaffordable. For the bourgeoisie, skiing – along with many of the other trappings they used to take for granted, such as being able to afford the fees for a private day school or a daily takeaway coffee – ce n’est pas possible. Quel dommage! (Let’s parlez anglais now; I think you get the point.)
It’s not just the accelerated cost of living in the UK – or Liz Truss personally putting our mortgages up by a grand a month. Long gone are the days of getting almost €2 or $2 to the pound. In France last week, it was around €1.17, with an adult seven-day ski pass for Alpe d’Huez coming in just under €400. The cost of putting two boys in ski school for a ‘week’ (actually just 2.5 hours each morning), plus their passes, would easily have covered what I used to spend on an all-inclusive package for a week’s skiing holiday in a more popular French resort.
As I say, quel dommage. But I’m not expecting sympathy for getting gouged on what has always been an expensive holiday – even if it was our first time on snow and, indeed, abroad, for seven years. But not for the first time, I’m wondering if a ski trip is really worth it. It’s not only punitively expensive (even before all of the above); it’s usually disappointing. Skiing, I’ve come to realise, is a bit like having a baby, in that you tend only to remember the good bits – the Instagram moments – which is why, a year later, you think: wouldn’t it be lovely to do it again?
In fact, show me someone who claims they’ve been on a skiing holiday where toys weren’t, at one point, strewn liberally over the piste – and I’ll show you a liar.
In your twenties, they’re invariably wrecked by someone bringing a tiresome new boy/girlfriend who’s a non-skier but ‘would love to give it a go’ and insists on accompanying the rest of the party everywhere. The worst skiing holiday I’ve ever experienced was in the Wilder Kaiser, when my brother (a consummate skier) brought his drippy, clinging girlfriend, a complete beginner who refused to let him out of her sight. She would freak out at anything with a steeper gradient than a green run and demand he take her back down in the chair lift.
Tensions mounted throughout the week, exploding at dinner on the penultimate night when my sister stood up in a restaurant – after several hours on the schnapps – and declaimed exactly what she thought of her. They broke up in Departures at Geneva Airport, and I had to sit next to his snivelling ex on the flight home.
Then there’s the voracious organiser who likes a bargain, meaning you have to get up at 2 a.m. to take a 6 a.m. Ryanair flight to Trieste – although the airport they use is actually over the border in Slovenia. Or you hand over your cash to this year’s self-appointed chalet ayatollah, only for her to announce she’s booked Tignes (which looks like Peckham) or Avoriaz (a rustic Peckham). Someone – usually one of the chaps – will overestimate their abilities and do their ACL, collar bone or wrist on the first day, then mope around the chalet for the rest of the week.
I once incurred a head injury – on my first skiing holiday with my future husband – while recording a report for the Today programme on whether the take-up of helmets among adults would increase following the death of Natasha Richardson in 2009. As I pootled along recording sound effects, I noticed a tall, solid snowboarder riding backwards towards me, clearly oblivious to my presence. My then-boyfriend (for it was he) clipped me without even noticing, sending me sprawling. I smacked my head – hard – and have worn a helmet ever since. Sadly, his recollections still vary (‘I barely touched you’ / ‘You weren’t concussed’), resulting in yet another marital row on the subject during the writing of this article.
Skiing is a bit like having a baby – you only remember the good bits
Then there’s the weather. I don’t do extreme cold, so have never skied in North America or gone to Europe until after the February half-term. And yet I’ve still had to ski in -15°C in late March and on corrugated ice during the last week of the season. Every morning requires a different technique: will it be sheet ice, three feet of powder or slush? You might have visions of whizzing down the piste executing slick and stylish turns, the Ski Sunday theme playing in your head – but frankly, the Benny Hill Show music would be more appropriate. And by the time you’ve got your mojo back, it’s time to go home.
Add children and it’s a whole new world of pain. Getting three kids to ski school by 9 a.m. requires an earlier alarm call than in term time, and you’ll get to the cable car only to find that someone has left their gloves, ski pass or brain back at the chalet. You’ll be doing well if you manage a couple of runs before you have to pick them up again. Go during the February half-term and the queues for the lifts rival Alton Towers.
This time, after two days of slush and one of torrential rain, we had a huge snow dump. By day four, in perfect conditions with blue sky, I was starting to relax and get my groove back. We broke off for an Aperol Spritz mid-morning, gazing out over the snowy peaks. I may even have been humming ‘One Day Like This’ by Elbow, with the line: One day like this a year would see me right…
Then my phone rang. It was the instructor telling us to come and collect our elder son, as his younger brother had crashed into him attempting to overtake and mangled his wrist. Fortunately, no break – but that was it for me.
When even dinner in a pizzeria for five is over €100, it’s time to look elsewhere – or do something else. A friend has recommended Poland as a cheap (but very cold) alternative, yet there’s no point in booking for next season when it may well be back behind the Iron Curtain by then.
In any case, skiing is now seen by many as a monstrous bastion of privilege – along with not possessing a glottal stop and knowing how to handle a rugby ball. I can foresee a time when admissions tutors scan applicants’ social media accounts for evidence that they’ve ever had a holiday on snow – and stick their Ucas form in the shredder along with those of the Wykehamists and OEs.
It’s time to stop weighing up the benefits of Verbs over Val. A better investment for a family holiday next Easter would be Butlins. At least you’ll expect it to be disappointing. It’s just a question of whether you plump for Bognor or Skeggy.
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