The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘After my first ever day of skiing, I had a meltdown’
Going on your first ski holiday is a daunting prospect. Sophie Dickinson discovers how to do it like a pro – and without breaking the bank
It was the evening after my first day of skiing and I had been weeping for hours. “I can’t do it,” I said to my boyfriend, who was patiently listening to my wails over the phone. “It’s too hard and too cold and too slippery.”
“Isn’t that the point?” he asked. It sort of was.
I was in Flaine, a ski resort in the French Alps, on Crystal Ski Holidays’ inaugural Slope Starters week. The seven-day trip included accommodation, flights, transfers, meals, instruction and equipment rental. All the things that might dissuade a novice from booking a ski holiday – the faff of organisation, the expense of arranging each element – taken care of for less than £850. All I had to do was turn up to the lessons. Yet I was surrendering at the first hurdle.
In fairness, I really was a beginner. My experience of the sport stretched to catching the end credits of Ski Sunday and the Ruben Östlund film Force Majeure (remade in 2020 as Downhill). Not exactly a reassuring depiction of mountain life.
So it was with trepidation that I joined my fellow beginners for a shot at conquering the slopes. We had been separated out by ability, syphoning off the true novices from those who had secretly been practising on dry slopes at home. I eyed them suspiciously, slightly annoyed that they could elegantly slide to the meeting point, while I anxiously shuffled across the snow (and, let’s face it, fell over for the hundredth time).
Each instructor was given charge of six to eight people. My group – the one with the lowest ability, of course – were guided to the most gentle slopes, where, to my embarrassment, only children were learning.
The first challenge was stopping. It quickly emerged that gliding down a snow-covered hill with abandon is only momentarily liberating when you don’t know how to brake. Numerous members of my group opted for ditching themselves; a rather inelegant, if effective, way to halt the descent. I went for the more dramatic straight-into-theside-of-the-lift-tunnel approach, which our instructor Marie declared to be une idée terrible. It resulted in many bruises.
Marie was, of course, correct. I left the first session feeling defeated. But by the end of the second morning, I could make my way down a slope, I could control my speed and even slalom a tiny bit. Admittedly, I continued to fall over at an alarming rate. And the rest of the group thought my name was Ally; I had to break it to them that the instructor was, in fact, yelling “Allez!” at me. Still, while my shaky attempts at the snowplough – where the skis make a V shape – were nowhere near as good as the Gallic six-year-olds barrelling down the mountainside beside me, I felt rather pleased.
The structure of the Slope Starters week is forgiving, too. The mornings are spent in lessons, with the afternoons and evenings free. Evening entertainment ranges from tenpin bowling to live music, largely included in the price. Snow-based activities such as sledging, quad biking and snowshoeing are all available for an additional fee.
Lorraine, a member of our group, decided to ditch her skis entirely and don her walking boots instead. “I thought I’d give skiing a go,” she had said at the introductory meeting, “and there’s nothing lost if I don’t like it. It’s a lovely place to be, regardless.” She was right. The mountain range changed remarkably over the course of the week, from breathtaking purple sunrise to dazzling, midday brightness.
There was a real bonhomie among the group, too. It struck me that this was a more supportive way to learn than going with friends who can already ski or snowboard. There was no impatience, no sense that I was holding anyone up, even though the very mention of a ski lift sent me into a panic.
There was also no one highlighting my clear lack of knowledge, especially when it came to getting out of the hotel in the morning. Ski boots – plastic, clomping things that force an unattractive hobble – aren’t designed for scurrying around. Standing on a snowdrift, but feeling ever so slightly too warm under the helmet, takes some getting used to. And then there’s the unsophisticated performance of rustling around for the lift pass, shoved in a pocket with
sunglasses, purse, the hotel room key and a padlock for the skis. All this, I imagine, is best experienced without the pressure of a glaring, seasoned companion.
There are also the clothes to consider: gloves, goggles, jacket, leggings. Given that this was my first Alpine winter, I rented from Snow Clothing Hire before departing. Considerably kinder to the environment, these seasonal clothes are rented out and returned each year. A full outfit arrived on my doorstep, which I duly posted back once I was home – saving me a fortune in new kit that I was unsure I’d use again.
I had always assumed skiing was far too expensive for somebody in their 20s to afford, but Crystal’s prices are remarkably cheap – a lift pass alone would have set me back €321 (£279). This is partly to encourage the uninitiated to try the sport in the hope they will become hooked. It evidently works: after our initial reticence, most of the people in my group said they were desperate to return.
By the end of the week, it suddenly became clear why people adore skiing. We were taken to some long, curving slope, far away from the tiny hillocks where we started. Skiing down this would require concentration: we would have to turn around corners and navigate a decline that went on for a considerable amount of time (at least for me). It wasn’t exactly a smooth affair. I glided down the hill slowly, but glide I did, taking the turns at an ache-inducing pace. Forests slid past and the mountains shone, gloriously, in the sunshine. This was the point of it all, I thought. And I was so glad I had persevered.