No mention of Verbier in Switzerland’s South Western Alps goes without a mention of the apres-ski. Yes, the resort is the less ostentatious cousin to Courcheval and St Moritz, but what it lacks in matte-black vehicles and Pucci onesies it makes up for in its raging party scene.
Although generally a proponent of such pursuits; it was not cheesy eurotunes, beer consumption, grilled tomato tans and all out carnage that bought me to Verbier.
I was here to luxuriate in cashmere, eat fondue by the fire, bomb down the slopes and brush snow from the eyelashes of my beloved.
Incidentally, if you’re that way inclined, (and subject to an indulgent other half) skiing is a hypochondriac’s wet dream. “Baby, the altitude is making me dizzy. Baby, I have vertigo. The snow is sooo cold. I fell over.. I fell over again…. my bum hurts”.
Verbier has over 400km of piste, however if you’re anything like me, you’ll only sample 2km before going for a vin-chaude refresher at Igloo. It was here that we were served by a delightfully stoned lady who smelled of Camden market, probably owns a lava lamp, and whose motor neuron function sent crimson sploshes of vino flying. Our Monclers suitably chickenpoxed, we returned to the side of the mountain to contemplate our descent.
Lunch was at a cracker of a fondue place called Restaurant Le Caveau; because as we all know, sweet dreams are made of cheese, who am I to diss a brie? Melted cheese dishes are something of a Swiss delicacy and not to be missed; I highly recommend checking out Le Caveau if you happen to be in the right neck of the woods. The communal pot of fondue quickly extinguished, we moved onto raclette (a yummier version of a melted cheese string) washed down with La Scolca.
The walk back to the chalet was a struggle, zipping up my jeans the next day – even more so..