Skiing isn’t meant to be like this. Surely there’s no point in four girls going on an Alpine winter holiday unless it’s to live it up in a catered chalet, popping bottles in the chopper before bombing down a black run with a film crew in tow? Or at the very least a drone.
Instead we’re staying halfway up a mountain in a tiny apartment. As we drag our bags round the bends of the near-vertical road, my friends raise their eyebrows at me and I hope it’s not much further. I flex my fingers beneath my mum’s old gloves, realising they were probably warmer in the 80s, and continue uphill.
At least the views will be good. The sun catches the tips of the Italian peaks as it sets on the town of Breuil-Cervinia, which we’ve left behind at the bottom of the valley. It looked much nearer on Airbnb.
The other obvious problem is that none of us can ski. Or not much. One total beginner, a couple of “intermediates” (our word) and a sort-of snowboarder. “I’ll give you ladies a discount,” winks the owner of a local ski hire shop when we reveal our incompetence. He introduces himself as Gianpaolo. “There’s not much snow, but you can ski down from here to the town. Watch out for rocks.” Rachael, the beginner, winces.
Our plan is to hit the slopes as much as our limited experience allows, on a post-Christmas diet of pizza, hot chocolate and cheap Italian red wine. We’ve chosen Cervinia, a small resort on the Italian-Swiss border in the Aosta valley, under the summit of the Matterhorn. It’s meant to be good for beginners, with lots of easy and intermediate-level pistes. But to reach them from our apartment, we have to wait for an erratic local bus each morning.
High-altitude Cervinia has the best snow record in Italy but, as in many other Alpine resorts, the Christmas period has not been kind. Apart from the main pistes, which are sprayed with fake powder, the surrounding forests are patchily covered at best.
“Are those people… walking?” asks my friend Eva on the chairlift, which rocks precariously as we turn to look. I spot a middle-aged couple trekking between the trees and I’m glad none of us is planning to go off-piste.
Last year my boyfriend went skiing for the first time with a friend, and they boasted that they hadn’t taken any lessons. Instead they relied on YouTube videos to pick up the basics. We’re not quite so bold, but we also can’t afford a full week of ski school, so while Sophie heads off to practise her snowboarding, Eva and I try to show Rachael the ropes.
“Lean down the mountain and bend your knees,” I say to her, trying to remember how to do it myself. The three of us wobble down to the first marker post. We’re overtaken by a stylish Italian ski instructor in a red jacket, followed by a line of tiny children going at twice our speed. “OK, come on. It’s only a baby run. Follow me,” I say, picking up momentum as I turn.
Rachael overtakes me. “Well done!” I say, proud of my teaching skills. But she keeps going, past the ski school group, which quickly moves out of the way. She flies by the red tarpaulin “slow” sign, her arms outstretched, veering dangerously close to the button lift, and falls, You’ve-Been-Framed!-style, near the bottom of the slope. Eva and I aren’t much better. But despite the lack of awed onlookers or elegant serpents of piste in our wake, we collapse in laughter as we high-five at having finally made it down the slope.
“I think I’m going to go professional,” says Rachael later, over a round of €5 glasses of prosecco in town. The streets are still decorated with fairy lights clustered in star shapes. It all feels very grown-up – at least until we get back to the apartment, where last night’s dinner has been bubbling up through the shower.
“Is that broccoli?” says Sophie, picking at it with a tissue. There’s a faint smell of gorgonzola in the air. I call our host. She’s working in a bar 200km away, so can’t help. We borrow some drain cleaner from the neighbours. The catered chalet seems very appealing all of a sudden.
As the week goes on things continue to improve. Rachael takes some lessons, while Sophie impresses us with how suave she appears on her snowboard – and how many times she manages to fall over. We toy with the idea of going to Switzerland, but it transpires that everything is three times as expensive, and the coffee three times worse, so the feeling passes. Eventually we ski the whole way down the mountain, which I’ve never done before. On the way we pass Lake Goillet, which may be artificial but in its frozen state looks like an Ansel Adams shot. Ansel wasn’t much into selfies, but we take one anyway in tribute.
At last the snow falls, in heavy drifts. We are all trapped on the mountain for the night, so we order more Spritz cocktails and watch as a group of Brits on a package tour complain loudly about their rep and baffle the Italian bar staff with descriptions of a Jägerbomb. The showoffs can keep their swooshy turns and their GoPro cameras. I’m glad that we’ve done skiing our own way.
Essentials
Fly from London to Turin with British Airways from £42 or Ryanair from £19.99. Coaches to Breuil-Cervinia cost €12.90 (savda.it). Airbnb apartments in Cielo Alto, near Breuil-Cervinia, are from £50 a night, sleeping four (airbnb.co.uk). Alternatively Crystal Ski organises week-long tours to Breuil-Cervinia including flights, transfers and accommodation from £425pp (crystalski.co.uk)
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