Zermatt or bust!
Michael Wilson takes his teenagers to the Swiss slopes, terrified he’s left it too late to introduce them to the potentially bone-snapping joys of skiing
TO SKI or not to ski, that was the question. We had somehow let our children reach the ages of 16 and 14 without venturing on to the slopes. Was it too late to take them now? Could they still learn? Would a horde of fiveyear-olds whizz past us all with pitiful disdain at our imitations of Bambi on ice, legs and skis chaotically upended? Would we come back in plaster, the children inoculated against skiing for life?
It seemed like a bit of a gamble but we decided to chance it – leading to the second question: where should beginners go? We picked Zermatt, one of the prettiest mountain resorts in Switzerland and, crucially, the most likely to have plentiful snow late in the season.
And it sits in the shadow of the Matterhorn, all 12,000ft of it, as iconic as the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids. It was to be our backdrop all day. This familiar craggy, hook-nosed outcrop has just celebrated the 150th anniversary of the first successful ascent, in 1865, by a British adventurer.
The mountain peak was reassuringly familiar from its image on Toblerone bars, Evian bottles and the opening credits to Universal Studio films, so it was no surprise to see the selfie-brigade were out in force at every turn.
We stayed in a cosy flat run by the Hotel Schweizerhof, bang on the main street. With Zermatt, think cuckoo clocks, Swiss army penknives and chocolates galore, as well as a variety of chic and eclectic restaurants and bars.
Our half-board deal allowed us to eat at many of the best ones. Myoko is a superb Japanese restaurant, and the Grill at Mont Cervin Palace is where Queen Rania of Jordan and other royals trudge back to after a day on the slopes. It’s like an Alpine version of Claridge’s.
This idyllic, one-street village lays on the charm – no cars, only electric taxis – with traditional Swiss restaurants such as Schwyzer Stubli, with flagons of beer and fondue and folk music. So any concerns about apres-ski were allayed. There was fun, funky, trad, all-night or grand, all within a 300-yard stretch.
But back to a more troubling question: would we all fail on the slopes even if we succeeded at night? When I went on a school ski trip 30 years ago, three boys broke their ankles. Would we end up with cracked bones too, or at least dented egos and wish that we had stayed away?
The children found that being virgin skiers did not matter a jot, largely because we sought expert advice. Powder Byrne is the king of ski trips and has been sending families abroad for 35 years. Staff have the answers to the silliest questions, from what to pack, how to learn to ski, and where to stay.
Most first-time skiers have a fear they will get it all wrong, from falling off their skis to being freezing cold or looking daft. So the first rule when you arrive is to go back to school.
Powder Byrne organised for us a wry and patient instructor, John Taylor, from the Isle of Wight, who had only taken up skiing aged 23 but had been a guide in Zermatt for the past 13 seasons.
He knew when to push us and when to reassure us that we could do it, and on the first morning he had us all upright and moving downhill in the right direction.
There was a lot of laughing as well as learning. We may not have been Olympic-standard downhill racers on day one, but we skied.
LESSONS were the key. We started in what sounded like the wally-school, the Wolle-Park (it means woolly, as in mountain sheep, not wally as in idiot, or at least that is what John told us).
The main attraction was the Magic Carpet, a mechanised escalator that took us 100 yards up the baby slopes. I had not skied for two decades, and these days the skis are light and short, while boots are plastic and designed to snap off your skis in a fall, almost eliminating the broken ankles that defined my school trip.
In two hours we conquered the Wolle-Park and were on to the less babyish slopes. By the end of the first day the children could snowplough, turn, and were also brimming with confidence. And that is what almost always happens.
Day two was the tricky one. Calves ached and the apparent simplicity of skiing now seemed a mirage as the slopes got steeper. That need to master turns and, eventually, parallel skiing – where your right foot has to combine with your left one – means you can quickly end up in a heap on the mountain, with five-year-olds whizzing by.
But no one cares if you fall down. And guess what? You get up again. The children were becoming addicted. Next year’s plans were laid.
We quickly acclimatised to being on Planet Ski, with everyone in a uniform of bright leggings and helmets. It was almost like being on a space station, except this was an idyllic Swiss village, always with that view of the Matterhorn.
The air was stunningly fresh, the snow was powder-perfect and, miracle of all miracles, we stood up, we moved, we slid, we turned (and yes, we fell a bit, too) but we were a family of skiers.
Every day we moved higher up the mountain. Snow-ploughs moved to more turns and parallel skiing. The children became fearless. Oh, and I remembered why I had not skied for so many years: fear. Would I go over the edge? Would I shoot down like a cannonball?
The children, though, were magnificent, brave and brilliant. T-bars, lifts, funiculars, blue runs – they took them all in their stride in a place where usually only eagles dare.
We saw wild goats. We drank warm apple juice in an igloo ice restaurant. Never had we felt so hot after all our exercise in a land of snow. They were hooked and I had done my duty.