Once upon a time, long, long ago, I used to love ski weekends.
I loved their breakneck speed and the sense of having squeezed a week’s
experience into just three or four days. I even enjoyed the hassle; it just
fuelled the feeling of achievement. Nothing gave you a better sense of
having earned your turns than the struggle it took to get there.
Not any more. Like many in the southeast, I’ve grown to hate London’s airports
with a passion, and the idea of passing through one of them twice in three
or four days has become a real disincentive.
So, too, the sense that at every step of the way, someone has slipped their
hand into my wallet and helped themselves to a couple of tenners that don’t
belong to them - whether it’s the rip-off airport train companies or dear
old Gordon Brown and his crafty airport taxes. Recently, when friends have
suggested a quick snow fix, I’ve said no. It’s been a week for me, or
nothing.
But now - at last - there’s an alternative to flying. Ever since the opening
of High Speed 1, the express railway line between London and the Channel,
it’s been possible to get from St Pancras to ski resorts in the French Alps
in less than eight hours. If you live in London or Kent, or you’re close to
a good connecting station, this means the train can be quicker, door to
door, than the plane. At times it can be cheaper, too: return fares with
Rail Europe start at £99, and there are no extra charges for checking in or
putting a pair of skis on board.
Admittedly, the most convenient of the trains, the direct Eurostar to Bourg St
Maurice (journey time 7hr 20min), costs at least £179 return, but even the
cheapest option, going via Paris and picking up a TGV from the Gare de Lyon,
need only add an hour or so to the journey.
So, this season, I came out of ski-weekend retirement. I booked myself onto a
Friday-morning Eurostar from St Pancras and a Friday-afternoon TGV from the
Gare de Lyon to Cham-béry, on the edge of the Alps. From there I had a hire
car lined up for the drive to Courchevel and a room at the Hôtel Manali,
which opened in Courchevel 1650 last season. I was due back in London on
Monday night. On paper, it looked a breeze . . . I SLID OUT of St Pancras at
7.20am, armed with newspapers, magazines and a delicious sense of
anticipation. The train may have thundered through England and France at
190mph, but as I stared out of the window, watching the world go by, my mind
slowed to a crawl. I haven’t thought about so little for years.
Paris took a little more concentration. The best you can say about queuing for
taxis, French style, is that it’s good training for elbowing your way along
ski-lift queues. Once you’ve nabbed a cab, though, it’s a speedy £11 journey
across the French capital to the Gare de Lyon. The second leg of the journey
to Chambéry was a piece of cake (one word of warning: a quirk of French
timetabling means there are two TGVs that leave from the same platform at
the same time, both heading in the direction of Chambéry, and your reserved
seats will be valid only on one).
My main worry was whether or not there’d be anyone at the car-hire centre at
the other end. After all, my train got in after five o’clock on Friday
evening.
Isn’t it against French law for people still to be working then? In fact, the
Avis centre, right next to the station, was manned and within 10 minutes I
had collected my car - complete with magnetic ski rack and snow chains - and
was on my way to Courchevel. The total driving time was less than two hours
and I was there just after 7pm.
If I’d wanted to fly and arrive at the same time, I would have needed to take
an 11am flight at the latest, which would have meant being at the airport at
9.30am, leaving home about 8am. So I reckon the train option probably took a
couple of hours longer overall.
It wasn’t entirely stress-free, but, as I settled down to dinner at the
Manali, I realised there had been a crucial difference. If I’d flown, the
holiday would have started when the mass-transit part was over – when I
finally reached the resort. Only then would I have heaved a sigh of relief
and felt the holiday had at last begun. On this trip, however, I’d had that
feeling all the way back in St Pancras.
