After three days of high winds across the European continent, rushing from Spain through the Alps, ocean-blue skies create patches amid the clouds. Our ski instructor Vincent swings off the slope to the right into knee-deep powder. Feather-beds of fresh snow are still unsliced at 9.30am: the treat offered in a resort that is not crowded and mainly catering for beginners and intermediates.
We slalom through young pine trees and cross a piste to a barely touched black slope. After falls of snow the black runs are left for skiers to flatten and mogul, unlike most of the runs which are pisted each morning.
I witnessed it with my own sleepy eyes that blizzardy dawn, when given a ride in a slope-bashing Pisten Bully, a machine that combs and regenerates runs. The driver, who works from 2am to 10am, caterpillared us up a blue run, pinning me against my seat at an angle that would see a car somersault backwards bonnet over boot. His face wore the impassive calm of one who defies the laws of gravity daily and who wishes to show guests that he is above their terror.
We growled past the top of a chairlift, having accumulated vast piles of snow from a low wall at the side of the run; pushing it forward to be rolled over and pinned down – white gold dust that prolongs the ski season. Then we nose-dived in slow motion down a black run, savouring it excitedly at a camel’s pace, feet pressed to the floor to compensate for the lack of a seat belt.
A lone Langlaufer, taking advantage of the empty slopes, crosses our path shrouded in mist. For all the organisation of ski resorts, there are those who know how to use them for their own private pursuits out of hours.
We had come for heli-skiing but the windy weather created unstable sheets of snow atop other layers, making avalanche risk high, so we are slope-bound.
La Rosière is a place where off-pisting is not too challenging, attracting heli-virgins. France does not allow heli-skiing helicopters to take off from its soil – or snow – so the chopper arises over the hill in Italy. It’s the same in Chamonix, an instructor tells me, while in Switzerland there are some restrictions on where helicopters can go, I’m told. “It is not good,” says ski-teacher Cyrill, “if you set off at 4am to walk up a mountain, in order to ski down it, and arrive at the summit to find a helicopter dropping off other skiers.”
There is the prettiest skiing in La Rosière, wiggling down the long Fontaine Froide through the trees: moguling, traversing and flying. At the top is the short, sharp, steep burst of black (which can be avoided on a hill-side blue).
Should you outgrow La Rosière’s generally gentle, wide slopes you can take the long traverses over to La Thuile (pronounced la tweel) in Italy, which is an altogether more modern, macho resort with newer lifts and the choice of a long black run into town or a magical blue, defined by trees.
As well as the varied atmosphere, the two resorts sometimes allow you to steer clear of bad weather, as La Thuile faces north and La Rosière faces south, although when conditions are particularly harsh, the link may be shut or – on an open chairlift – chilling.
For those with itchy skis, Courmayeur is under an hour away by bus, and Les Arcs is also close by.
Yet La Rosière – which is surrounded by lots of pretty farming villages – has French charm and excellent local food, in restaurants such as L’Ancolie, a Savoyarde style eaterie in the Les Eucherts area of La Rosière and the smart yet trad Genepi downtown. That was where I tried my first snail, urged on by birthday excitement, a kir cassis, sparkling wine and a companion’s assertion that they are just a vehicle for butter and garlic.
Contrasting with such chewy vernacular dining experiences is the bar where the saisonniers hang out: loud music makes conversations shouty and people dance on tables. Adopted as a saisonnière for the night, I am given the traditional birthday drink of a pint of mixed shots and fruit drinks. I offer some to the wine writer beside me who pronounces: "It is not very well rounded." But, like La Rosière, it has a surprising cocktail of ingredients.
How to . . . La Rosière
With Crystal Ski Holidays, four sharing at Les Cimes Blanches costs €569 each for a week beginning January 11th.
Full board with tea at Chalet Le Kitz costs €779 each for two sharing (one night off to go to local restaurant).
A family of two adults and two children (15 years and under) in a studio apartment costs €1,479 (with free child place) on January 11th.
Transfer time from Chambery airport to the resort is 2 hours 45 minutes.
For more see cystalski.ie
Snow shoes
"My grandparents lived here," says Xavier, sweeping his hand up towards a sign on the stone barn wall. In the darkness, dimmed further by snow falling with Victorian Christmas card perfection, his family name is etched in shadows. "Each generation's name is on the wall," he says. "And if there is a heart too it means that the couple who live here are in love and interested in no one else."
There is no heart stuck to this wall, and I contemplate what this says about grandma and grandpa Xavier, as the five of use troop down a snowy path with plastic snow shoes strapped to our toes, the backs flapping free.
Snow has fallen for days, and there have been high winds, creating avalanche-risk slabs on top of the snow but here, in lower farmland just outside the ski resort of La Rosière, it has softly and deeply carpeted the hillside. Our snowshoes – the lightweight modern versions of the former “tennis racquets” – give us a grip and displace our weight, keeping us above the feet-deep crystals.
We walk, a bit like storks to start with, trying to step clear of the snow on our large swinging heels. If you walk with your legs close together the wide plastic shoes crack against each other.
A woman runs past with her dog and is greeted by two other dogs as she opens the farm door. She shouts and they all stop but, as we follow Xavier down the path, we hear them start to bark from within. They create the only noise in this silent-night world away from the busy ski resorts and, as we get into our stride, a sense of peace descends. With our new big, grippy feet we have access to countryside that would be effectively out of reach in normal shoes.
We pad over snow-bridged streams, watching heavy flakes fall against skeletal black trees. Xavier says he will never walk in anyone else’s tracks. He likes to make his own path in life. But we beginners learn to follow his smooth wake.
Over the river at the base of the slope we pad uphill and through trees. I hang back with a vague excuse about readjusting my boots, but really it is to savour the silence and darkness alone (happy in the knowledge that people are nearby). As we reach a road, dribbling Dobermans leap out to meet us. Xavier pats them calm with hands and gentle words and takes us down the hill to a yurt.
This Himalayan outpost in the Alps was erected by a local who awaits us with soup warmed in a cauldron over an outdoor stove. Went enter the yurt – also warmed by a stove at its centre – for the main course of fondue, using cheese made with milk from local cows. A dreamy evening all round.
