The Alps on a shoestring - Les Arcs for less

Skiing in the Alps is a notoriously expensive holiday. What happens if you love the sport but don’t have the wallet to match? I took the budget route all the way to the French Alps.

A record snowfall and the promise of blue skies had lured us to Les Arcs, the French ski resort located at 1800m in the Savoie region. But ski holidays are traditionally expensive and are often the reserve of the super-rich. Every year the Royals are pictured in Hello! magazine enjoying the slopes at one of France’s finest destinations. 

How would my three friends and I manage to afford such an opulent luxury? To save money John, a salesman specialising in pens and pencils, Rachel, a council worker, and Andre, a baker and I, a poor student, crammed our bags and all our equipment into John’s company Vectra and drove there.

Careful not to sit on any pens, we removed the box files from the boot to make way for Tesco value food. From past experiences we have learnt that proper prior planning and preparation are essential for taking a ski holiday in the Alps without having to take out a bank loan. It’s a simple equation: the more you bring from home equals less extortionate prices in resort.

Having scoured the internet for the  cheapest apartment going, I didn’t hold out much hope for the quality of the accommodation.

On the car journey there

Surprisingly, the apartment booked through Ownersdirect.com, the cheapest in resort, wasn’t a slum. For €270 we had four beds (a bunk and two sofa beds), a small kitchen, a bath and a balcony for one week. The balcony even faced south, not that we had any intention of spending much time there. We had come for the mountains.

The previous occupant had kindly left an array of half-drunk bottles of alcohol in the kitchen. There were two bottles of French own-brand vodka and an unidentified luminous green liqueur, labelled ‘Genepi’. Our bags had not even hit the apartment floor and the shot glasses were out.

After being cooped up in the car and stuck in ‘bouchons’ for 12 hours, the alpine air, altitude and alcohol had us all chomping at the bit to get out and explore the bars.

We ended up in the bar with the loudest music and the brightest disco lights. Here the barman, JP, introduced us to the local shot ‘Genepi’ and solved the mystery of the luminous green booze in the apartment. The liqueur is considered a local delicacy, made with wild moss that only grows high up in the Savoie region. It’s similar to absinthe in both taste and potency and a few shots are enough to get anybody on the dance floor.

The next morning I woke to the brightest, sunniest, most perfect snowboarding day imaginable. Ouch.

I pulled on my sallopetes and knocked back a ‘Berroca’. The fizzing orange liquid hissed as it washed down my gullet. My sunglasses hid my hung-over eyes from the fresh-faced energetic families that swarmed the resort, clunking along in their ski boots to revel in the glorious bluebird day.

In the mountains, days where the sun shines and the snow still remains luxurious are few and far between and certainly cannot be wasted with a hangover. Kitted out in all our gear, most of which came from the bargain bin at TKMaxx, we headed off to the slopes in our mismatched outfits. My bright pink jacket clashed violently with my slightly-too-small red sallopetes.

As the chair lift scooped me up, I fought the urge to vomit as it deposited me at the top of the Chantel piste.

Me and Rachel on the Chantel lift

The Chantel piste is a beginner’s dream - a small blue piste served by a rickety, slow chair lift, which groaned and creaked as it winched us to its summit. 

Most importantly the Chantel piste was easy on the wallet as it didn’t require us to buy a lift pass, saving us €45 each. It also stalled the purchase of the €207 weekly ticket.

Happy to put off such a cost, we spent the first day reawakening those leg muscles that had lain dormant for a year.  I have always thought of skiing as a bit like riding a bike. Once you have mastered the basics, it’s almost impossible to forget how to do it.

A few tumbles here and there didn’t deter us and we spent the day cruising the blue run before following it’s winding cat track down to Les Arcs 1600.

On the walk back to the apartment my taste buds were set alive by the tantalising rotisserie chickens that rotated in the hot cabinet outside the supermarché. Their smell wafted across the square, my stomach growled but the price tag of €19 was enough to fend me off.

The ‘Genepi’ shots had certainly impacted on our limited budget so we had made the decision to eat like students for the week. No delicious ready-cooked chicken for us, but a cheaply knocked together spaghetti carbonara made with the ultimate in French delicacy – laughing cow cheese triangles.

The night before had not been all bad. We had met the barman, JP, who had mentioned that a customer had been in earlier that day trying to sell a lift pass at a discounted rate and had given us the guy’s number.

French lift pass offices are notoriously strict on giving refunds, so it was plausible that somebody had bought a lift pass and not been able to ski.

Dubious but equally curious I called the number.

“Hello, Clive speaking,” came the well-spoken male voice.

I explained that we were interested in buying his lift pass.

“Yes, yes, that’s excellent. Where shall we meet?”

I arranged a rendezvous at the nearby bubble lift, the Transarc.

“Just one more thing…” I said, “How will we recognise you?”

He replied, “Well, I’ll be wearing a bowler hat and carrying a copy of the Financial Times…” And then he guffawed.

“OK, well I’ll have a bright pink jacket on.” I said, omitting the red trouser fashion travesty.

We waited expectantly for Clive at the Transarc lift. As it was approaching lunchtime, the lift was busy with hundreds of people pushing and shoving their way on, all eager to get to a restaurant for lunch.

Our budget holiday meant that restaurants were strictly off limits.  Lunch was already in our pockets – a cheese baguette, a cereal bar and a bottle of water. We would avoid the overpriced mountain restaurants and stop by the side of a piste for a picnic later.

“I reckon that’s him,” said John, pointing to a tall man slaloming down the piste with an excellent ski technique and grey hair.

He swooped next to us, spraying us with snow.

“Clive?”

“Oh yes, I’m glad you spotted me. I wasn’t sure if you would be able to.”

“How come you ended up with an extra pass?” I enquired, wanting to check its authenticity.

“My daughter, Harriet, was meant to be coming with her awful boyfriend but they had an argument last minute and he didn’t get on the plane.”

“You’ll probably have a better holiday without him then.”

“Yes, yes. What a wretch. We have a fantastic deal so we couldn’t miss out just because of his temper tantrum.”

“Where are you staying?”

“In a lovely apartment in Vallandry. Sleeps eight but there are only five of us. Heated indoor swimming pool, hot tub, spa… the works. A bargain too! Only €1800 for the week!”

Harriet swooped next to us. She unzipped the pocket on her pristine Spyder sallopetes and took out the pass, her Dior goggles glinted in the sun. I handed her €100. She swiftly pocketed it and smiled.

“Funny that, isn’t it? How it is my money but yet it ends up in her pocket! Have a super holiday, see you on the slopes!”

With that they skied off towards the bubble lift to join the huddle of people desperate to get to a mountain restaurant.

“That money will probably pay for their lunchtime drinks.” John said.

“Oh, yes, what a baaaargain, only €1800 for the week!” Rachel said, mimicking his county vowels.

We all laughed as we headed off to catch our first ‘proper’ lift of the week.

Needless to say, the lift pass worked and we all had a fabulous, but economical, week.

Relaxing next to the water slide

On the last night we pooled our remaining Euros and were surprised to discover we had a grand total of €48. This meant that we could indulge our senses with a ready-cooked chicken and a couple of bottles of Cotes du Rhone.

All in all our ski holiday ended up costing us less than Clive’s apartment. Proving that if you’re willing to sacrifice some comforts for your love of winter sports, and don’t expect to holiday like Wills and Kate, then there are ways to enjoy the awe-inspiring beauty of the Alps on a budget.