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.

Calling all Portsmouth people! Portsmouth City Council and their permit parking schemes....

Portsmouth City Council are doing a survey on their residents permit parking schemes. It is important that everybody living in Portsmouth/Southsea has their say. Even if you don’t live in a zone or near one now, the likelihood is that in the near future a zone will gradually creep nearer to you and eventually engulf your street. The current scheme does not work. It was devised by people who have no idea about the needs of residents. Take action now and fill in the survey with your views http://www.portsmouth.gov.uk/ParkingForum/25518.html. The survey is also available in July’s issue of Flagship magazine. 

Below are some of my suggestions as to how PCC can improve their schemes if they were to implement them across the city.

• Make all zones applicable between problem hours, for example 2 hours parking between the hours of 8am-6pm.
• Allow some spaces within the zone (say 10%) to not be covered by the permit scheme. A kind of ‘free-for-all’ area, a compromise to the residents so if they had any guests they feel that there could possibly be a chance of getting a space without having to use a scratch card. 
• Every household within a zone should be issued with 52 daylong scratch cards per year. These can be used for visitors and mean that those who do not have a car will not feel that they have been hard done by.
• Every car should have to pay for a permit. Scrap the first car free and the incremental charges for further permits. Make all permits cost £40 for one year and allow each household to apply for one permit per bedroom. For example a six-bed house can apply for six permits and they will all cost £40 each. 
• Give a concession for disabled, students, elderly and those on benefits. Providing they can show proof of their status they should only have to pay £20 per year (a reduction of 50%).
• Reduce the cost to business holders. Small businesses should be allowed to apply for a permit for £60 per year; large businesses should be double (£120).
• Work vehicles such as work vans can apply for a permit but at a much higher cost (say £360 per year) and the council should work with businesses using these commercial vehicles to provide a safe car park with public transport networks that companies can pay a small charge to store their vehicles in overnight. 

November in the Alps, my first time in the mountains

Autumn in a ski resort is a strange experience for anyone, especially if you are a ski virgin. I recall my first visit to La Plagne - with and without snow.

Wide-eyed and naïve, I collected my room key from a pile that had been left on the desk of the closed reception. The dormant hotel had been closed for the last six months and we were its first occupants of the winter. I felt like I was reliving The Shining in the French Alps.

During the winter months the hotel would be buzzing with families debating who has the best ski technique. Right now, in November, it stood large and cold and musty.

A few weeks earlier, I had logged onto my computer and applied to be a holiday rep. Images of a sun-soaked Ibiza flashed before me as I entered my details.

During the holiday rep interview, the interviewer had said: ‘We still have vacancies for ski reps, have you ever thought about that? It’ll get you a better job in the summer if you work the winter first.’

Eager to get away from my mundane sales job, I jumped at the chance. Never mind that I knew nothing about skiing. I was sure it would be just like Ibiza, just a bit colder.

With all my personal possessions packed into two cases, I boarded the coach to the Alps full of nervous anticipation. When we pulled up for a rest stop in the valley, I realised my naivety. It was morning and getting light, but outside was cloudy and grey. I stepped onto French soil and shivered. The fresh, cool air reminded me that this certainly wasn’t Ibiza.

At that moment, the clouds parted and I looked up, searching for a glimpse of that warm Mediterranean sun that I had been so desperate to find. With alarm my brain had registered a strange mottled grey thing in the sky behind the clouds. What on Earth was that? What was it doing so high up?

I struggled to comprehend how something could be there. I had never seen anything like it. And then it dawned on me that it was, in fact, a mountain. Large and looming, it towered over me like a bouncer at the door of a nightclub. And that’s where we were heading, right up to the very top.

After a snaky ascension of the mountain we arrived in La Plagne. No snow anywhere, the road looked dirty and the buildings monolithic and ugly. Ski lifts stood empty and motionless, littering the mountain with their cables. It was a world apart from the glossy holiday brochures.

The monstrosity of a hotel we were staying in looked more like a large brown prison than a luxury retreat. The brass sign ‘Terra Nova’ glinted against the brown fascia. Apart from our group, there were no other signs of life.

The extrovert next to me had spiky brown hair and a stud in his lip. Wearing branded jeans and Cat boots, he spoke in an unfamiliar posh accent, regaling the rest of us with wild ski stories.

‘Last year, we went skiing in Zermatt. The Matterhorn was simply divine, I did a 360 on my first day but the rest of the week was a sheer white-out…’

What was he talking about? I had no idea.

I kept my head down and dragged my two heavy cases up to my room. Sharing my room with me was a blonde girl, pretty and slim and super-confident. I unpacked and we chatted. She seemed nice and friendly. Perhaps things would work out all right after all.

A strong black coffee and a croissant later, I joined the smokers that were huddled under a fug of smoke outside the hotel. Snow was on its way. I thought it odd that people would be so excited.

Our room looked out across the valley, not that there was anything to see. Thick grey clouds hung all around. I felt that we could be so high up that we could be inside them.

It was a room that during high season would cost an absolute fortune. The following morning, when I opened the curtains, I understood why.

“Quick, come look at this!” I signalled to my roommate and we both stood in awe and wonder at the majestic scene in front of us.

The clouds had lifted and it was like Mother Nature had turned the light on. Fresh white snow had fallen overnight and coated the magnificent view in front of us. My eyes drank in the jagged ridges of the mountains with their freshly iced tops. The bright blue sky provided a vibrant backdrop. I could see for miles, I now understood why the smokers had been so excited.

We ran out into the snow like excited children. There were already a few people out enjoying the overnight gift. The snow was icy and cold and cleaner than I had expected.

Smack! A snowball landed right in my collar, its icy residue dripping inside my warm coat. I looked around and there was the extrovert - the snowball had certainly originated from his direction.

“Get him!” I shouted and we started our attack. We returned fire and laughter filled the air.

I stopped for a second to catch my breath. I looked up to my new friends and my new life and I knew that I had made the right decision. Even if I never made it to Ibiza, I was sure to have a good time here.

The next day we were loaded onto a coach and taken across to Tignes, the only ski resort open. We were kitted out with boots and skis and packed off to a ski lesson. As a beginner I was nervous, but as soon as I was on the slopes I realised just how invigorating mountain life can be.

The wind rushed through my hair as I hurtled uncontrollably down the nursery slope. The ski instructor shouting after me to ‘bend ze knees’. What a rush! So fast! But how to stop?

Then came the crash… I tumbled over in a whirlwind of skis and poles, my goggles and hat flying off in opposite directions. Luckily the snow was soft and the bruises I gained dotted my arm like badges of bravery.

I clambered to an upright position using my poles to help me stand still. I brushed the snow out of my hair, dug it out of my sallopetes, and persevered. Muttering the mantra ‘I will learn how to ski and I will learn how to stop’.

With the ski instructor’s help that day, I took my first steps into another world by mastering the art of snow ploughing. It is, after all, all about bending ze knees!