After the news of the night before, we woke up Sunday morning hungover (if not still drunk) and confused. Should we go to breakfast service and treat our guests as if their skiing holiday hadn’t just been completely ruined? How long will they be staying? Do we need to get out of France? Just how serious are things down in the valley and beyond?
Following a very lazy breakfast service (I didn’t set the table, provide continental options or even clear the mess from the night before – my guests holiday was already a shambles and we’d be jobless in a few days anyway), we got told there’d be an update at 11am.
We sat outside the Val2400 reception sipping stubbies in the sunshine while we waited for Ben, our resort manager, to fill us in with the latest. Life felt bittersweet; because we knew we’d inevitably be leaving resort I’ve never appreciated those around me so much. In fact, people all over were surprisingly in good spirits. With the lifts closed everyone was in the village, walking around in the sunshine or hanging off of balconies enjoying what was arguably the most beautiful day of the season, and waiting for news to arrive. As we sat and sipped, a group of lads on a nearby balcony burst into song and we joined in their chorus. The world was falling apart but we were coming together. Albeit, drawn closer with worry and uncertainty, but close nonetheless.
The news at 11? There was no news: Skiworld was still trying to figure a way to evacuate all guests and staff from their seventeen French operating ski resorts. A managerial and logistical nightmare. We were promised an update at 1pm.
George and Louey joined us after breakfast and we attempted to set up in Favela beer garden. The Gendarmerie, the only people that were seemingly still doing their job properly, were having none of it though, so we took our crate and good spirits and walked up the piste towards 360.
Never have the slopes been so carefree and fun. People had pitched up all the way along the piste lazing around and drinking. We sat on the orange crash mat which had been taken off a snow cannon and watched the alpine world go by one last time. Some people were hiking up with skis and boards just to get that one run in before heading home. Kids and adults alike sledded down the slopes on anything they could find. The cutest little kid no older than three was dragged past on a sled, sunglasses on, hand on wheel, and very much asleep. When he truly nodded off and tipped off the back of the sled, his parents response? Stack as many rucksacks and bags as possible behind to prop him up. A group of lads slid down a run on a crash mat and picked up so much speed on the descent, gradually falling off one by one until the mat (eventually) came to a halt on the flat. Speakers from different groups blasted music into the sunny skies which merged into a kaleidoscope of noise and joy. How had the saddest day turned so good?
On the walk back to my accom, faces fried from the sun, we passed a couple on deck chairs in the middle of the piste. The guy stood up as we got closer and approached Paul, complimenting him on his jacket as he had one similar (“oh, but mines vintage,” said Paul) before asking if we had any or needed any drugs. A small child then came bombarding past, face planted the snow, lost his sunglasses, bounced back up, high-fived us and then ran off again. It was a very strange day.
With still no update on how or when we or our guests were getting out of resort, rumours were flying that France was entering “stage four lockdown”: no travel, no movement, no anything. Eventually, only eight hours later than promised, we were told our guests were leaving tomorrow. Thankfully mine were on a flight from Lyon. The remaining guests? Overnight feeder coaches down to Calais followed by the ferry across the channel and a drive up to Gatwick airport. Some very unhappy customers indeed.
I fed the guests a feast that night: raclette and steaks cooked on the hot stone, the all time favourite sweet potato and roast garlic soup, pesto cod and strawberry and rhubarb crumble. This was the last supper. I told them to help themselves to anything they wanted for breakfast the next morning, and when I left that evening they were already frying up sausages and bacon ahead of their 5am start.
Now guests were leaving we knew we’d be following shortly, especially with the rumours on travel restrictions circulating and the amount of people fleeing. This could be our last day in Val Thorens. Everything was so surreal, so bittersweet, and still so uncertain.
Rogue and roaming 