La Mourra Hôtel Village

Mr Smith and I checked out of Hôtel Village La Mourra with an unmistakably smug aura. A weekend in the mountains in perfect conditions can really bring out the worst in a person. I was breezing through reception with my self-congratulatory glow (the sort usually reserved for people who say things like 'We winter in Val d’Isère'), when the concierge popped his head round the corner to deliver an outstanding one-liner: 'Our driver can’t get your car to start.'

A wave of something hit me, and it wasn’t the expected dread (cars aren’t my department. Not my problem, sweetie). It was a glimmer of hope for my impending review. Finally, a plot twist. A small mechanical rebellion to offset the 1,000-word love letter I’d so far come up with.

My doe-eyed state had been induced by a long list of things, but let’s start with breakfast. Aside from cheese, charcuterie, cereals, fruit, yoghurt and eggs à la carte, there are three different cakes, crêpes on tap and piles of glossy pastries. Doing due diligence, we try the full spread of sweets. Crêpes come in pairs with edges like impossibly thin lace hankies. I top mine with sugar, lemon and a little salty butter (that’s a tip from me to you). Croissants shatter in satisfying spikes and realise their destiny as vehicles for jam and more butter. But the pièce de résistance, to borrow a phrase from my French friends, is the cakes. There’s a twisted masterpiece of chocolate and pistachio monkey bread, a light-crumbed hazelnut loaf, and a sugar-crystal-topped plaited brioche, all chic and nonchalant in its restraint. It’s the end of breakfast and somehow they’ve come out entirely unscathed. Mr Smith whispers, 'Dare you to ask for takeaway?' I’m nothing if not willing to take on a challenge, so naturally leave with a thick slice of each tucked into a box and under my arm for an adventure of the very best kind: off-piste pâtisserie.

If the breakfast is anything to go by, the overarching message here is indulgent abundance. This is a place that understands the joy of excess, but delivers it with polish rather than pomp. That same philosophy runs through the interiors: a modern Alpine scheme that nods to tradition without getting stuck in it. Roaring wood fires and a relaxed bar with low-slung sofas and mixed textiles you want to run your hands over.

Upstairs, our room is a two-bedroom suite, complete with a living area, a third bed in a nook (perfect for kids) and a real fire that they send someone up to light when you decide the time is right. The marble-clad bathrooms are expansive, with toppling piles of plush, fluffy towels. And the beds compete with the snow outside for who looks most crisp: they’re made up of thick white sheets, generous European-style pillows and a headboard dimpled with traditional needlework in chic neutrals. There’s so much room. Room to spread out, room to unpack properly, room to have one bedroom entirely dedicated to napping if you’re lucky enough to find yourself with a ratio of one adult to each bedroom. 

After a sound night’s sleep, Mr Smith is keen to get up and out on the slopes on our first morning, but I’d happily luxuriate all day between the bed, the bath, the sofa and the spa downstairs. Still, we’re here to ski. So up we get, admiring the views outside the sweet, shuttered windows, with the trees having been iced overnight like little works of viennoiserie. 

We join the ranks on the piste, Mr Smith to pound black runs, me to punish a couple of blues before looking to sample the area’s hot chocolates and a particularly beautiful walk at the top of Solaise. It’s research.

When I’ve done my moral duty on the mountain, I gratefully return to the spa’s embrace. A bright blue pool slices through the centre of the space, fringed by a steam room, sauna and gym equipment that looks impressive and largely untroubled. They are all very nice, but do you know what’s nicer? Being pummelled for 90 uninterrupted minutes while lying face down, hovering somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. At one point, I briefly consider cancelling skiing altogether in favour of a full-time residency here in the spa.

This family-run hotel feels like it’s been made by people who love the Alps, for people who love the Alps. They’ve thought of everything. Water, muesli bars and tissues in the boot room, and heated racks for your kit, for example. There’s a generosity to the place that goes beyond pastries and plush towels. It’s in the details. The way your gear is handled. The way your fire is lit precisely when requested. The way they know how to make a perfect Martini. The way no question feels too small, no indulgence too frivolous.

One of the best frivolities is being scooped up and dropped off at the slopes whenever you want. Lugging kit through the streets has always been a mood-killer for me. On our way to the piste one morning, we quiz our sweet driver. He’s worked for the family that owns the place (along with sister property Hôtel Le Blizzard, down the street) for years. He’s effusive about them in a way that feels genuine. Not the polished, PR-approved praise of someone who knows they’re on the clock, but the sort of warmth you simply couldn’t be paid to manufacture. And that resonates through the whole experience. Everywhere you go, you feel that everyone wants you to have a lovely time. 

But have you ever been on a holiday where you’re thinking everything is going too smoothly? Because having a nice time is all well and good, but where’s the drama, where’s the storytelling? We’d been at La Mourra for the weekend and I was starting to think that was my entire plot line. Blue skies. Perfect snow. Three fat cakes at breakfast. A bed I didn’t want to leave. And then, of course, the car.

In the end, it was resolved with an impressive air of calm and efficiency we should have predicted, by the team magicking up their in-house technician. We were on our way back to the chaos of Geneva airport in no time. More’s the pity. I would have quite liked the excuse to stay. Car trouble aside, I’m afraid the gush stands.