Zannier Le Chalet

It had been Mr Smith’s bright idea to walk from the centre of Megève up to Zannier's Le Chalet, after he promised me that Google Maps said it really wasn’t that far. What Google didn’t tell him, however, is that it the walk was all uphill. We were also bundled up in ski clothes, carrying Mr Smith’s snowboard, and dragging a wheelie suitcase, so in the end, it definitely felt far. 

When we finally got to the top of the hill I guess we looked lost, weary, and in need of a restorative hot chocolate, because someone actually stopped us to ask if we were looking for Le Chalet. 

Our affirmative answer to the helpful stranger, who turned out to be a member of the chalet’s team, prompted a phone call to reception. Within a minute someone was there to thankfully relieve us of suitcases and snowboard and show us the way. 

Inside, we were given an effusive greeting from the staff and hotel manager. I felt self consciously scruffy after my uphill hike but no-one seemed to care, they were too busy welcoming us in from the cold. Mr Smith and I let ourselves be led to a sofa right in front of a roaring fire, peeled off our winter layers, and sank back with a collective sigh and a complimentary drink in hand. 

After regaining our composure slightly, and chatting with the barman about his impressive collection of rare, and eye-wateringly expensive whiskeys, it was time to see our room. Or to be more precise, our snug little chalet.

We had only glanced at Le Chalet on arrival but now as we stomped outside through the snow we could take it all in, and I was delighted to see a collection of cute, squat stone buildings topped with a thick layer of snow and flanked by deep green fir trees. Piles of logs sat below tiny windows framed with unfinished wood. I felt like I had arrived at the wood cutter’s house in a fairytale. Inside our guest house stairs led us down to a hidden winter retreat. I waited until we had been shown around to let out my excitement at Mr Smith in the form of a few happy little jumps.

He might be a seasoned snowboarder but I had never even been on a ski trip before, since I don’t actually ski. I had just held romantic ideas of being cosied up in the mountains in an all wood chalet, and now I was. Beautiful natural wood lined the floor, walls, and ceiling, finished with wooden beams. The huge bed was covered with fluffy white linens and oh-so-soft blankets, and in front of our small living area was a rustic wood burner. 

We also had a terrace, but more importantly, we had a view. Snow-covered hills surrounded us, dotted with more festive fir trees. The blanket of snow had quietened any noise; it was like we could hear the silence. When I had dreamed of my first Alpine ski trip, it had definitely looked something like this. 

Luckily, we had arrived just in time for a goûter, the French tradition of indulging in a sweet afternoon snack with a mug of something steaming hot. Mr Smith might have dragged me up a hill to the hotel, but at least he got me there in time for cake. A lot of cake.

 We had thought about going back into Megève but when peeked in the bar to see what was on offer we couldn’t resist helping ourselves to the traditional gâteau de Savoie, fluffy muffins, slices of golden caramel flan, and my favourite, a fruit tart studded with shards of brandy snaps. Everything was freshly baked that day by the pastry chef, and everything was completely delicious. The same spot by the crackling fire was still waiting for us, and we parked ourselves down just in time for the arrival of mugs of real hot chocolate topped with dollops of freshly whipped cream. The uphill climb had been worth it.

After an afternoon of wandering around Megève, and a wobbly attempt at ice-skating on the open air rink, Mr Smith and I headed back to the chalet to warm up before dinner. This time we cannily used the hotel’s private car service, who were just a phone call away, to get us back up the hill. It was already dark and the fir trees surrounding the chalet twinkled with fairy lights. It was time to put the fire on. 

After Mr Smith assured me that he knew how to get a fire going (where he’d learnt this growing up in Paris, I don’t know) I decided it was only fair to give him a few attempts before I called one of the team, who had already told us at check-in they would happily do it for us. 

Unsurprisingly, I was soon on the phone. I don’t know how everyone here moved around so quickly in the icy snow, but within minutes a member of the ever-efficient team rapped on the wooden door and we soon had a glorious roaring hearth to enjoy, not to mention a bottle of red.

After accidentally finishing the bottle (I blame the cosy atmosphere) we tipsily headed across to the chalet’s restaurant, La Ferme de mon Père. Inside, the place is so popular that it was packed out with locals as well as guests. Megève can attract a high society crowd looking to pose in fine dining restaurants, but here there was a convivial buzz of French chatter as tables of friends caught up over comfort food and free flowing bottles of wine. 

Without even needing to ask for it, doorstop slices of crispy bread arrived with a slab of butter, a good sign of what was to come. Being a vegetarian who is not unused to being served leftover veggies when dining out, Mr Smith was thrilled to see a far more decadent option on the menu; black truffle risotto with button mushrooms and aged Parmesan. I couldn’t resist the 30 days matured rib steak with smoked puree and spinach cooked in brown butter. The food was hearty and the portions were almost obscenely big but I still had room for dessert.

This time though I got beat by a Dame Blanche, or White Lady, the classic French creamy vanilla ice-cream topped with crunchy nuts and molten hot chocolate sauce. At least it helped soak up all that French wine. 

The next morning, I left Mr Smith in bed to squeeze in some alone time in the subterranean spa. The space was dark, atmospheric, and blissfully private. A smiling therapist greeted me and led me to the changing rooms, designed in a minimalist Japanese wabi-sabi style which felt wonderfully soothing, even this early in the morning. Everything had been thoughtfully put together; even the Havaianas flip-flops were just the right shade to match my soft brown linen robe. I took mental style notes to hunt out a new dressing gown, or at least buy new towels when I got home.

Outside the pool glowed turquoise in an otherwise pitch black room. I helped myself to the platter of fresh fruit stacked with half open passion fruit, juicy oranges and kiwis before hitting the sauna. I kicked myself I hadn’t made time for a treatment, which incidentally used some of my favourite brands, Aesop and Aromatherapy Associates. I could’ve lounged around in the secreted away spa for hours, but I had to settle with just using the Aesop hand wash before I left instead.

Back in our chalet, we’d decided to be extra lazy on our last day and order breakfast in bed. I’d worked up an appetite with my swim but if I’d have known such a feast would arrive I’d have done a few extra laps. We tucked into bowls of fresh fruit, creamy yoghurt and deliciously crunchy granola, devoured the local cheeses, and smeared thick slices of crusty bread with dollops of jam. Mr Smith had also ordered eggs; I was jealous I hadn’t. 

The finishing touch was a pot of steaming hot coffee for me, my morning essential, and a delicately perfumed tea for Mr Smith, elegantly presented in a Japanese teapot. I sunk back into the armchair and took one last look out over the snowy view. It was going to take more than a new bathrobe and a set of towels to recreate this.