Party time in Val d/Isere after tackling the telemark

COME to Val d'Isère, they invited. Yes please. Learn to telemark, they said. Oh, really?

You must not have legs like marshmallows but legs of steel

How could any skier or boarder resist the lure of the French Alps, just dusted in early December snow? Or the promise of mastering a bizarre new way of speeding down the mountain in one of Europe's tip top ski resorts?

Then there was the added allure of a luxury chalet complete with hot (tub) and cold running Champagne with seamless service from a staff of executive chef and friendly chalet boys and girls, log fires, sheepskin throws, a swimming pool, sauna, massages. 

They promised classy comfort and delivered. Our VIP chalet offered a new twist to the winter sports trip: mastering a new skill that dates back to the 1860s and was developed by a Norwegian in his homeland region of Telemark.

It combines elements of both Alpine and cross-country skiing, using lunging movements as the skier bends one knee deeply on each turn, with the heel lifting off the back of the ski.

Our instructors showed us no mercy, demonstrating an unusual ski technique

Practised properly it looks elegant and fluid. Performed badly it looks as if a drunken puppeteer is pulling all the wrong strings on its dummy. I would be that dummy.

As a good(ish) convent-educated girl I was used to genuflecting in chapel. But on skis it was a different and altogether scarier prospect. The Lord's name was invoked, and in vain.

After many years of trying to perfect normal downhill skiing, which I learned not as a fearless child but an apprehensive adult, I would have to unlearn.

As ski technology has changed over time it has been easy to adapt from long, straight skis which needed a lot of turning and whose tips would cross to send the hapless head-planting over the top.

I welcomed the user-friendlier wider, shorter carving skis. I even tried and survived the ludicrously long and skinny cross-country, or langlauf, skis.

But telemark is a whole different snowball game. Kitting us out in boots at the Oxygene ski equipment rental store took an age. Die-hard snowboarders grumbled about swapping their comfy footwear for sturdier hard boots. And conventional skiers looked bemused at how only the toe and not the heel of the more flexible boots would be attached by a binding to the ski. It was like losing your security blanket.

But our two bearded Northern Italian instructors in this dark art were enthusiastic to the verge of evangelism. As they shepherded us to a gentle nursery slope they bounded around like excitable puppies, extolling the virtues of telemarking. 'It's beautiful.  It's pure.  It's fluid. It's free,' enthused Enrico and Maurizio.

How we would disappoint at first.

We were an oddly matched group, ranging from a former boy racer of 22, a twenty-something who learnt her skiing off You Tube (more of her later), one veteran, a cycling fanatic snowboarder, one dignified veteran, a guy with a week's telemarking under his belt.  And me.

Stunning snowscape of Val d'Isere – setting for my telemark trials

My last encounter with telemarking was a painful memory two years ago. Prone in a snowstorm, my skis crossed behind me to signal an accident, a telemark instructor stopped to help. His breathless pupil declared: “Good, it's such hard work I could do with a break.”

“I think I'm the one with the break,” I  moaned weakly.  I was right. So that left knee, although nicely healed – thanks to a hasty descent in a 'blood wagon', an instant plaster cast, the good old NHS and shed-loads of physio – doesn't quite bend as fully as it should.  That's the excuse I'm sticking to for my non-telemark performance.

Enrico – who has fallen in love with the discipline as well as with a stylish skier who competed in the World Cup and can sometimes be glimpsed in full-length skirt on her telemark skis describing graceful arcs – gave us a warning.

“You will fall over a lot.” We did.

“I like falling over.” He didn't.

“You must not have legs like marshmallows but legs of steel.”

Switching from normal skiing to telemark means learning the polar opposite: weight slightly back, rotating shoulders, shorter poles, arms pumping toy soldier fashion.

Falls, frustration, tears and triumphs saw the best of the group whizzing along the resort's easier slopes, even mastering exiting chairlifts without heel anchorage.

Val d'Isère's extensive off-piste areas were thankfully out of bounds for us newbies and the higher runs were swathed in mist and cloud. The 30cm of fresh snow was meticulously groomed to flatter, and wonderfully wide, sweeping pistes made our first ski of the season a blast.

We dubbed our downhill racer Smasher thanks to his gung-ho approach as he flew down red pistes, skirting snowmakers blasting out artificial snow to ensure great coverage.

We'd built up a serious appetite. An early wake-up call with a cuppa served as I nested under a downy duvet, followed by sizzling English fry-up including crumbly black pudding, was just a memory. As were the excesses of Val d'Isère's legendary nightlife.

Lunchtime was a chance to kick off the telemark kit in favour of familiar downhill skis and boards. But there was no shaking off our dynamic duo, still executing showy-off 360 degrees turns in their look-at-us orange trousers and electric blue jackets.

‘"Welcome to our office,” crowed Enrico, convincing me a beer was essential for electrolytes. He and Maurizio were both smitten by Val d'Isère, a resort that lives up to its reputation for world class off-piste and intermediate skiing for those looking to eat up the distances, all 93 miles, plus almost 100 more in the Espace Killy.

Beginners and timid intermediates should beware that some runs are classified as easy when they can be tricky, steep, bumpy and crowded at the end of the day. Take the gondola down if you're unsure or have over-imbibed, is my advice. Kids, young and old, can enjoy the La Daille terrain park with rails, kickers and a mini-snowcross course.

The village also meets expectations of what a ski resort should be: lively, lots of live music in bars, happy hours, ski-boot dancing après ski, après-après ski for hard core party people plus a wide choice of eateries. Classy and chic but certainly not cheap.

The famed Folie Douce, at the top of the La Daille gondola, has crazy cabaret, live bands with DJs, sequinned dancers, handsome waiters in white and duvet onesies for chilly guests lunching on the sunny terrace. We tucked into oysters, French onion soup, snail soup under pastry crust, the best spag bol on the mountain and sublime soufflés, all washed down with a magnum of the palest rosé.

After such an indulgent feast I heeded Enrico's wise words to take the gondola down to the town. There après ski beckoned: rock 'n' roll live music at Cocorico, Dick's Tea Bar, founded in 1979 and now an institution for disco music and the pricier Doudoune Club, which boasts that it hosts the biggest parties in the Alps. 

Next day saw the shroud lifted to reveal Val d'Isère in her full sunny majesty with Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco, as our Italian duo declared proprietarily) _  highest mountain in the Alps and highest peak in Europe at 4,809 m. _ glittering in the blue beyond.

On conventional skis and boards, our telemark instructors were  still happy to provide tuition, with tips on everything from breathing (jolly important to keep you alive, supply screaming muscles with oxygen and release tension to hip movement (“shake it and bake baby”, or “go with the flow.”)

Enrico's gallantry came to the fore when our YouTube learner suffered a confidence meltdown when the easy blue run morphed into a steep, narrow red. Ashen-faced, with her eyes tight shut.  He held  her by the waist, hugging her in a side-slip to safety, all the while crooning Bob Marley's “Don't worry about a thing, 'cos every little thing gonna be all right.”

And it was. Especially when VIP's concierge service came into its own, with a vehicle to ferry us home (eschewing regular public buses), uncomplaining chalet staff to help you remove boots from weary feet, providing slippers before you showered and slipped into the hot tub before canapés, champagne and a stupendous dinner. The toast to Val d'Isère: I came, I saw, but telemark conquered.