The slopes are optional.
Rupert Ashdown in his favourite tailored pink socks from Huntsman, Saville Row
Rupert recounts his recent “ski trip” to Gstaad
I arrived in Gstaad with every intention of embracing the Alpine lifestyle: sunrise pistes, fresh powder, fondue eaten with a false sense of athletic righteousness. Naturally, none of that happened. The moment I set foot in the Palace, I remembered that skiing is, fundamentally, optional especially when the bar serves champagne by the magnum and the lobby has more fur coats than a Siberian wolf sanctuary.
My ski pass remained untouched, a tragic little card tucked in my wallet like an unused gym membership. Instead, I dedicated myself to what I consider the true sport of Gstaad: reclining. Reclining by the fire, reclining in the spa, reclining on a sheepskin-draped terrace while pretending to read a philosophical book I bought purely for aesthetic reasons. I was, in every possible sense, an athlete of leisure.
Evenings were spent drifting from one chalet soirée to another, nodding earnestly as people discussed the snowfall I had heroically avoided all day. I agreed with everyone. Yes, the conditions were excellent. No, I did not see them personally. But spiritually? Spiritually I was on the mountain.
In the end, my trip was a triumph. I returned home with a delightful tan (from the sauna), a mild hangover (from the champagne), and the smug knowledge that while others risked frostbite, I risked absolutely nothing except a sizeable hotel bill. And honestly isn’t that what Gstaad is all about?
