My skiing history is littered with disasters. Aside from the general humiliation of ski school I was a late beginner and six-year olds whizzing past my inept snow-plough, there was the pot-head ski instructor at Chamonix who introduced a nervous novice to black runs; ill-advised heli-skiing with friends who were just too good for me; a husband terrified of ski lifts in the Tyrol; and a general dread of height and speed.
Ski boots hurt and the clothes are unflattering unless you are of Kate Middleton proportions. It was with a huge sigh of relief that I finally gave up skiing. Ski Sunday on the telly and the Winter Olympics would do very nicely. What could possibly entice me back? The answer, it seems, is a mixture of curiosity and greed. The hotel is in Courchevel — a magnet for the rich in winter — and the restaurant already has notched up two Michelin stars. The opportunity to visit was simply too good to miss.
In a top-of-the-range white Mercedes, the two-hour journey from Geneva airport passes in a flash. At Courchevel we speed through resorts on the lower levels , , metres and climb up to the rarefied air of , with its super-deluxe chalets and hotels. Cheval Blanc fits right in with traditional rustic architecture: pitched roofs heavy with snow, stone chimneys and mustard-coloured walls contrasting with carved wooden balconies.
This sets the tone for what I find inside. The hotel feels like an art project, superbly realised with taste and wit and affection. Sybille de Margerie has designed the interiors using rich textiles, leather, fur, velvet, wool and earthy colours. There are just 36 rooms and suites, and my bedroom is a cheerful mix of traditional and modern with silk curtains, cowhide upholstery, faux fur and beaten leather.
My artwork tally includes an eccentric chair by Gilles Hoang for looking not sitting and a natural wood sculpture by Gilles Caffier. The balcony looks out over Christmas trees dusted with snow and huge icicles cascading from the roof — absurdly picturesque.
