Why this tranquil French ski resort is a top spot for beginners

Nobody gives constructive criticism quite like Stéphane Jacquier. “You look like you’re sat on the toilet,” the begoggled ski instructor says to one of my fellow beginners, whose tendency to bend her knees on the downhill has not escaped his eagle eye. We’re at the foot of a sun-drenched nursery slope in Avoriaz 1800, where a layer cake of cedar-panelled apartments is etched into a gnarled cliffside. We’ve been here for just two days, but in that time our weathered instructor from the ESF (École du Ski Français) has already taught us how to snowplough, turn to avoid collisions and hold our own on the green slopes against some decidedly nippy young locals. I put our progress down to his teaching style: a rare combination of patience, Gallic humour and utter mercilessness.

Today, with a layer of fresh snow beneath our skis and the surrounding crags emerging from the morning mist, we’re itching to put our parallel turns to practice on our first blue slope. You wouldn’t have found us quite so enthusiastic before. As novices, we arrived united by fear. Fear of falling flat; fear of having to bum-shuffle to safety; fear of slipping from a gondola and getting caught in its dark nether regions with nothing but a Kinder Bueno for sustenance. Thankfully, Stéphane — wearing an all-red snowsuit and what appears to be a pair of yellow Marigolds — has been dispelling such anxieties for decades. We take a drag lift to the lip of the blue slope where I see him guide the most nervous member of our six-person group down its steep descent, carving a path for her to follow. Later on, she makes it to the bottom of the piste completely unaided.

“Skiing is gliding, not fighting,” our stubbled maestro tells us over inky thimblefuls of espresso at Café Le Fantastic, where Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘Baudelaire’ is just audible above a cacophony of European languages. “When you’re nervous, you tense up and lean forward, which means you accelerate and lose control. The key is to relax.” You also, however, aren’t supposed to lean back, as it pushes you off balance. It’s a big ask. But perhaps here in Avoriaz, a place locals regard as existing somewhat above the world, anything is possible.

Opened in the 1960s, the ski in, ski out resort sets its restaurants, wine bars and central clocktower in a web of quiet boulevards where the jangle of horse-drawn carriages, not cars, can be heard. Once settled in, first-timers kit themselves out at Antoine Ski or Skiset before gliding past the croissant-perfumed boulangeries flanking Avoriaz’s slopes, which form just a fraction of the 360-mile Portes du Soleil ski area. Such is the resort’s layout that it’s virtually impossible for trepidatious beginners to cut class and disappear into the nearest cafe without learning something along the way, even if that’s simply how to remain upright while strapped to a pair of slippery planks.

Buzzing from the caffeine, we board a chairlift and begin working our way up the mountainside, the resort unfolding beneath our feet. Far below, in the Village des Enfants, toddlers in bright puffer jackets flow up and down a shallow nursery slope, occasionally face-planting in the snow only to be picked up and dusted down by a watchful instructor. Forming arteries around Avoriaz’s residential core, four undulating green runs and 26 blues weave through vast ivory plains and pockets of aromatic pine forest — dark as lake water and busy with the twittering of Alpine choughs.

“If you were here for six days or so, you might even try some of the red runs,” Stéphane says, pointing a gloved finger towards what seems to be a 45-degree slope on the serrated edge of a nearby mountain. I gulp deeply and then audibly gasp as we pass over the beginner-level Chapelle Snowpark, where a snowboard instructor launches himself off a jump, rotates his board 360 degrees and wins a round of applause from a cohort of stunned onlookers. At the lift’s end, we opt for something a little less death-defying, following Stéphane as he weaves his way around Lil’Stash — a forgiving patch of moguls in a secluded area of the Proclou forest. “How was your first off-piste skiing?” he asks as we emerge from the woods into a gleaming expanse of snow overlooking low, charcoal peaks. Somebody in the group emits a shallow groan, complaining of aching shins.

Thankfully, Stéphane knows the perfect revival spot. The interior of Le Refuge — a lamp-lit brasserie on the resort’s main thoroughfare — is so bedecked with wood panelling it could be the hollow of an enormous larch. We visit at lunch, throwing ourselves down in a cushioned nook, where we lick our wounds over perfectly tender homemade raclette burgers, reblochon tartiflette and dinky half-pints of beer mixed with honey-sweet Picon bitters. If our legs weren’t so sore, we might even be tempted to don fur hats and hit the dance floor at La Folie Douce, where a revolving roster of live acts provides the soundtrack to liquid lunches stretching well into the evening. But we’re here to learn, so it’s back to the slopes.

As a chairlift carries us towards Bleue du Lac, a tumbling thread of soft curves beneath the peaks of Fornet and Les Hauts Forts, I begin to realise that we’ve barely scratched Avoriaz’s frosted surface. Only a couple of days ago, I could barely stand up in my skis — now I’m in competition mode, ready to race my companions around hairpin bends and explore further. Zipping down the mountainside, I find myself dreaming of owning a chimneyed hut in the forested valley below; of exploring these slopes every winter and dining solely on tartiflette between the months of December and February. Perhaps I’d invest in some uber-cool leather snow goggles like Stéphane’s. “This is the life for me!” I bellow as the piste begins to plunge unpredictably. I hit a bump and suddenly become acutely aware of both my skis having left the ground. It’s only when I’m on my back, bottle of suncream leaking from my chest pocket, that the dream dissipates. With imaginary birds flying circles around my head, I hear Stéphane’s voice ringing in my ears. “You look like you’re sat on the toilet.”