Snow, Silence, and the Noble Art of Eating Too Much
Christmas in Méribel-Mottaret
Winter, when embraced as it is meant to be, requires only that you slow down, dress warmly, and eat well. This Christmas, Méribel-Mottaret embodied the essence of winter: plentiful snow, even though not to the standards they are accustomed to, peaceful walks, and satisfying meals. The experience reminded us that true winter is about savouring comfort and indulgence, making these pleasures the wisest response to the season.
There are two types of ski holidays.
The first is built on good intentions and early alarms, with the promise of catching the first lifts and settling for light dinners, all in the naïve hope of achieving heroic athleticism. Of course, this all sounds perfectly reasonable—until you actually try living it.
The second accepts reality: that winter is not a season for restraint, but for layers, naps, melted cheese, and the quiet dignity of walking off a meal rather than lying down immediately.
The first is built on good intentions and early alarms, with the promise of catching the first lifts and settling for light dinners, all in the naïve hope of achieving heroic athleticism. Of course, this all sounds perfectly reasonable—until you actually try living it.
The second accepts reality: that winter is not a season for restraint, but for layers, naps, melted cheese, and the quiet dignity of walking off a meal rather than lying down immediately.
This trip, for us, clearly belonged to the second category.
Base Camp
We stayed at the Alpen Ruitor, a hotel that gets ski life. In the lobby, a pair of vintage wooden skis leaned casually against the wall, a nod to past adventures and the promise of more to come. Ski in, ski out, warm up, eat, sleep, repeat until time blurs.
Nothing here is for show. The rooms are calm and functional, the welcome is steady, and the restaurants are confident you’ll be back, hungry. It’s a place that doesn’t try to impress — and so it does.
On Skiing (and Knowing Your Limits)
Yes, we skied.
A lot.
A lot.
Méribel-Mottaret, in Les Trois Vallées, has 600 km of slopes. It’s the world’s largest ski area, and the best snow is always just one lift farther than you planned.
A practical note from experience: book your ski pass for your full stay, with insurance, and ensure it covers the entire area. Anything less feels overly cautious. No one wants to find that the day’s best run is out of bounds.
If confidence falters — especially with ice, gradients, or expert skiers nearby — the local ski school is there to help. Instructors are calm, experienced, and dismissive of bravado. They meet you where you are, the most civilised way to ski and live.
When Not Skiing
A good ski holiday is improved immeasurably by moments of deliberate stillness.
Walks around the frozen lake offered snow-muted paths, still pines, and the particular silence that only exists at altitude. Occasional trips into Méribel Centre added just enough liveliness to remind us that civilisation continues, even in snow boots.
Then there was the spa —less indulgence, more intervention.
The steam room, sauna, and jacuzzi formed a kind of alpine triage for bodies that had spent the day negotiating gravity. There was also a hammam-style scrub on offer, which I declined at the time and now regret deeply. In this dry mountain air, the thought of all that exfoliation feels almost philosophical. I could have emerged renewed, reborn, possibly weatherproofed. Instead, I remained merely warm and rueful.
I did submit to a couple of massages. The Après-Ski option was, initially, indistinguishable from medieval punishment. Elbows were deployed. Mercy was not discussed. At one point, I briefly questioned whether I had misunderstood the meaning of “relaxation.”
And yet — the following morning, something quietly miraculous occurred. The soreness vanished. The stiffness retreated. I clipped into my skis and moved with the improbable grace of someone who had learned absolutely nothing from the previous day.
I skied like a ballerina.
A slightly bruised ballerina.
But a ballerina nonetheless.
A slightly bruised ballerina.
But a ballerina nonetheless.
These pauses mattered. They softened the days, sharpened the appetite, and made the skiing feel earned rather than obligatory.
On Eating (A Central Pillar of the Trip)
We did not venture far from Mottaret, largely because there was no reason to.
The hotel's downstairs restaurant delivered solid French cooking, done properly — good meat, generous portions, and sauces that made no apologies. Upstairs, the terrace and bar leaned into Savoyarde tradition: fondue, raclette, and dishes designed purely to keep winter at bay.
At lunch, the plat du jour was the highlight — boeuf bourguignon, blanquette, poulet au pot, pot-au-feu — dishes that felt expertly cooked for your well-being.
The local pizzeria, modest outside, served a lasagna so comforting it felt like emotional support. The crêperie, one of the town’s oldest, did just what the name promised: sweet and savoury crêpes, raclette, fondue — with no innovation or fuss.
Then there was the evening we ate at KH Culinary.
The ravioli au foie gras were excellent, rich without being excessive. But the côte de bœuf was the real event. It arrived with authority, demanded respect, and induced a food coma so complete that I had to go for a walk in the cold afterwards just to rejoin the living.
I regret nothing.
The Rhythm of It All
By the end, days fell into a gentle loop: ski, eat, walk, sleep. Muscles ached, appetites grew, time slowed.
Méribel-Mottaret does not demand self-improvement or relentless activity. Instead, it invites you to embrace the essence of winter: participation, enjoyment, and rest. In a season overwhelmed by obligations, this invitation to simple contentment becomes the true purpose of a winter holiday.
I left warmer, heavier, calmer, and entirely content.
Which, for a winter holiday, is exactly the point.Snow, Silence, and the Noble Art of Eating Too Much
Christmas in Méribel-Mottaret
Winter, when done properly, asks very little of you — only that you slow down, dress warmly, and eat well. This Christmas, Méribel-Mottaret offered exactly that: good snow, quiet walks, and meals substantial enough to justify the cold, reminding us that indulgence is sometimes the most sensible response to winter.
There are two types of ski holidays.
The first is built on good intentions and early alarms, the promise of first lifts, light dinners, and heroic athleticism.
The second accepts reality: that winter is not a season for restraint, but for layers, naps, melted cheese, and the quiet dignity of walking off a meal rather than lying down immediately. It savours the rich aroma of bubbling fondue, the comforting weight of a hearty stew, and the faint crunch of snow underfoot after a meal. These sensory notes collectively embody winter's ethos, bringing the abstract notion of indulgence to life through taste and texture.
The first is built on good intentions and early alarms, the promise of first lifts, light dinners, and heroic athleticism.
The second accepts reality: that winter is not a season for restraint, but for layers, naps, melted cheese, and the quiet dignity of walking off a meal rather than lying down immediately. It savours the rich aroma of bubbling fondue, the comforting weight of a hearty stew, and the faint crunch of snow underfoot after a meal. These sensory notes collectively embody winter's ethos, bringing the abstract notion of indulgence to life through taste and texture.
This was very much the second kind.
Base Camp
We stayed at the Alpen Ruitor, a hotel that understands ski life instinctively. You ski in, ski out, warm up, eat well, sleep deeply, and repeat — until time becomes irrelevant.
Nothing here is performative. The rooms are calm and functional, the welcome steady, and the restaurants operate with the confidence of people who know you will return very hungry. It is the kind of place that doesn’t try to impress you — and therefore does.
On Skiing (and Knowing Your Limits)
Yes, we skied.
A lot.
A lot.
Méribel-Mottaret sits within Les Trois Vallées — 600 kilometres of interconnected slopes, which sounds theoretical until you realise it is the largest ski area in the world and that the best snow always seems to be just one lift further than you planned.
A practical note, learned through experience and observation: book your ski pass for the full duration of your stay, with insurance, and make sure it covers the entire area. Anything less feels unnecessarily cautious. No one wants to discover that the day’s best run is technically out of bounds.
And if confidence falters — as it does, particularly when faced with ice, gradients, and people who appear to have been born on skis — the local ski school is invaluable. The instructors are calm, experienced, and refreshingly uninterested in bravado. They meet you where you are, which turns out to be the most civilised approach to both skiing and life.
When Not Skiing
A good ski holiday is improved immeasurably by moments of deliberate stillness.
Walking around the frozen lake provided exactly that: snow-muted paths, pine trees standing quietly, and the particular silence that only exists at altitude. Occasional wanders through Méribel Centre offered just enough animation to remind us that civilisation still functions, even in snow boots.
These pauses mattered. They softened the days, sharpened the appetite, and made the skiing feel earned rather than obligatory.
On Eating (A Central Pillar of the Trip)
As the hours of skiing carved away at the day's energy, our stomachs signalled the inevitable collapse of any dietary restraint. What better prelude could there be to a meal than the stretch of a waistband pushed to its noble limits? It was a reminder that in Méribel-Mottaret, indulgence wasn't just allowed, it was encouraged.
We did not venture far from Mottaret, largely because there was no reason to.
The hotel's downstairs restaurant delivered solid French cooking, done properly — good meat, generous portions, and sauces that made no apologies. Upstairs, the terrace and bar leaned into Savoyarde tradition: fondue, raclette, and dishes designed purely to keep winter at bay.
At lunch, the plat du jour quietly stole the show — boeuf bourguignon, blanquette, poulet au pot, pot-au-feu — food that feels like it was cooked by someone competent who wants you to be well.
The local pizzeria, modest in appearance, served a lasagna so comforting it bordered on emotional support. The crêperie, one of the oldest restaurants in town, did exactly what its name promised — sweet and savoury crêpes, raclette, fondue — without innovation, irony, or fuss.
Then there was the evening we ate at KH Culinary.
The ravioli au foie gras were excellent, rich without being excessive. But the côte de bœuf was the real event. It arrived with authority, demanded respect, and induced a food coma so complete that I had to go for a walk in the cold afterwards just to rejoin the living. The next morning, my body reminded me of the indulgence with gentle but unmistakable protests. However, these minor aches only underscored the satisfaction of a hearty meal well-enjoyed.
I regret nothing.
The Rhythm of It All
The days glided by in a gentle loop. Ski. Eat. Walk. Sleep. Muscles ached, reminding us of each adventure. Appetites grew, savoring every meal. Time slowed, like the steady rhythm of falling snow. Méribel-Mottaret invites simple engagement, not self-optimization. Participate mindfully. Embrace appetite and rest. In a world full of obligations, this felt quietly revolutionary.
I left warmer, heavier, calmer, and entirely content. This lingering warmth and tranquility prompted a simple question: how might one carry this peaceful, contented feeling back into the intricacies of ordinary life? Perhaps it lies in the small acts—pausing to savor a meal, embracing a walk in the cold, or simply allowing oneself a moment of stillness. These are the gifts of a winter holiday: leaving rested, satisfied, and at peace, and finding ways to extend these moments into everyday living.