Beyond the Ski Resorts: The Real Alpine Winter Experience
What It’s Really Like to Live in a High-Altitude Village in the French Alps in Winter
Right, let’s get one thing straight—this isn’t some story about a cosy ski resort with its heated chalets and perfectly groomed slopes.
No, this is a trip down memory lane, back to the winters we spent in Granier, a tiny village perched up in the Tarentaise Valley.
The snow there didn’t just dust the landscape prettily—it swallowed it whole.
And when you lived there, well, you had no choice but to adapt.
Or, as I quickly learned, spend half your time digging yourself out of the mess winter threw at you.
The Morning Shock: Buried Alive
Waking up in the mountains in the dead of winter is always a bit of a gamble.
Some mornings, it’s just cold.
Others… well, you open the door and realise the weather had been on a rampage overnight.
One particular morning, I swung open the front door, still half-asleep, and—bam.
A solid wall of snow.
Not just a light dusting, no—almost a full metre of the stuff had dumped itself right in front of the house.
I just stood there, staring at it.
The village was still there, its chalets resting under thick blankets of snow, their shapes clear against the white landscape.
I stuck my hand into the snow just to see if I could reach the ground.
Spoiler: I couldn’t.
And the best part? This wasn’t even unusual.
Just another charming Alpine morning.
The Daily Battle with the Snow
First things first—digging.
Now, I don’t mind a bit of exercise, but spending 45 minutes every single morning just trying to carve a path to the rest of civilisation?
A challenge, sure, but in a way, a satisfying one.
The sight of all that pristine snow, untouched and glistening in the morning light, was enough to make me smile every single time.
And it wasn’t just the driveway.
No, no—our house was on a slope, which meant clearing an 80-metre path. With stairs.
It was exhausting, but also, in a strange way, rewarding.
By the end of winter, my arms looked like I’d been training for a lumberjack competition, and honestly, I felt a small sense of pride every time I managed to clear the whole path before breakfast.
Oh, and then there was the car.
We had to park over 100 metres downhill, which meant that every shopping trip turned into a logistical nightmare.
But, as frustrating as it was to haul heavy bags up an icy slope, there was something about those crisp, cold evenings—trudging up, breath forming little clouds, with the scent of woodsmoke in the air—that made it feel like we were part of something special.
A real winter, not just some postcard version of it.
I’d like to say we got used to it, but honestly, we mostly just learned to appreciate the ridiculousness of it all.
A Village Wrapped in White
Once the battle with the snow was over (for the moment, at least), we’d set off for the village centre.
Now, ‘centre’ is a generous term—Granier is small.
No bustling cafés or ski rental shops here. But it did have a tiny tourist office that doubled as a bread depot, and that was our morning ritual.
Trudging down there, feeling the satisfying crunch of fresh snow underfoot, and grabbing a warm baguette—it was one of those small things that made winter feel almost… manageable.
Most of the village looked deserted under the snow, with only a few plumes of smoke curling up from chimneys, proof that people were actually inside, staying warm.
Occasionally, you’d pass another local, wrapped up in layers, offering a nod and a knowing smile that basically said, "Yep, we’re all in this together."
Luge, Skiing, and Unexpected Adventures
Of course, it wasn’t all just survival mode.
Our daughter, five years old at the time, was obsessed with her sledge.
Every afternoon, we’d take her out to the slopes around the village, and she’d fling herself down them with zero hesitation.
Meanwhile, I was there, standing at the top, calculating the likelihood of her crashing into a tree. (She never did. Kids are like rubber, aren’t they!)
Once a week, she had cross-country skiing lessons on the high trails.
And while she did that, my wife and I would strap on our snowshoes and head off into the forests.
There’s something about walking through a pine forest, blanketed in untouched snow, that feels almost otherworldly.
Everything is still, muffled.
Even your own footsteps sound distant.
Sometimes, we’d find fresh animal tracks—foxes, maybe a hare—reminding us that, despite the silence, we weren’t alone.
A Hike to Nowhere (But With the Best View Ever)
One of the most unforgettable days was when my young Aussie nephew came to visit from England.
He’d never seen so much snow in his life, so obviously, we had to take him on a real adventure.
We headed up past the village, to over 2,000 metres, into the Alpine pastures—though ‘pastures’ is a bit misleading when they’re buried under deep snow.
The sun was out, the sky was a sharp, cloudless blue, and when we finally reached the ridge, the view was ridiculous.
Just mountains as far as you could see—the Vanoise Massif, the Graian Alps stretching towards Italy.
It felt like standing on top of the world, with nothing but snow, silence, and space.
We just stood there for a while, not saying much, just taking it in.
That kind of quiet—well, you don’t get it in cities.
You barely get it anywhere.
Evenings by the Fire (and More Snow on the Way)
By the time the sun started dipping behind the peaks, the village would settle into that cosy kind of hush that only happens in deep winter.
The first lights flickered on, casting a golden glow onto the snowdrifts.
And outside? More flakes were already starting to fall, thick and steady.
Inside, though, everything was warm.
Fire crackling, woollen socks, tea steaming in our hands.
We’d sit there, watching the snowfall through the window, knowing that by morning, we’d be out there again, shovelling.
But for now? For now, the world was quiet, wrapped in white.
And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Thank you for taking me on this journey. I miss snow since moving from the East Coast of the US to Brittany. I, too, found shoveling very gratifying, although I didn't have to do it daily! I hope to visit the Alps during winter soon.