”Can you keep up?”, David asks with his back at me. He is already scaling a steep knoll covered with thick dunes of powder snow. Wandering along as if he was just going to empty the mail box. But then again he is a professional, he does this for a living.
I’m stuck in a fence, leaning on the top of a fir tree while I’m trying to make my left foot to do what I want it to do.

We are on snowshoes – off-piste – at Lac Blanc in the French Vosges-mountains. It’s only been three hours since I got off the train in Alsace and the total range of my life experiences have already been broadened considerably. Because when you think about it, what do you really know about snow until you have tried to walk in it with two miniature snowboards strapped onto your boots?

I must admit right away that it’s actually not that difficult. Snowshoes are for everybody and you don’t need to attend courses or learn plough techniques. You pay 10 Euros a day to rent the snowshoes and the sticks and then you are ready to go – ready to go uphill, that is! But the feeling, well it’s different. To lift the planks with every step. Without ever being able to slide. It is simply a hike with weights strapped to your feet. You get strong thighs!

I went on the trip out of curiosity because the French newspapers are filled with stories about snowshoes. Approximately 50 centimeters long and weighing one kilo, they have become the hottest thing in France. Like a whole new sport that within a few years has overtaken both cross country skiing and snowboarding and today is the second biggest winter sport after alpine skiing.

”It’s become so popular because everybody can do it and because it doesn’t require any training”, David Clar explains, as we trot by an elderly married couple who look like they are in their late 60s.  The kind of super energetic people that probably live until they are 90 while still rushing up to 1,200 meter’s altitude with rosy cheeks and low cholesterol levels. The perfect pr for snowshoes. David Clar is a snowshoe instructor at Lac Blanc and he looks like a man who is happy with his business. Because while it was almost embarrassing to walk on snowshoes 15 years go, there are now approximately to million French people who have taken to the sport and a lot of them go to the Vosges in Alsace. Another kind of esprit, as you would say in French: More of a hiking atmosphere and fewer sunglasses with reflexes.

We wander upwards, through the forest, over the animal fence, across the cross country slopes, which we are careful not to mess up. The sky is deep blue and it’s -8 degrees Celsius. This sunlight treatment should be prescribed for everyone with a winter depression, because how hard can life be when the snow creaks under the spikes and the sky gets so in your face?

Now and then he stops, my guide. Pokes at an animal trail. ”That was a rabbit”. And he explains about the rare yellow flowers that now look like dried out mummies, and points to a hill-side – in 1,5 kilometer’s altitude – where the German and French fought it out during World War II. It strikes me that I’ve never seen the mountains this way. That I’ve always used the slopes but never spotted  the squirrel scurrying up the tree.

130,000 pairs of snowshoes are sold in France every year. This compares to only 50.00 pairs of cross country skis. Snowshoes have become an industry, and a small factory near Annecy that previously only produced 1,000 snowshoes a year now spits out one snowshoe a minute.

The tourist industry has also seized the opportunity to take advantage of the new trend and in the Vosges they aim directly at the ”foot-soldiers”. They create special slopes for the snowshoes so the hikers don’t collide with the skiers and the most lazy of them can walk on plain tracks. The latter really provokes the enthusiasts. They find it ridiculous to walk on snowshoes in places where you might as well walk in ordinary boots. But the skiing stations welcome all new fans, even the lazy ones.

If it’s your first time on snowshoes you will naturally want to book a guide or sign up for a group trip. Two hours cost 18 Euros and 38 for an entire day. However I must warn you: Only people who are really fit should do the whole day, because after one afternoon and the following morning’s off-piste hike with yellow plastic snowshoes I’m as well kneaded as a French sourdough.

Maybe I’ll never become as fanatic as the folks that book night hikes with David with head lamps and warm coffee in the thermos. However, I admit that it’s fun and I suddenly understand what they are talking about; the others we meet. The nice creaking sound of the snow being stepped on. And the magical moment in the dusk where the sun fades and you duck in between the firs on the way down to Auberge Le Blancrupt in 1,120 meter’s altitude to sip hot grog by the fireplace.

It would be too pretentious to call it after-skiing in the original sense of the word, because here at Lac Blanc the snowsuits aren’t necessarily from last season, or the one before that, for that matter, and if it’s crowded you must share at table with the local police force who isn’t likely to have caught a pickpocket the last several weeks. But the atmosphere is nice. And healthy. The people who come here are more interested in looking at the nature than looking at themselves.

There are skiing hotels of the normal kind. In fake wood, with felt on the floor. And a persistent, unmistakable scent of wet dog. Most often, they come combined with a bus ride of unimpressive quality, and you may call me a snob, but I just can’t have it.

Photo: Philippe Schaff

And then there are real winter hotels. Chalets built in massive timber, with a flaming log in the fireplace and a big bowl of nuts and apples waiting when you come in from the cold. This is what it is like at Hameau Albert 1er in Chamonix. This is where Pierre Carrier and his wife Martine reside as the fourth generation of hoteliers, and he has clearly maintained his great grandfather, Francois-Joseph’s standards. Because not only does his restaurant command two stars in the Guide Michelin, he has also rebuilt the hotel in a particularly remarkable way.



Pierre Carrier has simply bought three old alpine farms, torn them down and reconstructed them piece by piece in the hotel’s garden right in the centre of Chamonix town, so today you can either live in the hotel proper or in “La Ferme” – the farmhouse.


Photo: Philippe Schaff

We booked the latter option for a long weekend and got three days of unadulterated luxury with a private terrace and a direct view of the Mont Blanc. A “chambre spacieuse” entirely in wood with groovy orange-colored designer chairs, a Bang and Olufsen TV and personal velour slippers. A romantic lair and the perfect point of departure for a proper skiing holiday. Or for a pure chill out  holiday, for that matter. Cause even if you don’t fancy skiing, you will surely enjoy staying in the old chalets, where any kids you may have brought along can sleep in authentic alcoves, and where a resident cosmetologist in the cellars beauty salon offers facials, massages and lymph drainage every afternoon after ski.



“This is just totally, perversely decadent” as my husband joyfully noted as we lay in the steaming pool after a full day’s driving from Paris and took in the Mont Blanc. While the other guests were lying in chaiselongues under the palms inside, we were swimming in the garden where people walked around in caps and big sweaters. Neither of us wanted to spoil the experience by thinking about the heating bill, or indeed our own bill. Because the deal was that we would rather spend three days in real luxury than a week in a prefabricated winter hotel. And we never regretted it.

Many hotels and tourist destinations currently try to attach a story to their product. Because smart marketing guys have told them that story-telling is a profitable strategy. Unfortunately, this often results in boring anecdotes about the places’ mediocre origin.


Photo: Philippe Schaff

But in the case of Hameau Albert 1er, the story is so authentic that even the most trendy branding people couldn’t ask for more.

Pierre Carrier can thus trace his ancestry in Chamonix back to the 17th century. Generations of peasants were ploughing the meagre mountain land until alpinism kicked in and the first tourists emerged. Then they changed tracks and threw themselves into this new business.      

When the railroad arrived in 1902, Pierre Carrier’s great-grandfather opened a boarding house, and it is this modest “railroad boarding house” which since has been refined and renamed Albert 1er after the Belgian king, who was an accomplished mountaineer and a frequent visitor in Chamonix.
Since Pierre Carrier’s return to the hotel in 1979, it has been showered with honors and awards to the extent that the owner today has two stars in the fastidious Guide Michelin.  



They are well deserved, because the restaurant at Albert 1er is exactly as gastronomically elegant as you can expect at this level. Try for instance a “century menu”, which offers duck foie gras en confit with pickled peaches and cranberry caramel, filet of lavaret from Lake Geneva with cepe, langoustine with pine nuts and a black raddish remoulade, and of course a selection of French cheeses and fine chocolate biscuits with honey-roasted figs.

All of it served in the cozy restaurant with wooden walls and waiters who know the 20,000 wines in the cellar as if they were old friends.



Today, the fifth generation of the Carrier family has already been enrolled to take over, and generation number six is on its way. The owner’s daughter, Perrine, has married the cook – and number two man in the kitchen – Pierre Maillet, and a new member of the family is just around the corner. With a good eye for business opportunities, the family has opened a less pretentious restaurant – La Maison Carrier – in connection with La Ferme, where you can sit in low-ceilinged, traditional rooms with heavy wooden tables, stone floors and a huge fireplace for rotating suckling pigs and watch the chef juggle the cheese fondue. Order it! It is totally traditional with rich, melted cheese in the copper casserole and big chunks of bread for dipping. To me, on a cold winter day, this beats any sophisticated Michelin-menu. And you can always save some room for an Irish coffee down at the Irish pub in the town later in the evening.



Because even though Hameau Albert 1er is a beautiful pocket of luxury, we should not isolate ourselves from the world outside. And Chamonix may not be, architecturally speaking, the most beautiful alpine station, but it still has all the charm that you get when you have plenty of pure air, smooching, after ski and happy Italians weekending in a valley surrounded by tall mountains and perfect weather.



This place simply has the perfect mix of class and good creperies, French families with many children and black Porsches on Swiss plates. And of course plenty of tanned skiing daredevils. But still without too much felt carpeting and wet dog scent!

HAMEAU ALBERT 1ER, 38 route du Bouchet, 74402 Chamonix

Go further: In the other end of the scale - read about Homeboy Ski's life as ski-bum in Chamonix here.

We thought it was a purely English phenomenon. However, Bed & Breakfast has become at huge hit in France, yes even in Paris, where Parisians hire out rooms and serve homemade jam for breakfast. Vi took the grand tour and found both luxury, four-poster beds and funny people.

At home with Jean-Luc

Behind a small carved oak door in rue Charlot, in a 17th century town house right at the centre of Le Marais. You ring the door bell at Marchand, and when you’ve scaled the curved staircase it feels like you are visiting a boarding house for artists in provincial France.

Here are large windows overlooking the street and detached beams. Luscious parquet flooring, a wonderful old fireplace, a painting of an ancestor and green leather furniture of the worn out kind filled with colorful pillows. Plus, obviously, a bulky library, a gold mirror and a piano.

This is where Jean-Luc and Denise Marchand live with their three grown-up children. Until recently Jean-Luc was a businessman in the financial sector. Educated at New York University’s Stern School of Business and with a global career in the large consultant firms. But suddenly he felt fed up with plane trips and the train ride to the City in London, and at the age of  50 he quit his job and opened a Bed & Breakfast at his home address. He never regretted the decision.

The three rooms are almost always booked and Jean-Luc clearly thrives in the role as host. He likes to get up early to buy croissants for the guests and his plentiful breakfast has already been mentioned in The Sunday Times. Jean-Luc produces the honey himself at his country house in Perigord and the jam is homemade by Mrs. Denise. She is a psychotherapist and owns a practice in town.

The three rooms are located on the first floor and have a private entrance, private bathroom and lots of fine details. Like a sink, carved in dark grey granite and placed on top of a big heavy oak log.

The most beautiful room is the Enclos des Templiers - named after the fortress built by the Templars in the Marais in the thirteenth century. In this room there are terracotta floors, detached beams and a view of the small inner courtyard typical of Paris’ closely built historical center.

Rates for a room: 125 € a night for two people.

Denise & Jean-Luc Marchand, 63, rue Charlot, 75003 Paris.
www.bonne-nuit-paris.com

In the pink house at Montparnasse

Marie-Martine is a former travel journalist and Michel is a painter. The couple inhabits the two top floors of a pink brick building close to Montparnasse and here – in the Maison Hippolyte – they hire out one of their rooms: 30 square meters with a private entrance and bathroom, equipped with a French iron bed, a paint-stripped country style cupboard and the light streaming in from the big windows.

The couple has traveled extensively and they have stayed at tons of Bed & Breakfasts. Perhaps as a result of this, they have been able to create exactly the home-like, cozy nerve, which is the whole point of private accommodation. The breakfast alone is worth the stay. Freshly baked baguette, homemade cakes, Marie-Martine’s home made jam, juice, yoghurt, apple compote and steaming hot tea from the Palais des Thés.

The room offers a fine view of the street life and in the evening of the Eiffel Tower, which sparkles with 20,000 light bulbs every whole hour.

The price is almost touching: 85 € a night for two – including the brilliant breakfast. But make reservations well in advance, because Marie-Martine and Michel have already been mentioned in both French and foreign medias, so their one room is in demand.

La Maison Hippolyte, 27, rue Hippolyte-Maindron, 75014 Paris.

High standards in the biscuit factory

It was an old dream that last year inspired Marie Funke and her husband to buy the manager’s residence close connected to an old biscuit factory in the 13th arrondissement.

Marie Funke, who had worked in the hotel business for 20 years, wanted to create an exclusive Bed & Breakfast where she could spoil her guests while having more time to spend with her children. She succeeded.

La Villa Paris is high class through and through. Four spacious rooms with trendy English wallpaper, flat screen TVs and designer lamps that light up when you turn the base.

At Marie Funke’s, the breakfast is served in the salon. All the guests sit together around the big table and in no time the conversation ripples across the table while Mrs Funke discretely tiptoes around with extra raisin buns for all.

She has named her four rooms Opera, Concorde, Bastille and Champs-Elysées. They’re all comfortable, but if you are on a honeymoon then go for the Champs-Elysées, which has a huge marble bathroom with a jacuzzi.

The one thing you could possibly wish was different is the location, because Paris’ 13th arrondissement is normally not known for its charm. However, Marie’s Chambre d’Hotes is actually rather nicely located by a small square and taking the high standard of the rooms into account, the price is very reasonable: 135 to 160 € a night for at double room.

La Villa Paris, 33, rue de la Fontaine à Mulard, 75013 Paris. 

Find more hotels in Paris 

Brazilian Favela Chic is one of the funniest dancing spots in Paris right now and especially nice if you’ve started with a dinner in the restaurant and felt the spontaneous atmosphere grow.

At 10 pm the place is packed. You are benched by long tables, thrown in amidst a bunch of happy people. The last time we were there, we had an Arabian film maker and his date, a German-Bolivian girl, next to us on one side, and on our other side sat an archetypical Parisian girl and a handsome black guy wearing Armani and flip flops.

Photo by Alexdecarvalho

It’s extremely hip, but very bohemian and refreshingly uncomplicated. The interior is retro, almost old school: Orange and polka dotted wallpaper, a large open kitchen with a Virgin Mary figurine by the stove and a dancing corner painted grass-green, where people have to make room between the DJ’s table and a white leather couch from the 80s.

The music is cheerful and with a distinct inspiration from black music: soul, funk and jazz. After the last service close to midnight, it seems people just can’t sit still anymore and in a somewhat improvised manner, the thirtysomethings, the student, a couple of famous actors and a few foreigners start mixing on the dance floor.

If you are dining there, try the Feijoada, a Brazilian stew with black beans, smoked pork and bayberry that has simmered a whole day and is served with rice, kale and manioc.

Favela Chic, 18, rue de Faubourg-du-Temple, 11. arr. Metro: République

By Louise Sandager, extract from the travel guide PARIS mon amour!, published by Gyldendal.
 

Call us cheesy, but momondo has gone crazy for coagulated milk. We've given our writers the mission of uncovering 'le meilleur fromage' in Paris, 'il migliore formaggio' in Rome, the stinkiest cheeses in New York and the hands-down best cheeses in London, Brussels and Madrid. So grab yourself some bread and wine and join us on this tour of the best cheese shops in Europe.

Madrid

Some women are shopaholics, others just alcoholics. Karin in London calls herself a hotelaholic, because she has an exaggerated penchant for luxury accommodation. I’m a cheesaholic. One of those people who always has at least three and not seldom six different cheeses in my cheese safe among which you will always find minimum one goat and one sheep.

I like all kind of cheese except from at certain Danish one called Old Ole’s old father, a perversion, which has matured for several years before it’s served with jelly, lard and rum!

But apart from this one, I am ready to travel quite far to get a good cheese, so in Madrid, of course, I took a taxi to get west of the centre, searching for ‘Cuenllas’, a delicatessen in Calle de Ferraz, famous for its cheeses.

The taxi driver thought I was nuts, as the trip was more expensive than the cheese I was going to buy. An even more nuts, when we found the shop closed and he had to bring me all the way back again. Without Le Queso Manchego I was so much longing for.

Living in France I am spoiled with cheeses and used to boutiques so specialised that people in there would kill you, if you asked for anything else but products related to milk.

In Spain, however, cheese is often sold in the same shop as ham and meat. So I found my black skinned Manchego in Museo del Jamon, side by side with Mortadella, Chorizo and olive sausages.

Museo del Jamon is not a ham museum, but a blend of delicatessen and café. Big dried hams are suspended on hooks from the ceiling, and Spanish housewives negotiate about the best Ibérico, while workmen in overalls and oily fingers are snacking at the zinc desk.

I had an assortment of olives, anchovies and cuttlefish while waiting for the shop assistant to finish with a black dressed Spanish widow who apparently wanted to be sure she had the best quality of Bellota (Ham from a pig eating only acorn).

The guy next to me tried to entertain me about the greatness of Real Madrid. Unfortunately my Spanish was not good enough to understand the details, but at least for the cheese I understood I had to try the Queso Picos de Europa. It’s a blue cheese, which has been wrapped in chestnut leaves and matured in caves in Picos de Europa. It was good, I admit, but almost too blue. Then I liked the Pedroches much better, a sheep cheese from near Cordoba. Not to talk about the Idiazabel, also a sheep cheese, but from the Basque country, with a smoky taste and perfumed aroma.

I liked it – not only the cheese, but the whole atmosphere – so much that I tried several of the Museo’s branches in the city. Coming from Paris where cheese-buying is a serious affair; it was so much funnier here. When the old lady, without a tooth in her mouth, stuffed herself with soft, fresh goat cheese while filling in her lotto coupons. And the local plumber took a pause from his work, drinking draught beer and eating salami at the bar, discussing soccer with the waiter.

Try the shop in Carrera de San Jeronimo 6, just next to the famous restaurant Lhardy.  And don’t forget to taste the Gran Casar. It looks like callous skin at the outside, but it’s soft and delicate inside; slightly salt and a little bitter. 25 euros the kilo.