I go to the hills

When the snow and the skiers retreat, the Alps emerge as a realm of meadows, lakes and crystalclear air, with plenty of Michelin-starred food to fuel your adventures, discovers Richard MacKichan

SILVER white winters that melt into spring’ are, canonically, favourite things when it comes to the Alps, but perhaps Messrs Rodgers and Hammerstein could have spared a verse for the summertime, too. After all, a linguist (or a pedant) might tell you that the word ‘alp’ means a high mountain pasture for grazing livestock in season, rather than a mountain itself, so there’s always been more to these peaks than ski runs and raclette.

It’s not that going chronologically off-piste is a new idea or that we’re letting you in on a secret. In the early 1800s, summering in the Alps was de rigueur. However, there has been a boom in recent years, fuelled by a number of factors: pandemic-era rediscovery by locals, those seeking (relative) respite from scorching heatwaves inland, active types biking, hiking and flinging themselves off high things and those seeking some real R&R. More hotels are opening for, and actively promoting, the summer season. Restaurants, too, with a veritable constellation of Michelin stars on the French side alone (to quote Anthony Bourdain: ‘God bless the French. They can’t go too long—not even down a mountain—without eating well’).

Jetset-magnet towns, such as Chamonix, St Moritz and Gstaad, are transformed in T-shirt weather, with lively shopping streets, alfresco dining and nary a salopette in sight. The weather’s great, the air is clean, the wildlife is plentiful and there are some spectacular panoramic train routes, so you can dispense with hire-car stress or even airports, if you so wish.