Back when I had youth on my side, apres ski was as integral to my winter holiday as the skiing. Shame, then, that I didn’t discover the Austrian resort of Ischgl in my 20s.
Back then I could’ve stayed up until the early hours, swilling lager and dancing to 70s and 80s disco hits, as I did in places like Val Thorens and Livigno. In Ischgl we visited several wild bars and clubs, but I watched from the sidelines.
Our holiday started badly. Our accommodation had been downgraded because of a double booking the day before departure but our holiday company were not interested in a better solution. The flight left on time from Gatwick but we were diverted from Innsbruck (a notoriously tough airport for pilots in bad weather) and ended up in Friedrichshafen over the border in Germany. Then we waited for hours while our dismal tour operator, Inghams, organised the coaches to pick us up.
Then we discovered the roads to Ischgl were blocked because of heavy snowfalls. So we ended up being accommodated in a charming hotel in Wattens – home, incidentally, to the Swarovski crystal company. Finally, 36 hours behind schedule, we made it to Ischgl.
Long popular with Austrians, Germans and Scandinavians keen on booze, skiing and boarding, we soon discovered that this ski resort is fun, busy and noisy, in a good-natured way. High up in the Paznaun Valley at 1,400m and in the far west of Austria, it’s surprising that it’s taken so long for skiers elsewhere to cotton on to its attractions. The village may lack the pretty Alpine charm of some places but it has a good snow record. Indeed, during our stay there was so much snow that at times the risk of avalanche was high.
The ski map showed 40+ lifts and a large number of runs – about 230km.
I joined a ski school but struggled with an advanced group while Graham did his beginner stuff – for a few days anyway. Then he broke the news, as we sat over lunch in a mountain restaurant, that he hated skiing and was giving it up. I can’t say that I was too surprised but I knew then that skiing holidays would never be the same again, if we were to go at all.
I did at least manage another day on the slopes after that blow, leaving Graham to get on with things in the village. I’d decided to give the ski school a miss having lost my nerve on the previous day, only too aware that I was holding the others back. My lift pass covered duty free Samnaun in Switzerland – as part of the Silvretta Arena ski area – so I headed over in the intense sunshine and tried the above-the-treeline slopes on my own. Skiing solo is nowhere near as fun and I felt unnerved and exposed, conscious that I had no-one to turn to for help in case anything went wrong.
I got there from the Idalp area, a large bowl where the ski school meets and lifts fan out across the valley. I found the three gondolas from the town to Idalp to be speedy and at peak times there were some queues.
At the end of the day, skiers and boarders meet up in a variety of bars and clubs, some at the foot of those gondolas. Feuer and Eis, Kuhstal and Tenne were particularly popular during our visit. Nikos Hexenkuche was more of a draw for the middle-aged (like me), with music to match. We enjoyed the food at the hotels Silvretta and Sonne.
Our accommodation – an average B&B – was on the lift side of the bypass and far enough away from the main drag to avoid being disturbed by the noisy revellers making their way home in the early hours. Most of the streets around us were also pedestrianised.
With skiing a no-go activity after Graham’s big announcement, we moved on to other activities. We found the village swimming pool and spa and had a dip in the warm waters, then went for walks in the valley. We also donned cross country skis, and strode out into the valley for exercise and stunning sunshine views. We discovered just how exhausting langlaufing can be and sweated profusely in our alpine gear as we skied past evidence of avalanche in the valley. A few miles up the road, we got to see just how deep the snow was in these parts – walls of it more than 6ft deep!
We also took the bus up to the village of Galtur at the remote end of the valley, stopping for a hearty lunch and a walk in the hills. It wasn’t a pretty spot but made for a change of scene.
Fortunately, the end of the week saw us home without disruption other than the massive queues at Innsbruck Airport and the slowest check-in staff ever. It was package holiday hell…