The French Alpine resort of Morzine has grand landscapes and numerous summer walking paths but during our August 2013 weekend stay the weather was decidedly mixed – rain one minute, dazzling sunshine the next.
We’re big fans of the Alps in summer regardless of the weather and had previously stayed at Kitzbühel in Austria and Garmisch-Partenkirchen in southern Germany. I’ve always found the mountains incredibly rejuvenating and inspirational so it was with enthusiasm that we arrived at Geneva Airport, grabbed a sandwich, found our hire car and drove out of the Swiss city. Marvellous scenery slipped by as we climbed into the French Alps before our destination appeared in a deep mountain valley beyond Les Gets. Morzine was bigger and busier than I thought it would be and mountain bikers, who flock here in large numbers in summer, were out in force.
We found our beautiful hotel, Le Dahu, easily enough. Our traditionally decorated room looked out across the valley, offering some of the best views I’ve ever had from a hotel. Le Dahu isn’t that old. It was built in the mid-50s and has been extended several times since, but it felt typically Alpine, as if it had been around for ever. Throughout were photos of its founding family and Morzine in times gone by. It was like living in a family photo album. But we didn’t hang around for long and went out in search of food and drink. We crossed the valley, carved by the River Dranse, on a handsome old pedestrian suspension bridge and rewarded ourselves in the early evening heat with a beer at the busy town centre bar CDC.
We’d planned our break to be a mix of walking and relaxing and as the weather forecast was so crappy for the days ahead, we spent our first full day by the hotel pool. I’d slept remarkably well after my night of red wine and lager and we stumbled to breakfast fairly late and bleary eyed. The views across the valley from the restaurant, though, were more than enough to wake us up.
In the evening, after many hours of bone idleness, we explored more of Morzine, admiring its flower-filled planters and verges, its typical Alpine architecture. Paragliders launched themselves from the mountain tops into the blue skies above us, landing in the green fields on the edge of town. We stopped for a beer at the Dixie Bar, where groups of mountain bikers were refreshing themselves after a day in the saddle. We ventured on and eventually found an average but popular pizzeria, where we waited for ages because they forgot our order. It wasn’t the only dinner disappointment. On another night we had a truly bizarre meal at a posh restaurant. My simple fish terrine starter had odd accompaniments, such as a curious dollop of something that tasted like Christmas cake. My vast main course of various bits of lamb AND a pie came on two plates with more weird accompaniments, one of which was a gross red goo that tasted about 25 times sweeter than Haribo. The staff were friendly enough but I think the chef had pretensions to be Heston Blumenthal and couldn’t quite pull it off. The Pinot Noir was quality though…
One day, with the weather forecast predicting rain and potential storms, we chose to risk everything and do a walk to the modern ski resort of Avoriaz. We collected our maps and walking guides from the Morzine tourist office (like all tourist offices, a leaflet fetishist’s wet dream) and went off in search of the Telecabine Super Morzine gondola and its connecting chairlift. Plenty of mountain bikers were making the trip too and, as we climbed, we caught sight of others riding through the pine trees and meadows, on prepared tracks that in winter would be skiers’ pistes. It all looked a bit too hair-raising for me. At the top we could hear thunder rumbling in the distance, the sky looked far from promising and it was pretty chilly. But the mountains, verdant valleys and forests of pine clinging to the slopes looked magnificent. Cows grazed in the meadows, their clanging bells providing the soundtrack to our afternoon.
We strode out on a route lined with wild flowers, followed by a noisy bunch of South Africans who we struggled to shake off. It was by no means a difficult walk, mostly on the level or with gentle inclines, and it ended up taking around an hour or so. As it turned out, it was fortunate that we hadn’t opted for the sort of long hike we’d normally choose…
Avoriaz looked strange from a distance. Built on a plateau with its towers clad in timber, it resembled a sci-fi forest planted in the mountains. As we got closer to it so the thunder and lightning became louder and more violent, and it wasn’t long before we were donning our waterproofs to protect ourselves from the rain. As we arrived in the resort, it became torrential.
The town looked dead, a collection of blocks with very little life. As we hunted for a bar, we spotted the occasional soul dashing for cover in the downpour but they were few and far between. Avoriaz is what I always expected these purpose-built resorts to be – you can build as much as you like, but it’s a lot harder to create a community and soul. Still, it didn’t look as shocking as some other modern French Alpine towns thanks to inventive design and the extensive use of timber.
We found a second-rate bar and had a few pints while the rain thrashed down, accompanied by thunder and lightning. At times the cloud rolled in and we were locked into the thickest of fogs.
Later, we made a run for it to find a restaurant and some lunch. We planned our escape while the rainwater surged down the streets like a river, but there was no way we were ever going to be able to walk back to Morzine. After making inquiries at the tourist office, we located a bus but missed it by moments and so ended up paying 40 euros for a cab. Never have I been more grateful to be back home, soaked to the skin but in the warm.
That evening we decided to eat in the hotel, starting off with a drink in the bar with its immense views over the valley. The rain had stopped and wispy clouds drifted through the valley. But the restaurant was fully booked so we walked into town to the Auberge de la Combe a Zore for an extremely over-seasoned steak and frites. Graham couldn’t finish it, which says a lot! The restaurant was full of Brits, like much of the rest of Morzine, and the town’s food scene continued to disappoint.
Another day promised sunshine and blue skies so we decided to spend the day walking on Le Pleney – the hill on the other side of the valley from our hotel – to the nearby village of Les Gets, with a return via the Express Chavannes lift. Our plans were thwarted, however, when we discovered that the chairlift up to Le Pleney stopped halfway up the mountain because of all the work going on to install new equipment.
Thanks to lousy signage, it was only when we got turfed off the lift that we found out what was going on and by then we were stuck in the middle of nowhere. A climb up to the summit soon got dropped as a plan – it was too far and my sciatica was playing up just a little too much. Vexed, we headed across the mountain instead in the general direction of the Nyon waterfall that we’d visited earlier in our stay.
We struggled on through the woods on paths that were pretty dodgy and slippery before emerging into the sunshine and rather more solid ground. It was hot and sweaty work, climbing up and down meadows that, come winter, would be pistes for skiers and boarders.
Back in the valley, we picked up the Dranse river and it looked beautiful dappled with the sun’s rays as we tracked it back to town using the Chemin du Reynard footpath. We stopped for lunch at a cafe that offered immense views across the valley from its terrace.
In the afternoon we decided to take the Telecabine Super Morzine up the mountain and then hike back to town on a route known as the Woodpecker Walk. Perhaps if we’d known what was coming we’d have decided against it. At first it was all pretty simple but soon some of the tracks in the woods became deadly, thanks to the wet weather of previous days and the fact that mountain bikers had churned up the paths. Laughably, the guide to walking in the area claimed the route was banned to bikers and would be perfectly safe.
At one point I lost my nerve completely as we struggled on very steep drops with no grip on our mud-bound boots. The lack of signposting didn’t help.
Somehow, and with legs like jelly, we made it down with our dignity and bones intact but covered in mud. I needed lots of food and booze after the traumas of the day so in the evening we ate at one of the better pizza places in town.
Some of the walks around Morzine had proven challenging for one reason or another, at Lake Montriond my faith in the area was well and truly restored.
The next morning it was time to say goodbye to Morzine and drive the relatively short distance to the airport at Geneva. We ended up circling it several times just to find fuel and the car hire HQ and the queue for security was horrific, but not even those frustrations could take away the joy of having been in the mountains and my favourite landscapes once again.