St Moritz

: The Grand Account :

Winter tourism was invented here, on a wager. In 1864 the hotelier Johannes Badrutt bet four English guests that they would prefer the Engadin in December, and offered to pay their journey home if not. They stayed until spring, and St. Moritz has belonged to a certain England ever since. At 1,800 metres the light is famously dry and exact, the frozen lake hosts horse racing, and the Cresta Run still demands its toll of courage from gentlemen riders. This is the Alps at their most aristocratic: not a resort but a society, reconvening each season with the reliability of Parliament. The elite come because their grandparents did, and because nowhere else feels quite like it.

The Engadin has its own runway. A private jet from Farnborough reaches Samedan, Europe's highest airport, ten minutes from St. Moritz, in well under two hours, the Bernina massif filling the windows on approach. Those who relish the drive cross via Eurotunnel Le Shuttle and take the continental route at leisure, the final climb over the Julier Pass ranking among the great alpine arrivals. For winter, FFGR positions the Rolls-Royce Cullinan: imperturbable on snow, generous with skis and cases. Your single chauffeur, the same from London door to hotel porte-cochère, is trained for mountain conditions and knows the valley's roads in all weathers.

Badrutt's Palace remains the village's fixed point, its tower visible from every piste; the Kulm Hotel, where it all began, is the quieter counterpart. Dinner might be IGNIV, Andreas Caminada's shared-table restaurant within the Palace, or fondue by candlelight at El Paradiso, high above the valley. February brings White Turf, racing on the frozen lake in a haze of steam and breath; the Cresta Run receives guests by introduction. Between engagements, your chauffeur threads the Engadin's villages: Sils, Soglio, a long lunch in the Val Fex reached by horse-drawn sleigh. The season here is short. That is precisely what gives it its weight.