Class conscious - Andrew Martin finds the "Full Fulham" in St Moritz
Published 08 March 2004
Only in St Moritz can you see the Full Fulham - and not go into a Marxist rage
A woman I know who lives in Fulham gets depressed in the winter school holidays because it seems as if all her neighbours go off and do winter sports. She is haunted by the question "Aren't you going skiing this year?" because she can't ski and, more to the point, can't afford to, either. In north London, we're not so hung up on skiing - just as fewer of us play golf or rugby. Frankly, we're too brainy. Nevertheless, I did feel a sense of missing out during the couple of days I spent in St Moritz for work last week.
St Moritz at midday in winter is like an Oxford college at nine o'clock on a Saturday night. Suspiciously silent. Everyone has gone somewhere more interesting than you, the person left behind.
At about 5pm, though, St Moritz comes to life again, especially its bars, which are full of people with that strange, winter-sports tan: a sort of radioactive look. Quite obviously they have been skiing, but where exactly? (It's characteristic of ski resorts that you never actually see anyone skiing anywhere near them.) And how did they get there, and how did they get back, and where did they put their skis at the start of the apres-ski period?
On the last point, my guess is that they are handed over to servants, St Moritz being the most moneyed place I have ever seen. Roughly every other person emerging from the railway station is met by a liveried chauffeur and gently inserted into a huge limousine; about one in three women wears furs, and I saw a couple of examples of men dressed for apres-ski in what I think of as "the Full Fulham": covert coat, puce elephant cords, Church's brogues. Normally the sight of the Full Fulham has me seething with Marxist frustration and anger, but the soaring mountains around St Moritz are a great balm, especially in the golden light of late afternoon. Expensive togs are put in their proper perspective.
There actually is a Church's shoe shop in St Moritz, by the way: it's right opposite Cartier. Most shops in the town close at six, but one stays open until midnight, so you can pick up emergency supplies of extra-large cigars and champagne.
My own enjoyment of this amazing town was, however, curtailed by my only snow-proof shoes - a pair of brown DMs - being filthy. I could see no way of cleaning them, normal shoe polish being one of the many basic items it is hard to find in St Moritz.
In the brochure of the four-star hotel that was putting me up (on a complimentary basis) I read: "We believe in the old-fashioned hotel traditions so, if you want your shoes cleaned, just leave them outside your door." But how much would this service cost? Perhaps it was free. Maybe that's what they meant by "old-fashioned". On the other hand, this being Switzerland, the shoes might easily come back with a bill for £20 tucked into the laces. Or an entirely different pair might be returned, together with a friendly note: "In view of the condition of the shoes you put out for cleaning we have taken the liberty of replacing them with a pair of Church's brogues at a cost to you of only £250."
I looked further into the brochure, and read: "Want us to clean your car inside and out, and refill it with petrol? Can do! Just ask at the desk." Mmm . . . no mention of a fee there, either, and there certainly would be a charge for that.
No, it was too big a risk to avail myself of any service other than the actual bed, so, ashamed of my shoes, I turned in early, resolving to wake up early and see exactly where all those skiers went.
But I overslept, and breakfasted alone in the hotel restaurant, watched by a lone Swiss-German waiter, the air pregnant once more with the absence of well-bred voices.
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