I’ve just returned from a week in Val d’Isère with a group of middle-aged men clinging bravely to their youth – and occasionally their lower backs. The snow was spectacular, the views breathtaking, and the prices the sort that make you briefly consider selling a kidney on the dark web.
Now I’m back in glorious San Antonio (for a few days anyway), where snow-capped peaks have been replaced by yacht masts. The air smells faintly of spring and optimism and the steepest descent I face is the wobble home from Taberna Cebo on a Friday night.
Somewhere between three flights and a 16-hour travel saga (God bless you Ibiza logistics), I had a revelation:
Ski holidays and Ibiza summer holidays are exactly the same. One just involves thermals. The other involves pretending you look good in linen.
The clothes might differ, in the mountains you dress like a high-vis marshmallow wearing equipment worth more than your first car and at the beach it’s three pairs of shorts, a couple of T-shirts, the latest footwear and the blind confidence you’ll look good and fit right in.
Performance metrics also differ only cosmetically. On ski trips you boast about kilometres covered. In Ibiza you quietly switch your smartwatch off because it’s starting to send wellbeing alerts to loved ones. Both achievements are presented as elite athletic output.
The physical impact is simply redistributed. Mountains destroy your legs and lungs. Ibiza destroys your hydration levels, sleep patterns and occasionally your reputation. Either way, by Wednesday you’re stretching muscles you didn’t know existed and Googling cures normally reserved for conspiracy theorists.
Drinking justification follows identical science.
Beer on the mountain = recovery fluid.
Beer at noon in Ibiza = climate adaptation.
Cocktails at sunset = cultural research.
Nobody challenges this logic. Especially once everyone becomes a relationship expert, crypto analyst and geopolitical strategist after round number four.
And the travelling circus of personalities never changes:
The Organiser – spreadsheet ready, itinerary colour-coded, WhatsApp messages arriving like push notifications from God.
The Early Riser – awake at dawn, constantly checking his watch whilst tutting quietly.
The Late One – permanently explaining where he was and why it “wasn’t his fault”.
The Deluded One – convinced he’s still 25 (not me obviously).
The Casualty – emotionally and physically peaked at the boarding gate.
The Financial Philosopher – explaining that “experiences are investments” while quietly sweating at the card machine.
Après literally means ‘after’, which is just elegant branding for day drinking with scenery. Après-ski, sundowners, accidental pub crawls with new best friends you’ll never see again. It’s themed intoxication, those marketing departments are absolutely stealing a living.
Let’s also acknowledge both skiing and Ibiza are acts of financial self-harm. The correct approach is fiscal dissociation: don’t check the banking app, don’t do the maths and don’t acknowledge Future You – who will be sending angry emails to Present You very shortly.
No matter if you’re in the mountains or at the beach, the truth is universal. You’re escaping. Escaping emails. Escaping adult responsibilities with the growing suspicion your body now makes noises previously associated with antique furniture. Snow and sea are just the background for laughter, questionable decisions and group stories that improve dramatically in retelling.
Now I’m back in home San A reflecting, skiing convinces me that I’m athletic, Ibiza convinces me that I’m sociable. Both convince me that I’m younger – right up until I have to climb the stairs.
For now I’m swapping chairlifts for coastal walks, alpine air for sea breeze and overpriced fondue for menú del día and tapas but next year’s ski planning is already underway. Lift passes have been checked, flights bookmarked – enthusiasm of a teenager, recovery time of a pensioner.
The bottom line is whether you’re bombing down a piste or bombing through sunset drinks, it’s time with your mates doing something you love that actually matters.
After all, we’re here for a good time, not a long time and if we hydrated, budgeted, slept properly and behaved like responsible adults I’d have absolutely nothing worth writing about.
We travelled to Val d”isere staying at the Hotel Kandahar
Booked with Inghams
MAN IN SAN AN by Martin Makepeace 