Armancette Hôtel, Chalets & Spa

Mr Smith is channelling Ron Burgundy (the Anchorman movie character with no grasp of idiom): ‘When in Rome…’, says Mr Smith at the prospect of using the Japanese toilet in our French Alpine hotel room. He has also mis-applied this embracing-local-customs philosophy to: braving the (not especially French) underground multi-storey car park in Saint Gervais Les Bains, and my decision to order a (definitely not Savoyard) Coke Light with our pavement-table lunch. 

Mr Smith and I have escaped to Armancette Hôtel, not far from Saint Gervais Les Bains in the French Alps. As a forever fan of the mountains, ever since I was commissioned by Smith to write this hotel’s profile for our collection, I have been dreaming about visiting for an off-duty stay. 

Our room for the weekend, a spacious Saint-Nicolas Double, is a neutral-toned, textural triumph of rustic woods and moleskin textiles — notably free of any artwork, but presumably this is to let the idyllic Mont Joly views from our window provide the eye candy. There are tiny, fresh-baked financiers to welcome us, free beer and soft drinks in the minifridge, and the sounds of chatter and splashing emanating from the spa pool that our room overlooks. 

We needed no audible prompts to tog up and take the waters: Armancette’s spa, although modest in size, comes with an indoor-outdoor pool where you can swim out into muesli-ad views of the valley and back indoors for a civilised stair-exit. And there are three outdoor Jacuzzis to politely jostle for with your fellow guests: once you’ve secured the outermost of the three, with the premium vistas, you won’t look back. 

About the valley. I would have thought it was enough to be in a Heidi-worthy picture of billiard-felt-green meadows, chiselled peaks and some of the most irresistible chalet porn I’ve ever struggled to rank for covetability. But no, this secluded soupçon of Savoie (a valley or two over from Megève, but try to keep that to yourselves) had to go and raise its game — by throwing in a glacier for good measure, plus a village church with the gilt and polish of a Roman basilica. Oh, and chairlift access to the Evasion-Mont Blanc ski area. And a network of mountain-biking trails through the forest. St Nicolas de Véroce wants for nothing. 

The same can be said for our dinner at La Table d’Armante. Head chef Fabien Laprée works alchemy with Savoyard produce to create seasonal tasting menus. We opt for the ‘Mediterranean’ selection, kicking off neatly with a myrtille-sprigged cocktail du jour and delicate amuse-bouches served on a wooden board. This hand-carved platter sports a range of mountains rising from its plain — peaks that impressively mirror the view from our terrace table. 

This level of detail blows us away all evening: red mullet served with fluffy couscous and Provençal vegetables has an applause-worthy balance of flavours. And just when we’re feeling at our fullest, a dessert of chocolate and olives turns out to be a highlight, with moulded chocolates that perfectly resemble black olives, somehow filled with a citrusy olive sorbet. 

The next day is set aside for a circular hike up to Le Mottey and back through the forest. We take advice — and a map — from Armancette’s friendly concierge, and even last night’s banquet can’t put us off planning our next meal. We buy quiche and a filled baguette to share from the hotel bakery, and plot our route to pass by café-at-altitude, Refuge de Porchery, where we stop for frothy cafés au lait. 

It’s an idyllic hike, backdropped by wildflowers waving trailside, dormant ski lifts put to bed for summer, and a tinkle of cowbells that leads us to, erm, two horses (presumably having a crisis of identity about their neckwear). 

The steep climb up to Le Mottey, gaining a good 700 metres of altitude, is worth it for the views it provides towards Saint Gervais Les Bains — a two valleys for the price of one ascent, with our freshly baked picnic. 

Back at L’Armancette, we treat ourselves to that heady indulgence that every parent enjoying time away from their little Smiths craves… an afternoon nap. Then, in the setting sun, we stroll the length of the village, hotly debating which chalet we should fantasy-buy and the (im)practicalities of working-from-Alps. 

A more casual dinner across the road at bistro Le Mont Joly begins with kir royales in the first-floor lounge and ends, two delicious courses later, in a game of pool, which Mr Smith describes as painfully slow, but that I’d argue was value for money (apart from the fact it was free). 

Our return to Geneva the next morning starts off with valet service from the front desk (cold bottles of water awaiting us in the drinks holders, naturally). The sun has returned to the valley, flirting with us to abandon our London commitments and hole up in our Alpine sanctuary, but the idea that the little Smiths (and their supervising auntie) would make peace with this is a pipedream of alpenhorn proportions. So until next time, St Nicolas de Véroce, as Ron Burgundy would say, you stay classy…