The Mr. Monroe Journal, Volume I: Switzerland
Some trips are planned around a destination. This one was planned around a feeling: winter in the Alps the way it looks in old photographs. Wool coats instead of shell jackets. Long lunches instead of lift-line sandwiches. And two cars that couldn't be more different, pointed at the same mountains.
The first: a classic Land Rover Defender, all rattles and character, the kind of machine that doesn't so much drive up a mountain as negotiate with it. The second: a modern Range Rover, silent, heated, and deeply smug about both. Between them, two couples, a boot full of skis, and several outfits we can only describe as committed to the aesthetic.
The route: through the Valais to Crans-Montana, then over to Gstaad.
The Valley First
Before you climb, you drive the valley. The Rhône cuts through Valais flat and wide, vineyards stitched into the hillsides in long, patient rows, snow-capped peaks standing above it all like they've been waiting for you to notice.
We stopped often. At fences, at bends, at viewpoints that weren't marked on any map. That's the luxury of driving yourselves: nobody's schedule but your own. One of us leaned against a railing in a cricket sweater with the mountains at his back, and the rest of us realized this trip was going to involve a lot of posing. We made peace with it quickly.
The Climb
From the valley floor, the road to Crans-Montana folds back on itself a dozen times, and with every switchback the world below gets smaller and quieter. The Defender took it personally. The Range Rover barely noticed. There was a friendly rivalry between the two cars all week, old soul versus new money, and honestly, neither side won. The Defender got the character, the Range Rover got the heated seats, and everyone quietly wanted to swap at some point.
Somewhere near the top we pulled over at a bend with a view that made conversation feel unnecessary. Tailgate down, doors open, the four of us scattered across the road like a scene that had wandered out of 1965 and decided to stay. The girls claimed the boot of the Range Rover like a box at the opera. The gentlemen leaned against the Defender in a way we can only assume they'd practiced.
Crans-Montana
Crans-Montana greets you with sunshine. The plateau sits high above the valley, and the pistes run wide and generous with the whole of the Valais Alps laid out in front of you. We skied hard in the mornings, some of us more elegantly than others, and no, we won't be naming names. By early afternoon we surrendered to long terrace lunches, faces to the sun, in absolutely no hurry.
It's a place that rewards taking your time. The runs are forgiving, the views are not fair to the rest of the world, and the town has just enough polish without ever feeling like it's performing.
Then Gstaad
Gstaad is a different register entirely. Quieter. More discreet. The kind of understated glamour that doesn't need to introduce itself. The chalets are old, the wood is dark, and the whole village seems to operate on the principle that true luxury never raises its voice.
We skied the Eggli side, wandered the promenade, and spent one evening doing nothing more ambitious than sitting by a fire arguing about which car got the mountain pass tomorrow. There was fondue. There is always fondue. We regret nothing.
The Takeaway
The skiing was excellent. The driving was better. But what stayed with us were the pauses. Engine off, boots on the tailgate, mountains indifferent and magnificent, a warm cup passed around while someone dug out the road map nobody actually needed.
That's the kind of trip Mr. Monroe was made for: unhurried, a little old-fashioned, and better in good company.
Along for the ride: the Mr. Monroe enamel travel mugs, and enough of our espresso blend to survive a minor avalanche. Available at the Mr. Monroe shop.
Two Cars, Four Friends, and the Long Road to Gstaad
The Mr. Monroe Journal, Volume I: Switzerland
Some trips are planned around a destination. This one was planned around a feeling: winter in the Alps the way it looks in old photographs. Wool coats instead of shell jackets. Long lunches instead of lift-line sandwiches. And two cars that couldn't be more different, pointed at the same mountains.
The first: a classic Land Rover Defender, all rattles and character, the kind of machine that doesn't so much drive up a mountain as negotiate with it. The second: a modern Range Rover, silent, heated, and deeply smug about both. Between them, two couples, a boot full of skis, and several outfits we can only describe as committed to the aesthetic.
The route: through the Valais to Crans-Montana, then over to Gstaad.
The Valley First
Before you climb, you drive the valley. The Rhône cuts through Valais flat and wide, vineyards stitched into the hillsides in long, patient rows, snow-capped peaks standing above it all like they've been waiting for you to notice.
We stopped often. At fences, at bends, at viewpoints that weren't marked on any map. That's the luxury of driving yourselves: nobody's schedule but your own. One of us leaned against a railing in a cricket sweater with the mountains at his back, and the rest of us realized this trip was going to involve a lot of posing. We made peace with it quickly.
The Climb
From the valley floor, the road to Crans-Montana folds back on itself a dozen times, and with every switchback the world below gets smaller and quieter. The Defender took it personally. The Range Rover barely noticed. There was a friendly rivalry between the two cars all week, old soul versus new money, and honestly, neither side won. The Defender got the character, the Range Rover got the heated seats, and everyone quietly wanted to swap at some point.
Somewhere near the top we pulled over at a bend with a view that made conversation feel unnecessary. Tailgate down, doors open, the four of us scattered across the road like a scene that had wandered out of 1965 and decided to stay. The girls claimed the boot of the Range Rover like a box at the opera. The gentlemen leaned against the Defender in a way we can only assume they'd practiced.
Crans-Montana
Crans-Montana greets you with sunshine. The plateau sits high above the valley, and the pistes run wide and generous with the whole of the Valais Alps laid out in front of you. We skied hard in the mornings, some of us more elegantly than others, and no, we won't be naming names. By early afternoon we surrendered to long terrace lunches, faces to the sun, in absolutely no hurry.
It's a place that rewards taking your time. The runs are forgiving, the views are not fair to the rest of the world, and the town has just enough polish without ever feeling like it's performing.
Then Gstaad
Gstaad is a different register entirely. Quieter. More discreet. The kind of understated glamour that doesn't need to introduce itself. The chalets are old, the wood is dark, and the whole village seems to operate on the principle that true luxury never raises its voice.
We skied the Eggli side, wandered the promenade, and spent one evening doing nothing more ambitious than sitting by a fire arguing about which car got the mountain pass tomorrow. There was fondue. There is always fondue. We regret nothing.
The Takeaway
The skiing was excellent. The driving was better. But what stayed with us were the pauses. Engine off, boots on the tailgate, mountains indifferent and magnificent, a warm cup passed around while someone dug out the road map nobody actually needed.
That's the kind of trip Mr. Monroe was made for: unhurried, a little old-fashioned, and better in good company.
Along for the ride: the Mr. Monroe enamel travel mugs, and enough of our espresso blend to survive a minor avalanche. Available at the Mr. Monroe shop.