Chamonix

Chamonix is not a resort but a capital: the birthplace of alpinism, where the mountain has set the terms since Balmat and Paccard first stood on Mont Blanc in 1786. The summit rises nearly four thousand metres above the town, a presence so absolute that the valley has spent two centuries arranging itself around the view. Guides of the Compagnie still cross the square as they always have; the Arve runs grey with glacier melt beneath the bridges; at night, headlamps trace slow lines up the ice. Other Alpine towns are decorated by their peaks. Chamonix is governed by its own.

From Le Bourget, the jet is on the ground in Geneva in little more than an hour; from there, the A40, the Autoroute Blanche, runs east through Cluses and Sallanches, the massif growing in the windscreen until it fills it entirely. That final hour of motorway is among the great approaches of Europe, and your chauffeur knows precisely where the summit first appears. In deep winter the Rolls-Royce Cullinan takes the valley in its stride; for families and guides' equipment, the Mercedes V-Class VIP follows. The rituals are unchanged at altitude: doors opened to the second, cabin warmed against the glacier air, silence kept while the mountain does the talking.

The Hameau Albert 1er remains the valley's great house, five generations of the same family, its Michelin-starred dining room turned toward the Aiguilles. Mornings begin high: the first cabin up the Aiguille du Midi to 3,842 metres for coffee above the clouds, or the red Montenvers train to the Mer de Glace before anyone else arrives. With a guide from the Compagnie, the Vallée Blanche offers twenty kilometres of glacier descended in near silence, a day measured against all other days. Return to the fire, the bath drawn, dinner under the old beams. Chamonix sends its guests home slightly changed. We simply make certain the journey honours the destination.