About a year ago I decided that our pochettes tied as kerchiefs were the bomb for skiing and apres ski wear. Let's face it, the snow season is short and it's a wonderful chance to flex your sartorial muscles in terms of what colours you wear and how you put it all together. Ski gear has it's own genre of menswear, and just like peacocking, the more colour the better, the more details, the better, the more rarefied the brand or make, the better.
It also happens to be the sport of the rich, because you can't hop on that mountain without having dropped a pretty penny on ski gear, accommodation, lift passes, skis and poles, a Kosciuszko National Park pass and some lip balm for good measure. And that's before you have gotten stung by the price of food, drinks and buying more apparel that you apparently need so badly but which gets filed into a seasonal bag post September.
But this, I thought to myself, must be a good milieu in which to product place some silks and so began a journey over a year ago to try and get some of the more known Thredbo-loving regulars to don a pochette tied as a kerchief. Our 42cm hand-roll stitched silks, when folded correctly, become extremely charming affectations around the neck. So much so that within a few weeks I had a few of the chaps and a number of women all wearing them. They were freebies of course, because you can't ingratiate yourself without giving away a few bibs and bobs.
But this season it seemed to roughly catch on but it probably still needs a little push. Personally I went between 42cm pochettes tied as kerchiefs to my new favourite which is a 90cm foulard tied and tucked into your t-shirt or sweater. It's very charming and I only discovered the beauty of them in January when I purchased my first foulard from Charvet after interviewing Jean-Claude Colban and his sister Anne-Marie.
But it's not just that is it? It's not just walking around with a foulard or pochette around your neck - no no - it's also about the apres ski you indulge in whilst wearing your swagger kit. Of table tops and long ski shots. Of schnitzel and noodles and a slice of strudel. There is a particular shot called a 'money shot' which is served by the Denman (aka The Den Of Men) bartenders Ash and John below, the recipe of which is kept shrouded in secrecy. It tastes of cream and banana, coffee and caramel and is loved by all. And over the course of a week of drinking in this most charming of Australian ski villages, it is hard not to end up having a money shot spill over and down your fingers as you try desperately to get away from the bar counter and back to the live music coming from the one and only Mark Travers, weaving through kids, cougars and greying men who all want a piece of the next Australiana beer song.
It is, as I have said once before, a beacon of light in the depths of a dark winter. And it's nice to know that a little bit of silk colour can add to that light. There are so few years we have in us where we can ski in peak physical health and drink and be merry and back it all up the next day. Which is why we have to make the most of every year. When you hit the mountain each morning you can never take it for granted you will all be coming home. Some break their legs, others do in their knees, some hit their heads on the pavement from drinking too much .... All the more reason to dress with swagger because there is no guarantee you will have the chance again. Entering the village this season a BMW X5 was turning out from the village as I approached. Heavy snow had clogged the roads and black ice was everywhere. The vehicle span out, slid across my lane, hit the road fender, bounced off and was sliding towards my bumper. I managed to brake in time but could not shift gear into reverse in time. The car hit my front, thankfully the air bags did not go off. But it reminded me that it is a privilege to get there alive, the year before I almost came off the road after hitting a kangaroo at over 100kms an hour outside of Cooma.
It might be a sort of glamorous death if you are found with a bruised and bleeding head at the bottom of a ravine wearing your ski apparel and a lovely pochette around your neck as the rescue team retrieve your frozen body, but it would be even more glamorous if you manage to ski out your entire trip and end it toasting the shame of cougars you were falsely accused of attempting to seduce and leaving a tip with the barman and the musician, and, turning your collar to the snowy wind, walk out into the night wearing your silk pochette around your neck, proud that you survived another round of the ski season.
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