Every family has its own version of Christmas. For one family last year, that meant letting go of the date on the calendar and holding onto the thing that actually mattered.
Most families celebrate Christmas on the 25th. This one did it on the 31st, because for them, it was never really about the date. It was about everyone being together, wherever that landed on the calendar.
Three generations, one chalet. Grandparents, parents, and a small army of cousins flying in from opposite corners of the world, just to be under the same roof for the one week all year they could all be in the same place at once.
They landed at an 18-guest chalet in Verbier on Sunday the 29th to a tree twinkling and the place dressed head to toe for the season, the whole week already worked out for them, so nobody had to organise a thing.
What followed was six days built entirely around them.
Monday: huskies at dawn. Their chalet manager guided them up on a crisp winter's morning, blue sky overhead and fresh snow underfoot, and by the time the cabin doors opened at 2,200 metres, the dogs were already pulling at their harnesses. A wall of noise and wagging tails that had the youngest cousins thrilled before the sled had even moved. The dogs took their time saying hello first, nosing at mittens and letting themselves be patted, before hopping into place and settling into the harness. Then they were off, five kilometres out towards La Chaux, the grown-ups catching themselves looking back and forth between the grins on their children's faces and the glaciers of the Grand Combin and Petit Combin. They finished it off the only way appropriate - up at Le Dahu, 2,265 metres, with hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream and extra marshmallows, before heading back to the chalet for fireside games and whatever snacks their chef was serving for afternoon tea.
Tuesday: their Christmas, six days late and glowing for it. Snow outside, the fire going, board games spread across the table and the chalet smelling of mulled wine and gingerbread, and then a knock at the door. A small voice shouted it first: Santa Claus! And that was it: ten kids abandoning whatever they'd been doing, thundering down from every corner of the chalet, all elbows and socks skidding on the floor, every single one of them determined to be first. The door opened on a big red suit, snow still settled on the shoulders, and a great white beard - and for a second nobody could get a word out. Santa sat down by the fire with the kids crowded in around him and handed out presents one by one, using their names, asking each of them what they were most looking forward to that week. He stayed, he chatted, he took photos, while the parents had nothing to do but stand back and watch. Then, because apparently one festive milestone a day wasn't enough, midnight brought New Year's Eve too, and for a family that only got three generations under one roof once a year, the last thing anyone wanted was to spend it split across the resort, jostling for a view of someone else's fireworks. So earlier in the evening, while dinner settled, the games room turned into a makeshift disco for the smallest cousins, the host on music duty, lights down low. By eleven, pyjamas were on and the whole family had gathered on the terrace: grandparents by the fire, parents with a glass of champagne each, the smallest ones propped up on shoulders. A team trained alongside professional pyrotechnicians had spent the evening setting the display up in the garden. At the stroke of midnight the sky over the chalet opened up, colour after colour, timed to the second, music drifting out from the terrace speakers. The smallest ones were carried up to bed not long after the last firework went up, half-asleep before their heads hit the pillow.
Christmas and New Year, six days late and stacked into one evening. By the time the last light faded from the sky, nobody in that chalet was thinking about the date at all.
Wednesday: gingerbread duty. Chef Anton handed out aprons, which barely made a difference. Flour went everywhere: the counters, the floor, the works, while icing bags got squeezed a little too hard and nobody's gingerbread man came out looking quite like Chef Anton's. There was a lot of arguing over who got the most gumdrops. There was at least one small gingerbread-related casualty, mourned for roughly nine seconds before everyone got back to decorating. By the time the trays went in the oven, the whole kitchen smelled of cinnamon and the kids had icing on their elbows, which is really the only sign a gingerbread session has gone properly to plan.
With Chef Anton's kitchen still buried under gingerbread men and mini humans in oversized aprons, dinner that night came from someone else entirely. A raclette specialist, born and raised in the valley, brought in for the evening to set up a wheel of Raclette du Valais AOP by the fire and let it do the talking. One by one, plates came round as the cheese went molten under the heat and the host scraped it straight off the wheel, that first thick, glossy layer landing over potatoes. Thin slices of Saucisson de Bagnes went round on one side, a bowl of cornichons on the other, and a local wine poured to sit alongside it. One of Verbier's most iconic dining traditions, brought straight to the chalet, so the whole family could indulge without ever leaving the fire.
Thursday: sledges at Savoleyres. Their driver had them down at the télécabine, and fifteen minutes later the whole family was stepping out at 2,354 metres with the whole of La Tzoumaz spread out below. From there it was five kilometres down to La Tzoumaz, over 700 metres of vertical drop, the kind of run that starts fast and only gets faster, sledges skidding wide on the bends and somebody inevitably tipping over into a snowbank to a chorus of laughing from everyone behind them. Two hours of runs, cheeks pink from the cold and the speed of it, everyone arriving at the bottom red-faced and grinning and immediately asking to go again.
Friday: skates on the rink. Boots on, coats zipped to the chin, the whole family set off together, a short walk through the streets, snow crunching underfoot the whole way, the rink taking winter wonderland very seriously: fairy lights strung through every tree, a DJ spinning a kids' playlist that made every child there feel like the rink had been set up just for them. The kids were straight out onto the ice, wobbling, holding the barrier, occasionally taking a parent down with them. In between laps there was a food truck cabin doing hot chocolates and skating-day snacks. The perfect Friday night in Verbier.
Saturday: back for more cheese. After a week that had already included one raclette night, it turned out this family hadn't come close to having enough of it, so Saturday was spent at Laiterie de Verbier, under the guidance of a local cheesemaker who's spent a career doing exactly this. Everyone got hands-on: stirring the curds in copper vats, scooping, sniffing, because apparently cheese appreciation is a full sensory sport. The cheesemaker walked them through four hundred years of Val de Bagnes tradition along the way, right down to the legend of the farmer who left his cheese too close to the fire and, rather than panic, gave it a scrape - the accident that started the whole thing.
This wasn't a week put together on the fly. Long before anyone landed, their concierge had gotten to know this family: what mattered to them, what this particular week needed to hold. None of it was really about the huskies or the fireworks or the cheese either. What this family wanted, before any of that, was simple: everyone together, for one week, wherever that landed on the calendar. Everything else was just the shape that week took once someone worked out how to make room for it - a Christmas that moved, and a family stepping straight into a week that felt entirely their own, built exactly the way they'd pictured it.
That's the bit that doesn't make it onto the itinerary. It's just the bit that makes everything else on it possible.
Every part of that week came from the same place: a menu of experiences built around whatever a group actually wants, chosen and arranged long before anyone lands. Explore the A La Carte menu, tell your concierge what matters to you, and let them build the rest.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is there to do in Verbier over Christmas if you don't ski?
Plenty. A festive week in Verbier can be built entirely around non-ski activities: husky sledding, tobogganing at Savoleyres, ice skating in the village, gingerbread and cheesemaking sessions, and Santa with private fireworks over Christmas or New Year's Eve. Grandparents, young kids, or anyone sitting out the skiing can have a full week without putting on a ski boot.
How do you plan a family ski trip when some people don't ski?
The trip works best when it's structured around a shared base rather than a shared activity. Skiers head out for the morning while non-skiers join gondola-accessed activities like husky sledding or a mountain lunch, and everyone reconvenes at the chalet by mid-afternoon for something together, whether that's a cheesemaking session, gingerbread baking, or just downtime by the fire before dinner.
Is Verbier a good resort for a family where not everyone skis?
Yes. Verbier's gondolas reach several activities and restaurants without anyone needing to ski, including husky sledding and the toboggan run at Savoleyres, and the village itself has an ice rink, shops, and restaurants within walking distance of most chalets. That makes it easier for a mixed group to spend the week together rather than splitting into "ski people" and everyone else.
