Swapping aprés ski for aprés spa 

“Welcome to your thirties,” my friend Rich roared, throwing open the balcony door leading onto our hotel room’s private loggia. The sound of gushing water filled the room as I flopped, exhausted, onto the bed.

The Ziller River rushed through the valley below, fast. Verdant hills stretched upwards to create a preposterously bucolic scene, practically begging for your best Julie Andrews impression, arms outstretched. I laid there, and took it in through the window. I pretended I didn’t mind that I was missing the party, Snowbombing Festival raging on in Mayrhofen town. The “Snolympics?” Didn’t sound like much fun. Pond skimming on skis, surely soggy and impractical. Another late night simply wasn’t on the agenda, as I suffered through the worst hangover I could remember tackling on skis. This wasn’t me. Was I… old? Losing my edge? Questions I don’t recommend asking yourself the day after sinking nine beers. Still, things could’ve been worse. I’d planned for this eventuality.

Instead of stomping on the bar in our ski boots, we’d zipped home in a taxi to ZillergrundRock Luxury Mountain Resort, with high hopes of eating an Austrian cream slice in our dressing gowns. I’d picked a hotel with a raft of gentle things to do, in the vague hope that yoga classes and wine tastings might distract me from trying to cover all 125km of the cross-country ski trails across Ski Zillertal 3000 Hintertuxer Glacier — while staying out until 6 a.m. every night of the week-long music festival. 

Finding myself exhausted by day three, my schedule now centered around R&R, exploring not one, but two immaculate modern spas. If I wanted to catch sunset from the two-level infinity pool, blitz away my life’s problems in infrared sauna, soak my stresses in the Kneipp pool and catch whatever an “Event Sauna” was, there was no time to down Fireball shots while a DJ spun tunes in a working butcher’s shop. Not that I was missing out. No, sir.

I picked up my pre-packed spa bag and set off to get lost en route to the steam room, again. The sprawling hotel complex is beautiful, if confusing, set across two large buildings. Various walkways and elevators connect the Alpin Lodge, Mountain Lodge and Ziller Lodge, making my already sore head spin. A kind and strong local masseuse did her best to put me back together with a Key Zone massage, targeting my shoulders (I did point her towards the existential dread, but no dice). 

Revived somewhat, I made myself a tea in one of the countless relaxation areas, and shuffled to see a man about a sauna. Backed by staggering South Tyrolean mountains, the Sauna Master reminded me to remove all my clothes, before whipping stiflingly hot air straight in my direction with a towel. 

“I live here now,” I told myself. Bob Marley reassured me every little thing was going to be alright, as I pretended to be as comfortable as everyone else looked, before finally giving up and escaping for a cold shower.

My plans not to drink crumbled as Rich produced a glass of bubbles to enjoy in the ridiculously fancy infinity pool, the sun starting to dip behind the snow-capped mountains. Not a cloud in the sky (80-degree heat had knocked our skiing-to-drinking ratio further out of whack than the festival), we took a moment’s reflection, feeling incredibly lucky to spend time in this properly special location.

Now, we were ravenous. Seated at the very same table throughout our stay, we’d gotten to know the staff and looked forward to trying the boutique eight-course dining option, Rocky 7. Previous meals of locally caught wild salmon and consommé flecked with vermicelli had already been impressive, washed down with Austrian wines. 

Boasting three toques by the Gault & Millau guide, chef Alexander Hönigsberger’s menu is at once casual, and gourmet. An entire loaf of just-baked crusty bread, smeared with lard and various butters, answered by stomach’s prayers. Pickled and fermented vegetables allowed me to fool myself that I was eating healthily, before slowly roasted beef ribeye and beef cheek ragout, served with mountain cheese, potato, chives, sour cream, garlic and carrot happily ended that delusion. 

I plated up tiny handmade macarons and soft choux buns to enjoy in front of our Design Suite’s flat screen TV, which I’d already clocked had Netflix. I drifted off excited for the spoiling morning buffet and an à la carte omelet, a daily highlight of our full-board meal plan. Stretching out in the cloudlike bed like a starfish, I watched Rich get ready to soldier out into the night for a boogie. In that moment, nothing could have made me don zebra stripes and rejoin the melée. If this was my thirties, I could make my peace with it. At least until I ordered bubbles with breakfast, donned a pink leopard print snowsuit and jumped in the shuttle bus for round four.

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Amy was a guest of ZillergrundRock Luxury Mountain Resort.