Festivals are British culture epitomised. Their hedonistic escapism fits our society like a glove; we simply can’t get enough of spending a few glorious days absconding normality and shortening our lifespans.

I’ve been to a few UK festivals in 2023 – from Glastonbury to Floorless, Wide Awake to All Points East, but assumed that my fun for the year was over – it’s hibernating season after all. That is, until Rise Festival was brought to my attention.

Rise is a skiing-and-electronic-music extravaganza in Les Deux Alpes, a notorious slope spot a few hours drive from Lyon in the South of France. The perfect supplement for those long cold winter months until the bucket hat wearing Brit can be back at Boomtown in their tiny tight shorts, the week away in December is pitched as ‘the party on top of the world.’

With the promise of throbbing DnB (the likes of Sigma, Hybrid Minds and Hannah Laing all poised to spin), the opportunity to attempt to learn how to ski (emphasis on attempt), and a fuck load of cheese to be consumed, I packed my warmest jumpers and hit the slopes for an eventful week.

Gatwick airport has become somewhat of a second home at this point. I arrive in the mid morning, meet my trusted plus one and saunter through security towards our gate, stopping off at Wetherspoons for a light breakfast. A swift flight to Lyon airport ensues, where we are greeted by a Scottish man known colloquially as Griff. We hop in his white van with a few other travellers and set off towards the mountains.

Griff is a scattered but friendly bloke; a DJ and producer in his own right who has been drafted in at the last minute with the task of guiding press, late arrivals and the artists performing to the small town that we would call home for the next few days. Eagerly presenting his own music to us through tinny van speakers (it becomes quickly obvious that we aren’t the first passengers to whom he has showcased his tunes), we make light work of the two hour drive. I’m mesmerised by the sights – or what increasing little we can see of it as darkness sets in. Gazing upon the region’s snowy peaks, vast hilly ranges and ferocious currents of the wide-spanning rivers makes for an ideal activity to pass the time.

Following a steep, winding path that Griff excels at navigating up with impressive pizazz, we arrive at our cosy hotel, finding a charming twin room with a balcony and dim lighting as our accommodation. Without much time to settle in, we are straight out, meeting up with our hosts and fellow press.

After a quick pint, we head to dinner. Hommage Du Fromage is renowned for its cheese and it lived up to its smelly hype. In a packed basement, we are seated at a long table with a cheese wheel, fire to melt the goods, various meats, potatoes, bread and wine. There’s a guitarist in the corner ardently belting out cheesy songs to cohesively complete the aesthetic.

After some cheese – and much wine – we troop onwards to witness some live music, catching the excellent Hybrid Minds at the Alpine venue and a savvy set from Murphy’s Law at Muzelle. After a long day’s travel, one too many Shiraz’ and strenuous physical activity to come in the morning, I bow out early, hitting the hay after a gallon or so of water.

Waking up too late for the complimentary hotel breakfast, we make our way to a local crepes spot, at which I have a delightful mushroom, cheese and salad concoction accompanied by a strong black coffee. Suitably fed, it’s time to tackle the mountains…

To give some context, I’ve never skied in my life. That’s a lie actually, apparently I went to a dry slope once as a kid, but I can’t remember it. If I was hoping for muscle memory to kick in, I’d be sorely (get it) mistaken.

I’ve missed the lessons, so my plus one says he’ll show me the basics, as he has great experience on the mountain having frequented them as a child and completed a few seasons in the Alps in recent years. The main problem with this is that he’s an avid snowboarder – not so much a skier.

I spend the majority of the next few hours on the floor trying to stand up in skis. Braking is proving too intricate of a skill for me to obtain, hence I throw myself to the floor over and over again in order to come to a halt. At one point, we pause for a beer at the bar at the bottom of the hill. When trying to stop to take off my skis, I collide with a group of parked up equipment, clattering into them at moderate velocity in front of a large crowd of amused onlookers.

I don’t make it past ‘the carpet’ – as I’m told it’s called – all day. But I’m somewhat tenacious and finish the day’s endeavours in high spirits, itching for the night ahead.

Following a shower and a few recovery tipples, we meet our new press friends for dinner at Casa Nostra, a fine dining European fusion restaurant which we’re told is the favourite of one of Rise’s big bosses. It’s easy to understand why: bread makes way for a sumptuous prawn risotto which I inhale with ravenous might, settled down by an after-dinner limoncello shot.

Following some breezy conversation back at the hotel, we head out to see some music. We find Sonny Fodera laying the sound system to his mercy on the Alpine stage, before meandering over to the Muzelle tent for the highly impressive Sammy Virji, a standout set to this point. The crowd were so avidly entertained that the floor of the stage was literally quaking.

Beers are drunk and fingers raised. We stumble off to bed with a pounding in the ears and the faint smell of dry sweat and spilled beer immersing us.

The next morning sees us up in time for breakfast – of typical European excellence – and a full day of skiing ahead. I once again tackle the carpet slope and find some further success – stopping and turning becomes doable and I feel like I’m on top of the world. The ‘button lift’ beckons.

After embarrassingly falling off the seat that takes me upwards on the first attempt, I find myself higher than expected, and without the knowledge, skill or courage to tackle the intimidating hill with the required gusto. I attempt to ski down and immediately fall over. I get up, I fall over, and so on until I find myself halfway down or so, staying on my feet for no more than a few seconds at a time. I take my skis off and walk shamefully down the rest of the way, returning to the baby slope in an attempt to regain my confidence.

After a period of consolidation, we embark towards a special secret set from one of this year’s main attractions – Sigma. We take a 20 minute ride in the Jandri Express (yes that is its real name) up to the mountain’s peak, to find pounding music reverberating from a bar a few hundred yards away.

As we get closer, we find a rail rink with avid skiers and snowboards showing off their tricks and flicks. Next to the skills showcase is Pano, one of the festival’s stages. Sigma’s performance is already in full swing, flipping popular samples into banging DnB tracks in front of hundreds of excited festival goers. The atmosphere was electric: a tidal wave of hands in tandem, people dancing on tables, huge roars at every drop. It feels just like a summer’s day in London – except with a lot more snow.

Heading back down the mountain cold and aching from the day of skiing (and falling over on my part), we opt to ease proceedings with some self care. After an intense sauna session, we lounge about in a Jacuzzi, reaching a point of relaxation that my body has rarely if ever experienced.

After struggling to overcome the deep meditation provoked in the spa, it’s back out into the thick snow for a visit to the notorious Bongo’s Bingo.

It is utter pandemonium. A large hall brimming with drunken Brits, two brave men dressed as German school children, and an enthusiastic host and DJ: it’s a long way away from the Bingo halls that your nan visits on a Wednesday night. I won’t say any more, just get yourself down to a night if your thing is random rave breaks, fantastically ridiculous prizes (such as a double-sided dildo, giant pink unicorn and a Henry Hoover) and full frontal nudity.

With everyone riled up by the bingo antics, we leave the arena and are immediately thrown into the front lines of a civil war. A snowball fight has begun! It’s every man, woman and car for themselves. I’m pelted from each side; friendly fire begins and an inter-magazine battle lasts for minutes until our hands are frozen and our pride is sucked out by each passing headshot.

Shaking off the snow and escaping an angry Irish bar manager who has had his establishment pelted with icy missiles (he’d clearly had enough of the snowballs – I can’t imagine why), we once again take in some tunes. Catching some of Sigma’s evening set (disappointingly derivative of his afternoon secret set) and the brain-washing brilliance of Mella Dee, we head to an after party at a local bar and party until the early hours.

We wake briskly for a final morning of skiing. Determined to not come home empty-handed I brave a conquest to the superior slope once again, this time successfully making a couple of runs down the steeper hill. Arrogance overcomes me however, and I take a humongous topple, half back-flipping and landing right on my noggin, my life flashing before my eyes. And just like that, my skiing career ended before it even began.

My time in the Alps comes to an end with a stunning daylight drive back down the mountain and towards Lyon airport. I reflect on my time here: perhaps the most quintessentially British festival I’ve ever been to, and it wasn’t in the UK! Musically, there were some solid acts, but perhaps a lack of diversity in terms of genre (although if we’d have visited for the entire week, we’d have seen more eclectic acts like Bicep, Jungle and Manami). What it may lack in sonic variety, Rise more than makes up for in experience. Skiing by day, music by night – great fun all round, with an ethos of inclusion, joy and celebration.

I won’t be forgetting my time there anytime soon. Nor will the crippling aches in my bones.

Rise Festival will return in 2024 – tickets here.