Rauris: The Ski Resort I Love (But Kind of Wish You Didn’t Know About)

There are some places in life that just feel right.
Like slipping into your favourite hoodie. Like finding a tenner in an old pair of jeans. Like ordering chips and getting bonus onion rings by accident.
For me, that place is Rauris.

Tucked away quietly in Austria while the big-name resorts shout for attention, Rauris just... gets on with it. It doesn’t need to be loud. It doesn’t need to flash the cash. It knows exactly what it is — and what it is, is perfect.
 So perfect, in fact, that every time I go, I have a small internal battle about whether I should tell anyone it exists at all. Because every year, more people seem to find out about it — and honestly, it feels like a personal betrayal.

The skiing in Rauris isn’t endless.
 You’re not going to find hundreds of kilometres of runs or a giant, sprawling labyrinth of lifts and that’s exactly why it’s brilliant.
 The slopes are limited, yes, but they’re perfect.
 Wide, beautifully maintained and peaceful. Not “half your day spent queuing” slopes. Not “accidental death wish” slopes, just pure, simple, honest skiing.

It’s an absolute dream for families, beginners, and people who actually want to enjoy themselves without needing a GPS tracker, a support group, and a minor panic attack to get from one side of the mountain to the other. You can let kids ski without feeling like you're preparing them for The Hunger Games. You can relax and actually have fun (Imagine that — skiing for fun).

And if you’re learning — or even just brushing up — the ski instructors are brilliant. Properly brilliant. 
Not the scary kind that bark instructions like you’re a contestant on a survival show, but actual kind, encouraging, patient people who seem genuinely thrilled that you’re giving it a go.
You don’t feel judged. You don’t feel rushed, you actually enjoy it. Which, if you’ve ever had a ski lesson elsewhere that ended in mild emotional collapse, you’ll know is rare and precious.

The town itself? Magic.
 Small, charming, welcoming without feeling forced.
You can stroll down the street and feel like you actually exist there — not like you’re being tolerated because you’re funding someone’s fourth holiday home.

The locals are what really make it.
 They’re genuinely lovely.
 The kind of people who are warm without being cloying, helpful without hovering.
You don’t feel like a walking wallet here, you feel like a guest - the good kind of guest, the one they’re genuinely happy to see arrive and a little sad to see leave.

It’s still that magical mix of stunning and simple that makes you want to pack up your entire life, move there immediately, and live out your days drinking steins of beer and waving merrily at passing skiers 
(And honestly, if that’s not the dream, I don’t know what is.).

And then, of course, there’s the beer.
 Stiegl beer. 
If you’ve never tasted Stiegl, imagine the concept of refreshment being distilled into its purest, golden form. 
Imagine God looked down at a sunny mountainside and said, "You know what they need? A stein of liquid heaven."


That’s Stiegl.


Cold, crisp, glorious. The perfect accompaniment to a day on the slopes.
You finish a run, peel off your gloves, and before you even realise it, you're cradling a massive stein of happiness in both hands, wondering how life ever made sense without it.
 If you believe in destiny, you might believe in Stiegl.

Every year when I go back to Rauris, there’s a brief moment of fear.


"What if it’s changed?"


"What if it’s crowded now?"


"What if it’s lost that magic?"

And every year, Rauris gently pats me on the head, hands me a perfect slope, a friendly smile, and a pint of Stiegl, and reminds me that some places don’t need to change to stay extraordinary.
 They just are.

So yes, I’m reluctantly admitting Rauris exists.
 But no, I’m not telling you the best places to stay, which runs are secretly the best, or where you’ll find the hottest glühwein in town. 
Some things you have to find for yourself.

And if you do find yourself there — gliding down wide, empty slopes, grinning like a lunatic because you can't believe a place like this still exists, just remember:

I loved it first.
 And no, you can't have it.