YOU CAN tell a lot about a weekend by the drive home.

After three days in the snow, a body usually protests. Legs tighten. Shoulders ache. Every bend in the road reminds you of yesterday’s turns on the mountain or, in our case, perhaps one too many martinis the night before. But somewhere between Thredbo and Sydney, with the massage seats quietly working away beneath us, the Range Rover turned what is normally a five-hour drive into one final chapter of the weekend rather than simply the journey home.

That seems to be the point of The Residency by Range Rover. Luxury isn’t confined to a hotel room or reserved for the moment you check in. It follows you from the road to the mountain and back again.

For just over a week, Range Rover transformed Thredbo into something far more immersive than a brand activation. Under the creative direction of Steve Cordony, a private alpine residence became the heart of the experience, while the takeover extended throughout the village, from bespoke gondolas and Champagne bars to first tracks on untouched snow and an unforgettable supper club deep in the mountains.

Upon arrival, we were welcomed Range Rover’s Australian Managing Director, Penny Ferguson, alongside our host Cordony. Once the cavalcade of cars had finished, we quickly gathered inside, swapping out chilled air for chilled champagne, caviar and conversation buzzing among attendees, setting the relaxed mood for the weekend ahead.

If you’re familiar with Cordony’s work, his signature approach here was unmissable. The interiors balanced that rustic alpine charm with contemporary detail. Furniture from Coco Republic, along with tactile natural materials and thoughtful styling ensured that we all felt, at once, entirely at home and still whisked away into our remote mountain escape. The space was refined without feeling untouchable, inviting guests to settle in as though they had escaped to a beautifully designed home rather than a temporary residence.

The Residency quickly became everyone’s meeting point. Between ski sessions it transformed into an après sanctuary where guests wandered between free-flowing drinks, quiet conversations and restorative moments. Some disappeared for IV drips or wardrobe ski fittings, others booked a blow-out before dinner, while many simply found a comfortable chair and another glass of Champagne. It was exactly what an alpine retreat should be — a place to recover, reconnect and prepare to do it all again.

Of course, nobody remained still for very long.

As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, guests gathered for sunset drinks before making their way to a private viewing area for a performance by Australian electronic duo The Presets. Beneath a sky lit by fireworks, the mountain became an open-air dance floor as friends, strangers and everyone in between gave themselves over to the music. It was one of those rare moments where the setting was every bit as memorable as the performance itself.

From there, we made our way to dinner at Piste, where live music, generous pours and the kind of conversations that only happen after a full day on the slopes carried the evening long beyond dessert. By the following morning, sore legs, bruised knees and a few hazy recollections suggested everyone had embraced the night exactly as intended.

Remarkably, some of the group still made the 6.30am First Tracks experience.

Before the runs opened to the public, guests rode the gondola to the summit where private ski instructors guided them down freshly groomed trails in near silence. Those who returned described it as one of the most extraordinary experiences of the weekend — carving through untouched snow as the first light stretched across the mountain, long before the crowds arrived.

Back at The Residency, the pace softened once more. Ski boots were traded for slippers, afternoons drifted into après and conversations lingered late into the day. It became less of a hotel and more of a living room for everyone sharing the experience, where stories from the slopes naturally flowed into plans for the evening ahead.

And then came Supper Club. The journey itself felt cinematic.

As darkness settled across the mountain, we boarded the gondola and climbed through the alpine night before transferring into snowcats that carried us further into the snow. Waiting at Kareela Hutte was a softly glowing dining room where velvet, chrome, crystal and candlelight transformed the alpine lodge into something unexpectedly glamorous, yet perfectly suited to its surroundings.

Chef Nel Robinson’s menu unfolded less like a tasting menu and more like a collection of memories. Each course arrived with a story, drawing on moments from his own life and transforming them into something deeply personal. There was nostalgia in every dish – flavours that quietly transported you somewhere familiar before introducing something entirely unexpected. It is rare for a meal to feel so emotionally connected to its creator, and even rarer for guests to feel immersed in those memories alongside him.

Dessert brought one final alpine ritual. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we gathered around a traditional shotski for a celebratory toast before climbing aboard the snowcat for the journey back down the mountain.

If you ever wanted to know the quickest way to break the ice, if you can excuse the pun, in a new social gathering, this is it. With 20 of us packed into the snowcat, every bump sent some or all of us tumbling into people who, only two days earlier, had been complete strangers. Proximity indeed does breed familiarity.

Back to the Chalet and we were met with live music including a DJ who carried the celebrations on into early hours, complete with an active and busy dancefloor. Some dance moves a little reminiscent of our time in the snowcat.

That feeling lingered long after we left the mountain. As everyone pointed their cars towards Sydney, playlists and podcast recommendations quickly circulated among the group. Elliot Garnaut reminded us all about Christina Aguilera’s 25th Anniversary playlist – a soundtrack that accompanied much of my drive home – before suggesting a handful of crime podcasts to help make the remaining kilometres disappear.

Then, somewhere between Thredbo and Sydney, with the massage seats quietly working away beneath us, another great playlist filling the cabin and the mountains slowly disappearing in the rear-view mirror, it struck me that perhaps the best measure of a weekend isn’t how reluctant you are to leave.

It’s how many pieces of it you find yourself taking home.

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