Some places just feel safe. Not in a “safety rating” kind of way, but deep in your bones. That’s how it feels here in the Saanenland.
I grew up in a village where we never locked the door, so to find that same quiet trust–decades later and halfway across Europe–feels quietly remarkable. In a world of security cameras, door codes, and delivery apps, there’s something refreshingly human about shops leaving produce outside or neighbours leaving parcels on doorsteps without a second thought.

The Bakery Incident
When our boys were little, we encouraged them to build independence in small ways. One of my son’s favourite freedoms was walking alone to the Rougemont village bakery to buy our Sunday croissants. It was an eight-minute stroll–the perfect “I’m a big boy now” outing. He’d come back beaming, proud and buzzing.

Except one day, he didn’t return quite so quickly.

I remember glancing at the clock and thinking, Hmm. It’s been a while. I’d just slipped on my shoes to go and check when I saw a man walking up the hill toward our house with my son beside him. I felt a wave of consternation. Who was this man? What had happened?

My son had fainted in the bakery. He had come around pale, dazed and shaky. And in those blessed pre-mobile phone days, this kind stranger had simply asked where he lived and walked him home.

We still talk about that day. About how grateful we were. About how, at the time, it didn’t even feel extraordinary. It just felt like the kind of thing that happened here.

The Night of the Suitcases
Of course, this kind of security comes with its quirks. We went years without locking the front door of our chalet. Truly–years. It just didn’t seem necessary. Our boys came and went, and it felt easier not to fuss with keys. It was simply the rhythm of life.

And then came the Night of the Suitcases. (At least that’s what we call it.)

It was just past midnight when I heard something. Not a crash or a bang–more of a rustle. A soft, purposeful rustle. I sat up, blinking, trying to place it. And then, unmistakably: footsteps. Inside the chalet. Our chalet.

Hearts thumping, we opened our bedroom door to find two people– polite, slightly confused, and each wheeling a suitcase–walking down our corridor.

They’d arrived late, searching for their holiday rental, found the door open, and assumed this was part of the local “no key, just come in” hospitality. In fairness, I can see their logic. If you’re arriving in Rougemont late at night and the lights are off but the door is open, it does feel like an unspoken invitation.

We laughed about it then and still do. But we also started locking the door at night.

A Place That Looks After You
The funny thing is, I don’t share these stories as cautionary tales. Quite the opposite. I love that we’re in a place where people still carry woozy children home without hesitation and where a chalet might genuinely be mistaken for a warm welcome. That kind of safety is rare and worth treasuring.

This is a place where trust hasn’t disappeared. Where an open door might be a genuine welcome – or at least mistaken for one. Just maybe double-check the address before wheeling your suitcase into someone’s hallway.

ANNA CHARLES