It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,” the Queen remarked in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass. But as I recently learned, it’s a poor sort of vision that only sees what it expects to find.

After twenty years in the region, you’d think I’d know my way around by now, especially on foot. One of the great joys of village life is that we don’t need to drive everywhere. We walk. We cycle. We occasionally hike up something dramatic. But mostly, we head out for walks with no particular destination in mind. In fact until recently I would have confidently said that I knew every scenic route and back path worth knowing, especially given the decent number of kilometres I’ve logged as a runner. But of course I didn’t.

It started with a level crossing

One weekend not long ago, we set off on a walk through Gstaad. As we strolled towards the Promenade, my husband gestured casually to the hill on our left. “Look at the level crossing up there,” he said. “There’s no road - there’s got to be a path.”

It’s the kind of detail you spot when you first move somewhere, then stop noticing altogether. Except this time we did what people do when they come across something new - we marched across the road to investigate. We followed the road up and hooked right onto - yes - a path. It twisted upwards in that inviting, woodsy kind of way. “Must lead to the Alpine Hotel,” we guessed.
And it did.
But here’s the thing. As we trudged uphill, we realised it wasn’t just a single path. Spread across the hill was a rather lovely warren of walking trails. How on earth had we missed this?

Naturally, I told a few friends about our thrilling discovery, only to be met with raised eyebrows and polite amusement. “You mean that little network up to the hotel?” they said. “Yes… that’s been there forever.” We nodded, sheepishly. Somehow, we’d missed what half the village already knew. There’s nothing like announcing a grand revelation only to realise you’re the last to the party.

Walk with eyes closed?

I felt rather foolish, but what we experienced isn’t really that unusual. No, this isn’t London or New York.

We’re not talking about a sprawling metropolis where you miss things because you blink. This is Gstaad. And yet there we were, genuinely surprised to find an entire hillside of paths no more than five minutes from our front door.

When you see something every day, you stop really seeing it. It made me wonder what else I’ve been overlooking, not just in terms of geography, but in the routines I rush through or the assumptions I no longer question. Familiarity can be blinding. Sometimes the biggest change isn’t in your surroundings at all; it’s in how you start paying attention again.

Look sideways

We’ve since walked that path several times. It’s not difficult. It’s not long. But it’s lovely - and now it’s one of our regular routes. Every time we pass that tiny level crossing, I smile.

Twenty years in, and we’re still learning how to look, which is oddly reassuring. Because if that little hill was hiding in plain sight for two decades, who knows what else is waiting to be found?

It’s a reminder that just because you’ve seen something a hundred times doesn’t mean you’ve really seen it. All those years, we walked right past it, eyes forward, minds elsewhere.

Turns out, the trick isn’t always looking ahead. Sometimes, it’s just learning to look sideways.

ANNA CHARLES