Step through the heavy front door of the Grand Chalet in Rossinière and you enter not just a grand old building, but a living storybook – one filled with laughter, eccentricities, and the gentle hum of daily life. Every room, every creaking floorboard, seems to hold a secret of its own.

The Office – A controlled chaos
To the right of the front door lay the office, the realm of Phyllis Scott and Tony Devenish. It was perhaps the most gloriously cluttered room in the house, with stacks of paper, books, bric-à-brac and boxes of stamps piled high, yet Phyllis and Tony always knew exactly where everything was.

Perched behind her enormous desk, Phyllis managed the domestic heartbeat of the Grand Chalet: hiring staff, planning menus, ordering supplies. Behind her, Tony presided over a second desk, complete with a formidable electric calculator, tackling bills, accounts and the endless maintenance demands of such a vast wooden chalet.

At the centre stood a large table covered with papers, the visitors’ book and assorted odds and ends.

Guests came here to pay bills, ask advice, buy stamps or exchange gossip. After Sunday lunch, Tony’s children would often appear and be rewarded with a square of thick, dark chocolate – two centimetres deep and, to this day, the best his daughter ever tasted.

Behind the office was a small telephone room with a wooden booth for calls, and nearby a tiny library with an eclectic mix: Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, Evelyn Waugh and even Tintin. Guests swapped books freely, and the shelves reflected the ever-changing mosaic of those who passed through.

The South Salon
Opposite the entrance, on the south side, was the main salon – a bright, sunlit room that once opened onto a wide balcony (later removed by Balthus, who felt it did not belong to the original design). Sofas and armchairs filled the corners, with a large round table in the centre holding the day’s newspapers.

At three o’clock, The Times and The Daily Telegraph arrived on the afternoon train from England, just in time for tea. There was always a polite but determined rush for the crossword page – a competition that gained new significance when it emerged that several guests had once worked at Bletchley Park, Britain’s wartime code-breaking centre.

The North-East Salon and the Bar
The second salon, on the north-east side, was considered the more “grown-up” room. It led directly into the bar, Tony’s domain from 6.30 p.m. onward, and the home of his signature cocktail, All Passions Spent. One floorboard at the entrance gave a familiar creak, and when visited again in 2012, that same board still protested in exactly the same spot, like an old friend clearing its throat.

The Dining Room – Heart of the house
Down a set of stairs on the east side lay the dining room, a lively basement filled with warmth and laughter. Each group of guests had its own table, but at the centre stood a large communal one where Tony and Phyllis welcomed “waifs and strays” to join them, invariably the most joyful table in the room.

Regulars like Taffy, a cheerful Welshwoman with an endless supply of stories, kept spirits high. Once, mid-fondue, she suddenly fell silent. The reason soon became clear: her dentures had slipped into the pot.

At Christmas, Phyllis insisted on a towering tree with real candles. Peggy, Tony’s wife, handled the decorations, perpetually anxious that one stray flame might set the Grand Chalet ablaze. Christmas dinner brought roast turkey and pudding; New Year’s Eve, roast beef followed by a chalet-shaped meringue topped with chocolate and raspberry sauce. Fancy dress was mandatory and laughter filled the night.

Bathrooms, Corridors and Conversations
Running a hotel in a Grade I-listed building came with quirks. Only four bedrooms had en-suite bathrooms; the rest shared facilities discreetly tucked into the east and west wings. Until the 1950s, guests used chamber pots, and when the hotel was sold, Balthus insisted they remain.

Waiting for a bath or lavatory became a social ritual. Guests sat chatting on corridor sofas, swapping stories and gossip. In its own way, it was another salon.

Upstairs – Dormitories and Choirs
The top floor housed rooms with multiple beds, dormitories in all but name. During winter holidays, Pierre Jacquerod brought children from Geneva to ski, filling the chalet with noise and energy. In summer, a convent of nuns took over the same floor, their singing drifting through the garden and into the mountains.

The Kitchen – The warm heart below
Down a steep flight of stairs lay the main kitchen, linked by an old dumbwaiter to a smaller tea kitchen beside the second salon. Mme Déglon, the cook, baked unforgettable fruit cakes for afternoon tea, they were rich, fragrant and gone in moments.

The Grand Chalet was, and remains, a world unto itself: a house of music, mishaps and marvellous characters. Every creak and every corner tells a story, forming a portrait not only of a building, but of the joyful, eccentric life that once filled it.

LUCINDA BROUSSE