At the Grand Chalet in Rossinière, no one ever checked the guest list too closely – because some of the best guests had four legs, fur, or feathers. Pets and people alike found a home away from home at the Grand Chalet, where eccentricity was not merely tolerated but positively encouraged.

Presiding over it all was Joséphine, the resident cat and undisputed queen of the house. Her loyal subject was Raymond, the gentle giant gardener who did absolutely everything. If Raymond kept the Grand Chalet running, Joséphine kept it in line. She was the hotel’s only permanent feline resident, the elegant, aloof queen of the house, and she ruled her domain from the sunny windowsills and quiet corridors with unchallenged authority.

Raymond may have been her most loyal attendant, but even he knew his place. Joséphine accepted his devotion with regal indifference, though she would deign to accompany him on his rounds through the gardens. When the hotel closed for its autumn break, Raymond remained behind as caretaker and Joséphine as his royal company.

No other cat was granted permanent residency; visiting felines had to arrive with paying guests. Yet somehow, Joséphine always knew she was different, a cat not merely in the Grand Chalet, but of it.

A menagerie of guests
The Chalet’s pet-friendly policy meant that its salons and corridors regularly echoed with more than just human chatter. The Devenish family’s Jack Russell, Sophie, was a snack-thieving expert who could charm a biscuit out of anyone. Then there were the Hunis, a Swiss-French couple who spent every summer at the Chalet for 35 years, accompanied by their brilliant Alsatian, Rocky, who could open doors, literally. One fateful afternoon, Rocky decided to show off his skills by freeing Sophie from her confinement. Moments later, the pair stormed the dining room, leaping from table to table as roast beef and teacups went flying.

The Hunis’ son occasionally joined the chaos with Monsieur Pomme, a half-wolf, half-greyhound with a fearsome appearance and the temperament of a teddy bear.

Gin, Tennis, and Dalmatians
Every summer, the Coquerels arrived with their two dalmatians and a wellstocked supply of gin and tonic. Their daily ritual was perfectly timed to the sunset: a gentle game of tennis on the hotel’s historic court, built, legend has it, by Allied officers who escaped to Switzerland during the war. The dogs fetched balls while their owners, drink in hand, offered encouragement from the sidelines.

The lady in the Cinquecento
Among the most unforgettable guests was a petite Italian lady who rolled up each summer in a tiny Fiat Cinquecento, astonishingly packed with a dachshund, a cockatoo, and five terrapins. Her annual arrival was an event in itself. One year, she managed to crash straight into one of the Chalet’s front pillars – not an easy feat given the car was barely wider than a wheelbarrow. Both lady and animals were unharmed, her pride, perhaps less so.

The diva and her dogs
And then there were Peggy Burrowes, a glamorous American with an unshakable belief that no dog was too large for a lap. She arrived with a yapping chorus of overweight toy dogs who waddled through the corridors like royalty. They barked through breakfast, snored through supper, and yet, somehow, everyone adored them, perhaps because Peggy treated the whole scene as performance art.

It’s hard to imagine a hotel like that today, where eccentric guests and their animals shared the same sense of belonging, where chaos was met with laughter, and where the staff took it all in stride. The Grand Chalet of Rossinière wasn’t just a hotel; it was a stage for life’s most delightful characters, whiskers, wagging tails, and all.

LUCINDA BROUSSE