Hôtel des Horlogers

'Erm, Madame?' 

The receptionist is peering expectantly at me, pin-sharp in his charcoal-grey suit and a moustache trimmed with a watchmaker’s precision. It seems my attention had wandered from the check-in process — distracted not so much by the bleached tree trunks suspended upside-down from the lobby’s ceiling, nor the monumental, articulated wooden desk resembling a dinosaur’s spine (as striking as they are), but instead by clock-watching. Normally, of course, checking the time while someone’s speaking would be the height of rudeness. But I don’t think I can be blamed at Hôtel des Horlogers, where the ‘clock’ in question is in fact a kinetic sculpture composed of dozens of tiny individual dials that spin hypnotically, briefly forming digits that spell out the minutes before the kaleidoscope spins again.  

'What brings you to the Vallée de Joux?' the receptionist, Thomas, patiently tries again.  

'Oh,' I reply, snapping to attention, 'cheese!' 

Specifically, Vacherin Mont d’Or. For the uninitiated or (weep) lactose-intolerant, this is a particularly gooey, stinky variety, often spooned straight from their round, spruce-wood boxes. It’s made in this quiet corner of north-west Switzerland during the autumn and winter months. Now, in my view, cheese is an excellent reason for visiting a place. Yet Thomas blinks at my answer, a tad puzzled. Most of their guests, he explains, are on a different kind of pilgrimage: less dairy, more haute horology.  

Sure enough, as my train from Geneva sidled along the shores of Lac de Joux earlier, I’d noticed sleek, modern factories sprouting incongruously between the shuttered farmhouses and forested hills, glass façades emblazoned with ‘Breguet’, ‘Bulgari’ and ‘Jaeger-LeCoultre’ — watchmaking dynasties familiar even to a non-aficionado like me.  

I’d almost mistaken Hôtel des Horlogers for another of these corporate offices, with its low-slung, origami-esque architecture and tinted windows. Indeed, Audemars Piguet’s corkscrew-shaped HQ and brand museum are right next door (be warned that visitor slots get booked up three months in advance, so someone with my extremely last-minute travel tendencies stood no chance of checking those out). It’s only on my last morning that I clock (sorry) that Audemars Piguet also owns this hotel. Evidently, in an oh-so-Swiss way, the brand has kept its presence low-key and feather-light, a far cry from how certain fashion houses splash their logos across their hospitality spin-offs.  

The same goes for watch-making references in general. And thank goodness because, whether it’s for a party or a hotel, I do loathe a theme. Following the slanting, zigzagging walkways (there's not a staircase in sight here) up to my room, my untrained eye notes the light fixtures are vaguely suggestive of clockfaces and there are watch-strap-esque perforations on the metal closets. C’est tout.  

The view through my floor-to-ceiling windows is pure bucolic bliss, with a herd of cattle grazing the meadow below. Their tinkling cowbells provide a soundtrack that’s a lot more restful than a ticking clock. Not that I need much help drifting off in the cloud-like bedding. It’s high praise indeed when you find yourself peeking at the labels on the pillows and mattress (both are by French heritage brand Literie Bonnet, for anyone else considering upgrading their sleep set-up back home).   

Down in Brasserie Le Gogant for breakfast, beneath some curiously truffle-like pendant lamps, a small but perfectly formed buffet makes the most of all that fine local diary produce. I load up on buttery apple tarts and brioche, wedges of fresh cheese and creamy yoghurt Bircher muesli, washed down with house-made apricot and pear nectar. There’s a glass wall onto the kitchen, which resembles one of the valley's watchmaking ateliers with its gleaming steel surfaces and figures quietly absorbed in delicate handiwork. The only jarring note is the fact coffees are dispensed from a self-service machine instead of being barista-made. But while he might not be able to make me a perfectly feathered flat white, the smiley young waiter does put a spring in my step by complimenting my 'very nice English accent' — a refreshing change from the scorn or pity I typically receive from Gallic speakers when they encounter my linguistic shortcomings.  

I soon learn that courteous, charmant and prompt is the default setting for Hotel des Horlogers’ staff, whether it’s the maid who brings me an extra bottle of water after noticing I’m partial to still not sparkling, the thoughtful follow-up from room service after asking a passing question about the menu hours earlier, or the front-of-house manager handing me a restorative slice of pear tart when I return in a somewhat dishevelled state from cycling.  

Ah yes, the ill-fated e-bike ride. I rented one from the hotel’s state-of-the art fleet, thinking a loop around the lake would counterbalance all that cheese consumption. Dappled woodland trails and glittering waters beckoned. Instead, largely through my own navigational incompetence, I ended up on an extended tour of the neighbouring town’s cul-de-sacs, supermarket forecourts and warehouses. One near-miss with a tractor, having momentarily forgotten what side of the road is favoured on the Continent, it’s clear I’m no Bradley Wiggins and a more tempting idea pops into my head: the hotel spa.  

This slate-clad wellness sanctuary is much more my speed. I park my saddle-sore bottom in the hammam, then let the masseuse pummel it with herbal oils (local botanicals are just as big a thing as horology around here: infusing the water in reception; spiking the bar’s cocktails; flavouring the jars of salt and tea blends given to each guest in their bedroom’s hamper…). 

Speaking of behinds, my blood pressure briefly spikes again in the sauna, when two older gentlemen stride in entirely starkers. Apparently, they’re determined to honour tradition, or perhaps they simply missed the spa signage asking guests to don swimwear. Very politely, they enquire whether I mind them ladling more water onto the sauna stones. The prudish Brit in me can only give an awkward nod before averting my eyes towards the sauna window.  

Thankfully, there’s a more salubrious sight to gaze on out there: the tawny autumnal foliage of the Risoud Forest. Afterwards, in the relaxation room, there are bowls of nuts (no more of those, thank you) and fresh fruit to help myself to, alongside some large, squishy cabanas. There I stay with Lucy Foley’s new Miss Marple novel (fittingly, it’s also set in a Swiss hotel, albeit in the Alps and with a higher body count) as the light fades, happily losing complete track of time.