Some hotels promise escape. Others offer elevation. But then there are those rare places that manage to hold both—the charm of a world gone by, seamlessly laced with the energy of now. Hotel Schweizerhof Bern & Spa is that kind of place.
Tucked in the beating heart of Switzerland’s capital, it’s not merely a luxury hotel. It’s a mood. A feeling. A long exhale in the middle of the city’s quiet rhythm.
Arrival, reimagined
There’s something about arriving in Bern. Maybe it’s the cobbled streets underfoot, or the way the Old Town seems to glow under the winter light—stoic yet soft, never trying too hard. The drive from the train station was barely three minutes, and yet, by the time I stepped into the Schweizerhof’s entrance, it felt as though I’d been gently nudged into another frequency altogether.
The doors opened not with a dramatic flourish, but with quiet grace. Inside, the lobby hummed with warmth—a soft rustle of coats, the low clink of afternoon coffee cups, the smell of polished wood mixed with faint floral notes. You don’t arrive at the Schweizerhof. You arrive into it.
A heritage that breathes
The building has stood in this spot since 1859, but it doesn’t feel like it’s frozen in time. Instead, the past has been curated—layered into the present with care. High ceilings, original mouldings, and elegant chandeliers mix with modern furniture, curated art, and that unmistakable Swiss sense of restraint. Luxury here isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
You sense it in the way you’re greeted—never overly formal, but never casual either. My check-in was warm, efficient, and done within minutes. But more importantly, it felt personal. Like I was a returning guest, not a first-time visitor.
A room of one’s own
My suite, tucked at the end of a long, quiet hallway, opened with a soft click into a world I didn’t know I’d been craving.
Taupe walls. Cashmere throws. A headboard that looked like it belonged in a modern art museum, but felt like the comfiest thing on earth. The windows opened out to a postcard view of Bern’s old rooftops and, beyond them, a hint of the snow-dusted Alps.
The bathroom could’ve passed for a spa—heated floors, a freestanding soaking tub, and lighting that actually made you look like you’d slept eight hours. There were Hermès toiletries, yes, but what struck me most was the scent. Clean, woody, a little spicy. Like someone had bottled the feeling of a fireside in winter.
I unpacked slowly, relishing the room’s silence. No humming fridges, no blinking lights. Just the occasional church bell in the distance and the faint sound of the city, muted by snow.
Jack’s Brasserie: A modern ode to tradition
Dinner that evening was at Jack’s Brasserie, the hotel’s crown jewel—and rightfully so.
Stepping into Jack’s feels like slipping into a different era. There’s a cinematic quality to it: the art nouveau lamps, the waiters in white aprons, the buzz of conversation in German, French, and English. But despite its grandeur, the room doesn’t intimidate. It draws you in.
I started with a glass of crisp Swiss Riesling and followed with the famed Wienerschnitzel—a dish so perfectly golden and airy, it practically floated offs the plate. Paired with a buttery potato salad and a dollop of lingonberry, it was indulgent without being fussy.
Dessert was a simple crème brûlée—crackly, cold, and perfect. I lingered longer than I meant to, sipping an espresso and watching the room move. There’s something about the pace in Bern. Nobody rushes. Not in the streets. Not at Jack’s. And certainly not at Schweizerhof.
Slow mornings, soft light
The next morning began with breakfast back at Jack’s. A buffet stretched out across a vintage counter—crusty breads, local cheeses, smoked salmon, fresh fruits, and fluffy eggs that actually tasted like eggs. I opted for a cappuccino and found a seat near the window, letting the light pour in and the hours drift.
Later, I wandered through the hotel. Each corner revealed something—a quiet reading nook, a velvet chair by the fire, a black-and-white photo of Bern from a century ago. The Schweizerhof doesn’t demand to be seen. It reveals itself to you, one elegant detail at a time.
A rooftop for all seasons
One of the hotel’s best-kept secrets is the rooftop terrace. Even in December, it was worth stepping out for. From up there, the entire Old Town unfurled in shades of slate and snow. Church spires, red-tiled roofs, and the slow swirl of smoke from winter chimneys. It’s a view that doesn’t ask for your attention—it simply holds it.
A mulled wine in hand, wrapped in a thick blanket, I stood still for a while. There was no music. No background noise. Just the sound of Bern being Bern.
Spa rituals beneath the city
By midday, I was ready for the Schweizerhof’s spa—500 square metres of hush and healing. Nestled in the hotel’s lower levels, it feels more like a private wellness retreat than an urban spa.
I had booked their signature Hydrathermal Journey followed by a massage. The facilities included a heated pool with underwater jets, an aromatic steam bath, and a Finnish sauna, all designed to lull you into deep, sustained stillness.
The massage was as good as I’ve ever had. The therapist worked in sync with the natural rhythm of the room, using warm oil and firm, purposeful strokes. I don’t remember falling asleep—but I remember waking up lighter.
A different flavour: Kyoyu
For my second dinner, I traded schnitzel for sushi at the Lobby Lounge Bar’s new concept—Kyoyu. A Japanese-Latin fusion, it sounded like a bold move for a heritage hotel, but it worked.
I started with yellowtail ceviche kissed with lime and jalapeño, followed by maki rolls that paired wagyu with a whisper of yuzu. There was a sharp elegance to each dish—flavours that danced but never clashed.
The cocktails mirrored the menu’s ambition. My pick—a sake-based mix with shiso and passionfruit—was equal parts floral and fiery. The kind of drink that makes you sit up a little straighter.
It struck me then how easily the Schweizerhof manages to bridge the past and the present. Here I was, eating Nikkei cuisine in a bar that’s seen over a century of guests pass through—and somehow, it all made sense.
A walk through winter
The hotel had organised a city tour earlier that afternoon. Normally, I’d skip such things, but I’m glad I didn’t. Our guide, a soft-spoken Bern local, wove stories into streets—pointing out medieval clocks, Einstein’s old apartment, and the sandstone arcades that define the Old Town.
We ended at the Christmas market—an affair of twinkling lights, handmade ornaments, and cinnamon-spiced everything. With a paper cup of hot apple cider in hand, I browsed slow, warmed from the inside out.
That night, back in my suite, I took one last bath with the window cracked open. The cold crept in gently, just enough to remind me I was in the Alps. I lit a candle, turned on soft music, and let the bathwater rise.
The departure that lingered
On my final morning, breakfast came to the room. I ate in my robe—scrambled eggs, buttery toast, and a second coffee I didn’t need but couldn’t resist.
Checkout was at ten, but I left closer to eleven. Not because I was running late, but because I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave. I lingered in the lobby, then the rooftop, then the entrance, dragging out the moment before I stepped back into the world.
There’s a German word—fernweh—that means longing for a place you haven’t yet been. But I think there should be a word for its opposite too. For the ache of leaving a place that feels like it’s known you all along.
Hotel Schweizerhof Bern & Spa is that kind of place. Not flashy. Not overproduced. Just quietly, utterly timeless.
And when you leave, you don’t just take photos. You carry it with you—in how you move, how you breathe, and how you remember what it feels like to be still in the middle of something beautiful.
