It’s easy to dismiss Virgin River as hokey. The soapy plot lines, the glossy cast, the improbable plot twists, the Mills and Boon-lite love scenes. Even its stars didn’t expect much from the show when it first aired (its seventh season landed on Netflix in March). Lead actor Alexandra Breckenridge recently admitted to The New York Times that she thought the show was “very cheesy”. Shooting early scenes together, she told Martin Henderson, who plays her love interest Jack, not to worry because no one would see it. But from season one onward, millions and millions of regular viewers, including me, have been glued to their screens, and if anything, we’re tuning in because it’s naff.

It was a fairly straightforward fish-out-of-water set-up when Los Angeleno nurse practitioner Mel first arrived in the titular (fictional) northern Californian town. Heartbroken after the loss of her spouse in a car accident, she takes a new job assisting the gruff Doc Mullins, and immediately suspects she’s made a mistake. But she warms to this kooky cast of locals, as we all do, and quickly discovers that once they accept you, this town really does have your back.

Suffering a diet-related health scare? A kindly neighbour is sure to bring you a healthy quiche. Having an issue with a bad-tempered horse? Someone will be around to coax the beast back into submission. Yes, this lends a certain predictability to proceedings – there’s not a problem this town can’t overcome together – but this too is part of its appeal. In a world riven by war and uncertainty, Virgin River is that rare place where everything will be OK.

The steadfast sunniness of some of the characters, especially Mel, is astonishing considering her trauma (apart from the death of her husband, she’s had myriad struggles with fertility, stillbirth, and miscarriages). But in Virgin River, no one lies in bed doomscrolling; they meet at Jack’s Bar and hash it out over a beer. When one character, Lizzie is suffering from postnatal depression, she has a meltdown right on the bar’s bathroom floor, where Mel and Hope (Lizzie’s grandmother and the feisty town mayor) get down on the tiles with her. When there’s a social event, like the Moonlight Mingle, you can bet everyone’s going to be there, which is handy in case of emergency – the main cast includes a police officer, a doctor and a lawyer, always ready to lend their expertise at a moment’s notice.

Generosity might be endemic to close-knit communities, but for those of us unused to it, it reads as a utopian trait; the stuff of storybooks from a bygone era. In the most recent season alone, Mel and Jack let a pregnant woman camp out in their Airstream, bet big on a cowboy who needs help paying a debt, and take in two more horses so they don’t end up at the glue factory. There’s also the kind of recurring redemption that online cancel culture doesn’t allow for. Even the most egregious of mistakes are forgiven, and characters who start as nemeses will invariably evolve into friends.

So far, so small-town drama, right? Well, yeah, but part of what makes Virgin River so appealing is the believable chemistry of its likeable leads, especially Breckenridge and Henderson as Mel and Jack. Much of their shared screen time involves flirty in-jokes and romantic gestures; elsewhere, mature love is represented in the endlessly randy Doc Mullins and wife Hope (largely seen as lots of smooching and innuendo). On-again off-again couple Brie and Brady share a rawer kind of passion, culminating in a particularly ridiculous scene this season that’s about as steamy as Virgin River gets.

But the writers are simply delivering what the bulk of the audience (women aged 45-60) want, and if what we’re seeing is any indication, that’s an abundance of hot shirtless men. The show’s values might be old-fashioned, but on this show the mature female gaze reigns supreme, and the hunky men are the ones who are (modestly) objectified.

No one’s trying to pass off Virgin River as prestige television. At this rate, it’s unlikely to ever win any awards of note. But it’s not reaching for brilliance; it’s aiming for reliability, and quality has been consistent across its seven seasons. Like a cup of tea or a slice of hot buttered toast, it’s a warm source of comfort and a timely reminder that community heals all. In these times, anything that can amuse and soothe this consistently feels less like escapism and more like a public service.