Waking to the silk-grey waters and snow-capped mountains, I walk gracefully
and somewhat majestically out of the Villa.
One finds oneself taking on a whole new persona of a regal and historic
nature whilst the past of the lake permeates the present, it unarguably adds
grace to natural grandeur.
I glide along the shores of the lake through the rather grand lake village of
Tremezzo taking in the views as I go, and arrive only 5 minutes later at the
17th-century Villa Carlotta.
A masterpiece of both Italian architecture and natural beauty the villa was
built by the Milanese Marquis Clerici, and now offers some of the best
viewpoints on the lake.
Now famed for its somewhat awesome gardens they are trimmed with terraces,
stairways and fountains; Carlotta is show-off grace itself. Stendhal wrote The
Charterhouse of Parma here. Canova left sculptures. The gardens are tailored
endlessly across the hillside, segueing finally into the tree-clad wildness
beyond.
After a light bite and an Italian hot chocolate (so thick my spoon stood up
right far longer than my antipasti hung around for) I headed back toward the
villa and took the car ferry from Cadenabbia; my private boat jetty it seems, as
it is just a stone's throw from my villa.
Heading over to Varenna I wandered the lake-edge walkway, then headed up to
Villa Monastero. The villa itself is open for about 15 seconds a day, but the
gardens, a lovely swathe of classicism, are easier to access. The loggias frame
the lake perfectly.
Then comes lunch.... First come bowls of radiant antipasto vegetables: onions
baked in their jackets, sweet peppers basking in olive oil, purple beetroots,
fagiole, carrots - all shimmering like a rococo still life. A bottle of Soave
turns up on the table, a loaf of bread beside it - "friendly bread", to be
torn.
The waiter carves a chunk of ham of such sweetness that the pig must have
been fed on honey, and then a soft pyramid of bresaola. To follow, he bones a
huge salmon trout, clenches half a lemon in his hand and squeezes it all
over.
Olive oil, lemon, sunshine... life could hardly get better. But then comes
succulent chicken, and a hunk of parmesan gouged from a vast cheese and placed
in my hand.
A choir of church bells rings soft, shrill and loud by turns, and a grey
heron soars up into the blue sky.
Making sure I didn't miss the last ferry home, I retired to the garden
terrace of my grand villa, hoping the butler from past centuries would appear
and offer to serve me a glass of Merlot and hang my coat and hat.
If there is anything more romantic than watching the light reflecting on the
water and mountains attenuated whilst enjoying a glass of red, I am certain it
will be in another lifetime.
