AThe best way is to arrive by boat from Como, past wooded heights, rugged mountains, villages pushed onto the shore, magnificent villas. At the beginning of our journey, the lake was still deeply cut into the mountain slopes, so it opens up in the center of the lake and becomes wide and light. There, behind the rocky outcrop of Villa Balbianello, lies the small bay of Lenno.
The landing stage is just a few steps from the hotel. By coincidence, the garden gate is open, so we simply pull our suitcases into the hotel garden via a gravel path. There we remain enchanted. The hotel stands above a meadow with ancient trees. It looks straight out of a dream with its round arches, green shutters, narrow balconies and ruched red blinds. Ivy climbs the wall of the house. A wooden covered porch faces the garden, into parkland filled with date palms, ornamental maples, agaves and tree-high rhododendrons. Vine-covered pavilions provide shade. A weathered wall separates the meadow from the lake. Round millstones serve as tables. White plastic loungers are scattered in small clusters across the lawn, the only sign that we are in the twenty-first century. A waiter brings a tray of aperitifs into the garden. Everything is dominated by a serene melancholy, as if we were immersed in a novel by Giorgio Bassani, “The Gardens of the Finzi-Contini”. The waiter spotted us, and a few moments later a young man was dragging our suitcases up the steps into the hall. He’s a little surprised how we got into the garden with our suitcases, the hotel entrance is on the other side, up the street. When we point to the boat that is just crossing the lake and heading to Bellagio, he smiles: Benvenuti.
Not dusty, rather nostalgic
A little later we moved into our room. It’s spacious and light. White curtains billow out in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. An old-fashioned vanity with a mirror takes up almost the entire side wall. The drawers stick a little. We don’t even fill the top drawer, there would be enough space for a whole summer. Wool blankets and pillows are stacked in a white lacquered closet. The bed with the old-fashioned metal frame takes up half the room. We sink into the thick mattresses like two newborns. The sheets smell like fresh soap. The drawers of the bedside table are lined with paper like my grandmother’s. The shiny dark plank floor feels warm underfoot. There is no refrigerator. The only sign of modernity is a small flat screen on a round side table. The bathroom is almost entirely occupied by an enamel clawfoot tub, but the sink opposite is mounted so low as to be meant for midgets. Admittedly, some things are getting a bit old in this house. The chipped paint on the bedside table and the almost blind mirror in the bathroom. Nevertheless, we immediately feel comfortable. Maybe because every object tells a story, nothing is uniform and styled. The hotel is not dusty, rather a little nostalgic, as if time passes more slowly here. Only the parking lot in front of our window with the dark limousines disturbs the illusion a little. Thankfully, it’s hidden by date palms and towering rhododendrons. The noise of the thoroughfare can still be heard at night. We booked too late, otherwise we would have gotten one of the lake view rooms. But soon I’ve relaxed and I’m fast asleep.