Relais Villa Vittoria

I don’t trust Mr Smith. He’s standing quite still in the slow-moving ballet of Milan arrivals, brandishing a comedy ‘Mrs Smith’ sign, his newly trimmed beard framing a smirk. He is wearing a suit. This in itself is suspicious: when we first met he’d emerged, bare-legged and scruffy, from a muddy pond in France, part Mr Darcy and part swamp creature. No, I don’t trust this devilishly spruced-up Mr Smith, and with good reason: we’re spending the weekend in Como, there’s a twinkle in his eye, and he’s promised to throw me in the lake.

Where to start with Lake Como? Around us, autumn is creeping in. Bright red vines cling to sheer cliffs; water springs between candy-coloured houses, looking decidedly more fredda than calda. The road twists and winds around the shores, giving us tantalising glimpses of a thin stretch of water cradled by hulking snow-capped mountains. ‘There’s the lake!’ I cry, pointlessly, but Mr Smith is too busy scraping down cobbled one-way streets to marvel at its silky emerald surface, or the way it sparkles in the midday sun.

Relais Villa Vittoria, a pretty summer mansion of salmon-pink walls and mulberry gardens, sits on a small Laglio lane right above the water. Blink and you’d miss it, so discreet its entrance and hushed its grounds. We’re promptly ushered upstairs, past inviting sofas and a baby grand, and shown to our room, a sweet dove-grey nest kitted out with plump pillows and a cosy day-bed. French windows lead onto a small balcony; outside, there’s a dinky table, a pair of chairs and the sort of glorious, tranquil view that makes you cry ‘There’s the lake!’ pointlessly. There’s a trace of anxiety in the receptionist’s voice as she shows us the bathroom – it’s not cutting-edge in style but the huge tub is fitted with Jacuzzi jets and a power shower straight out of a muscle-pummeling Alpine health clinic. I’m sold.

Once alone, we do as long-distance lovers do: we jostle for hangers in the spacious wardrobe, bicker over which side of the enormous cloud-like bed we’re going to sleep on, and raid the minibar for mini-priced mini-bottles of prosecco. Mr Smith, who is treacherous and manipulative, unearths a box of Marcolini macarons from the depths of his holdall. We sit on the balcony, biting into the pastel-coloured dainties and smiling beatifically at everything: the hills turning golden in the afternoon sun, buoys bobbing gently on the water, speedboats zooming past. ‘Later, we should walk down to the lake’, mutters Mr Smith, twirling his moustache, and so giddy on ganache and bubbly am I that I readily agree.

‘Il Signore del Gorgonzola’, says the sign at the deli counter, next to a large slab of something creamy. Dusk creeps in as we visit this small cupboard of a corner shop to stock up on local wines (sharp and tart) and crisps (herbed and moreish). It’s fair to say there there’s little else in Laglio, save a few trattorias and Clooney’s villa somewhere down the road. Outside, Mr Smith scoops me up in his arms, twirling me around to silent music, dangerously close to the lake’s edge. Slosh, slosh, slosh, goes the water below us, but it’s just a man bailing his boat out with a bucket. I quickly suggest we head back to the hotel for dinner before Mr Smith – my very own Lord of Cheese – gets any ideas. In good weather, meals are served alfresco on a pretty terrace, and the air, we’re told, is heady with jasmine blossom. But this is October, and so we take refuge in the romantic nook of cosy tables and fairy lights carved in the stone below the villa. Antipasto, primo, secondo: the plates keep coming, laden with bresaola, melt-in-the-mouth goose prosciutto, baked tomino and speck-laced gnocchi. I marvel at Mr Smith’s beef fillet, he attacks my escalope; by the time the dolce appears, we have more or less given up, and waddle back upstairs to our room.

In the morning, mist hangs low on the water. Staying on Lake Como, I’ve decided, is all about those views, so I shake Mr Smith awake and we stand on the balcony, watching the fog creep down from the mountains, our skin prickling with goosebumps in the cold air. We feast on warm croissants and eggs and bacon, then do (we are creatures of habit) as long-distance lovers do: we fall back asleep to the sounds of thunder rolling over the lake. Waking to crisp blue skies, we head to the town of Como, getting into the Italian spirit of things by driving up bus lanes and getting lost in markets stocked with puffa jackets and many, many shoes. (It is autumn.) Once we find our bearings, we wander through the old town, past its green-roofed cathedral and enticing pasticcerias. It’s hard to get away from the lake: after restorative cappuccino and cannoli we stroll to the water’s edge, where enormous swans float imperiously in the shallows. Mr Smith looms menacingly behind me, camera in hand, but I distract him by hopping on to the quaint funicular ambling up and down the steep slope. In Brunate, at the top of the hill, there are lavish houses locked up for the winter, and views to the plains of Lombardy and the majestic Alps beyond. The air smells of pine and when we kiss, our breaths fog in the crisp air.

The next morning, we pack our bags and walk through the gardens, one last time, to Lake Como. It’s easy to imagine Relais Villa Vittoria in the summer: long idle sun-drenched afternoons of book-thumbing by the infinity pool, a splash in the blue-green waters, perhaps, and evenings of wafting from wisteria-clad trattorias to hole-in-the-wall wine cellars. We stop by the steps leading straight down to the water. I scoop up Mr Smith in my arms; ahead of us, there’s the slow torturous drive back to Malpensa, and then our sad separate flights home. I smile, devilishly: we’ll come back soon, when the livin’ is easy and the cotton is high.

And when we do, I’m going to throw him in the lake.