Saltus

'We’re going to like it here,' I text my friend when I arrive ahead of her at Saltus, an alpine chalet hotel and architectural marvel. First impressions prompt my message: the reception leads into a sweeping lounge with wraparound glass windows at the far end, framing the Unesco-protected mountains in the distance. We’re on the fringes of the Dolomites, a 20-minute bus ride up from Bolzano, which you can fly directly into. Gold stars all round for the combination of ease and escapism. Saltus may be at odds with its fairy-tale surrounds of chocolate-box churches and gingerbread houses — a sculptural box rising from the hillside, all clean lines and great expanses of glass — yet somehow, it belongs here.

I lounge around waiting for my friend, taking in the mix of old and new that defines the hotel. It was founded back in 1954 and at the time was San Genesio’s only lodgings, a place solely accessible via cable car. Fast-forward seven decades and it has embraced the contemporary style that has become popular in the area. Well-worn antique pewter plates with cream pillar candles dance on top of beautiful oak tables; and linen sofas are clustered around coffee tables stacked with games and books.

Our room is soon ready and I plod off to revel in the views of dusky mountains silhouetted against a sugar-pink sky. When my friend eventually arrives, I’ve had time to test out the sofa (a good napping spot) in our chic, pared-back room, enjoy a little lunch and roughly figure out the warren of corridors that links the old and new buildings.

There’s a sunbathing garden, a subterranean spa looking onto a forest, a rooftop with indoor and outdoor pools, a restaurant and a small gym with a vintage tiled stove and an antique bucket filled to its brim with fresh apples to help ourselves to. We spend our time aimlessly lolling around, squealing at the views and encouraging each other to order another treat or two.

Before long, we feel we should actually do something with all those mountains outside, so we rally ourselves to do what we’d come here to do: hike. Straight from the front door, there’s a trail that takes in farms with their merry flower patches, chickens, goats and cow-filled fields, easy to meander in an afternoon. The dull clunk of a cowbell somewhere in the distance is joined by the echo of church bells across the hills.

For our next walk, we get more ambitious and tackle a five-hour route over Alpine pastures, stopping for drinks and lunch at refuges and telling ourselves we’re locals. It’s the sort of scenery that makes you want to be annoyingly earnest about it all, though thankfully there’s enough exertion involved to keep conversation practical.

On the way back, disaster strikes; the much-needed pit in our story of rose-tinted scenes. I take an embarrassing, head-first tumble down a road, gouging a healthy chunk out of my knees and hands, and embedding little souvenirs of tarmac in my flesh. With me covered in blood, my friend springs into action, waving down cars (who couldn’t care less) and then a bus (very affable, and stops to let us on) to take us up the mountain and home.

The only problem is the connecting bus doesn't arrive and we’re stranded in a town 20 minutes away from Saltus, with the only alternative being a lengthy down the valley on public transport. We call the hotel and what ensues is a sort of comedy of errors where no driver can be found to rescue us, and when a taxi is located we have no cash to pay him. Cab fare finally secured on a promise to pay it back to the receptionist, I hobble in.

Knee and hand scrubbed and sanitised, I am in need of a very large serve of something in a fancy glass. The bar obliges and we retire to the roof to self-administer the drinks in lieu of smelling salts.

All that excitement has resulted in quite the appetite, so we head to dinner, where we enjoy hearty local dumplings swimming in cheese sauce, and a lovely piece of fish accompanied by sweet tomatoes. There’s something comforting about the food at Saltus, as there is about the whole hotel. Nothing feels overly polished or precious. It’s generous, local and unfussy, right down to the bread, served warm out of the oven.

The restaurant is a pretty, alfresco spot, all the more impressive at first light when we return for breakfast, a watercolour unfolding before us. We down coffee and toast before getting back on the proverbial pony and, under strict instructions from reception to avoid any unmarked trails (our downfall the previous day), successfully complete a three-hour hike before breakfast service closes.

A second round on our return brings pancakes, homemade bread and local jams, seasonal fruit and eggs, all demolished as we watch the assortment of guests, which ranges from well-heeled Americans to a French family gathering. 

Saltus is the sort of place where the details conspire to make you slow down. You hear the bells before you see the cows. You take an apple because there’s a bucket of them sitting there. You read a book instead of reaching for your phone. You swim looking out at the forest. You hike until your legs ache.

It’s a curious combination of sculptural modernism and pastoral life, of architectural ambition and Alpine simplicity. And somewhere between the cowbells and the second breakfast, we realised that the hotel had got it exactly right. Sometimes the best kind of escape is one where there is nothing you particularly need to escape from.