I'm writing this sat in the cool, dark refuge of our Airbnb apartment with nothing but the remaining dusk light which has eluded the shutters to illuminate my pen and paper. I could feel entirely encapsulated in this room was it not for the occasional sound of a moped rattling past in the alleyway below or the knelling of the chapel bell as a periodic reminder of my finite amount of time in this micro-paradise.
Just a glimpse out of the window and I am confronted by the grandiose bell tower of the nearby chapel which rises from the patchwork of modest terracotta rooftops. It is one of the many opulent nods to Christ that this otherwise modest village boasts - a paradox of pious grandeur and meek normality.
As we walk between the steep lanes and alleyways we feel shadowed by the gazes of the intricately tiled Virgin Mary shrines and those who reside here. We are not blighted with maps and awe but evidently, we must look like outsiders - regardless, it is more enjoyable to be somewhere unscathed by tourism, somewhere less contrived.
Higher up in the village, the alleyways that coil around the mishmashes of homes piled upon one another evolve into a smattering of grand chalets, all sealed in with tall gates and wide drives. My imagination indulges itself; fabricating frivolous narratives of mafia dons and their dirty riches playing out within these castles on the hill. Nature gradually reclaims the surroundings as soft emerald forest replaces hard concrete until the only mark of humankind are the storybook red tractors trundling across steep fields nearby.
Leaning over the balcony outside our front door to hang out the towels to dry it is possible to spy a lone crucifix perched on a ledge which protrudes from one of the green shards of dramatic mountainside that dominate every horizon. Up there, like dieties in a cloud kingdom, we look down on the city of Lecco which hugs this corner of Lake Como. The panorama is sweetly glazed with a cloudy haze, a mirage which impersonates an animation rather than reality.
To ground ourselves after a day indulging our eyes with beauty we stop by a sweltering kebab house, a small beacon of neon light in the darkness of the night. A tall, gormless man rhythmically kneads a dough lasso above his head - a pattering tempo which accompanies the shrill of football commentary and humming of flies. Ironically, kebab house pizza here in Italy is what back home would be glorified as a gourmet luxury.
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