Campervan Therapy

As we hit the shores of Lake Como the mountains tower up on each side. It’s easy to see how it’s the deepest of the major Italian lakes. It is magical with its lemon sherbet and terracotta houses, iron-work balconies, enormous oleanders and vine-shaded terraces. Some villages are haunting with their air of gracious crumbling. But we decide to turn away from the packed-like-sardines campsites by this movie-star of a lake and head on the SS340’s twisting road for Lago di Piano, 4 kilometres from Lago di Lugano.

Camping Ranocchio on Lake Piano is a great spot, with its walking and cycle tracks to Porlezza on Lake Lugano and Menaggio on Como.  We’re greeted with green lake waters, carpets of waterlilies, blue-hued mountains, and rock outcrops disappearing into the clouds.

A visit to the nature reserve’s museum has Sean saying it’s like a visit to a mini–Natural History Museum.  But I’m unnerved by the glass eyes staring at me from the stuffed foxes, bitterns, eagles, cormorants, grebes, kingfishers, red squirrels, weasels and stoats.

Cycling on, we follow a sign for a Medieval hamlet. We climb up a cobbled road to sturdy stone houses clustered around the lemon façade of a castle. The basements where once animals and dairy products were kept full now of flowers and oak wine barrels. The loggia balconies remind me of Romeo scaling the craggy walls to look into Juliet’s eyes. 

A sign advertises itself as Workation Castle now. Since remote working has become a reality, perhaps many ancient hamlets will gain a new lease of life.

We follow the signs for a round tour of the lake down a stately avenue of Ash trees by meadows of contemplative cows, before picnicking on the lake’s south side, dangling our feet in the emerald waters. It’s while we’re watching a grebe family that a minor dispute arises regarding grebe behaviour.

The confusion arises because the grebes’ summer plumage doesn’t distinguish between males and females. So we watch as a grebe juvenile, with its grey and white striped neck cries for food. What I guess is a male swoops underwater, catches a fish and gobbles it up himself. While what I assume is the mother bird, torpedoes under the water for an impressive distance, skewers a fish, and immediately feeds the juvenile with it. Seán, ever the scientist, says there’s no evidence for my version, but I’m sticking to it.

Cycling off to Lake Lugano, we stop at the football pitch bar and bike hire, the owner friendly, the place cheerfully noisy with children playing and locals indulging in a pre-supper drink. We wolf down the salami and hams that come with the drink.  

Shakira’s salsa beats fill the air on Lugano’s beach – after all it is August 15^th. The steep mountain edged lake seems to disappear around a rocky outcrop so the far end of it is lost in mystery. Prolific oleanders line the promenade, and pastel painted houses huddle beneath Porlezza’s  church spire.

We follow the walking track to Cima along the old road, watching the paddle boarders and kayakers before eating our ice-creams at a lakeside café with a view of limpid waters, forested mountains and dramatic, rocky peaks.