In literary footsteps through northern hill towns

Forget Florence, disregard Rome, ignore Milan. When serenity is required, head for the glorious landscapes and small towns of northern Italy.

I have often dreamed of whiling away my golden years in a picturesque, honey-colored village on a cypress-studded hill. When I discovered that three English literary women had lived my fantasy of a leisurely later life in the warmth of Italy, I was eager to see the towns they had retired to.

The three well-traveled writers who inspired my itinerary were Lady Mary Montagu, the famous letter-writer and intrepid traveler of the 18th century; Mary Shelley, 19th-century author of “Frankenstein” and wife of poet Percy Bysshe Shelley; and Freya Stark, 20th-century explorer and author. Their writings were eloquent testimony over three centuries to the enduring romantic attraction of Italy.

From their letters and books, I planned a 10-day, 375-mile ramble from the hill town of Asolo, near Venice, to Lake Maggiore, northwest of Milan. Still, I was worried when I set out with three old friends to scout the sites these women had loved. Had Italy’s rapid industrialization snuffed out some of the charm?

Dame Freya Stark’s inspired adventures throughout the Middle East and elegant prose won her a devoted following. Her travel classics, such as “The Valley of the Assassins” and “Dust in the Lion’s Paw,” are still in print, and in my book bag I carry a little volume of her selected travel essays, “The Journey’s Echo.”

As a young woman, Stark inherited a charming house in Asolo, a romantic hill town about 35 miles north of Venice. She was so enchanted with the town that she made it her home until she died in 1993 at the age of 100.

From Asolo, Stark planned her solo journeys, then returned there to write about them. Our own modest journey took us north from Florence. Zipping along the autostrada, we skirted Bologna and were past Padova by lunchtime. Our stop at an Autogrill on the autostrada confirmed my memory of the excellence and variety of inexpensive Italian cuisine.

Romantic Stark had lamented the intrusion of modernity and industrialization in her corner of Italy. In the 1960s, when she was in her 80s, she noted that only 40 years earlier there were “people clip-clopping on wooden sabots by quiet dusty roadsides where girls could stroll with their knitting and graze their sheep in the ditches.” I tried to imagine this pastoral scene as we drove through heavy traffic and pervasive smog.

Finally, we saw ahead an outline of hills rising from the plain. Perched on top of one was Asolo, once a pseudo-kingdom given in 1489 to Queen Caterina Cornaro of Cyprus by Venice in exchange for her island domain.

In low gear, we climbed past olive groves and vineyards, then drove through Asolo’s city gate, which flanks Stark’s former home on one side and poet Robert Browning’s house on the other. Early-evening strollers were settling into outdoor cafes around the cobblestone square. Children eating ice cream romped around the central fountain and dipped their hands in water spouting from a granite column topped by Venice’s chimerical winged lion.

We found a table and sipped aperitifs as the sun set. Bells rang in the church tower. The soft air caressed us. I felt I could sit there forever.

But there was no place to stay in Asolo. The elegant Villa Cipriani, where Stark ate every day in her happy old age, was booked months ahead. The small, shabbily genteel Hotel Duse on the piazza was full too--and probably would soon close for good, the desk clerk said sadly. He sent us back down the hill to the modern Hotel Europa, a square concrete building with a skyward-sweeping portico roof.It was not the homey hotel I had hoped for.

Looks can deceive, however. The proprietors greeted us with that special Italian hospitality that makes travel in rural Italy such a joy. We asked them about contacting Stark’s devoted secretary, Caroly Piaser, who’d looked after the writer in her old age. Could she still be around, we wondered? They would know at the nearby Villa di Maser, we were told.

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The Villa di Maser was designed by Palladio, the great 16th century architect. Palladian villas abound in the Asolo area, and all are sublime, but this is perhaps the most exquisite example of Palladio’s work. We visited the following morning.

At the side gate we were greeted by manager Valeria Maggione, an elegant elderly woman accompanied by about 30 very large dogs. Pushing through the pack, she unlocked the great iron gate and let us in.

As we followed her across the gravel courtyard, the dogs milled about us--a bit unsettling, but they were appropriate guardians for this villa. We settled in the book-lined sitting room, where Maggione told us that of course she knew Stark, and her mother, and her secretary, Caroly Piaser. Stark was in the Middle East and England during World War II, and her mother was imprisoned by the Fascists.

Maggione told us how she and Piaser, who had stayed on in Asolo, had kept up one other’s spirits during that time, often walking miles through the woods to avoid detection by the Germans to visit one other.

Leaving Maggione, we explored the public portion of the villa. Stark’s mother, Flora, had spent many days here studying the famous fresco paintings of Paolo Veronese in order to replicate his glorious colors in her silk-weaving factory at Asolo.

The next morning, a bit apprehensively, we rang the bell at the gate of Stark’s secretary, a few streets behind the piazza. A voice from the top of a heavily overgrown walk called for us to come in. Waiting at the door of her house, which was nearly hidden by ivy, was Caroly Piaser, bent but bright-eyed.

She ushered us in, eager to talk. Stories about Stark poured out of her. How clever and fearless and funny Stark had been. How, in her evening clothes, she would ride her Vespa scooter down the hill for dinner at the Villa di Maser. But Stark could never remember how to stop, and the gardener would have to gallop after her to pull on the brake.

Asolo was Stark’s perfect little world. We strolled down its arcaded streets and browsed in its smart shops. Down a quiet lane we wandered into the well-kept Sant’Anna cemetery, surrounded by scented woods. Stark’s grave is there. The view north (and Stark loved views) is clear across the valley to the Grappa Massif, scene of ferocious battles of World War I and now a hiker’s delight.

All the museums in Asolo were closed for repairs, including Queen Caterina’s palace. But they will reopen soon, so we will return to Asolo.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762), after a winter in Venice, settled in 1740 near the town of Brescia, between Lake Garda and Lake Iseo. She won fame with accounts of her travels and scandalized British society with her approving references to the easy nudity of women in Turkish baths. Her wit was sharp, her political acumen and literary criticism sure.

But in later life, wearied by her misanthropic husband and dissolute son, Montagu fled to Italy, where she spent 10 fruitful years writing and waiting to be joined by the enchanting but unfaithful young Italian who had wooed her in England.

The 60-mile drive west from Asolo to Lake Garda took less than a day, giving us time to loop around the lake where Montagu had spent so many happy summers. From Lazise, a small port with its castle walls still standing, we drove north toward Riva del Garda, at the head of the lake. We planned to spend the night at Salo, on the opposite shore at the foot of Lake Garda. Montagu often repaired to Salo, which was a resort town even in her day.

But we hadn’t counted on the rain that darkened the sky. Our road along the eastern shore hugged the water’s edge, while waves broke in high spray over small jetties sheltering sailboats, and lightning flashed behind black mountains.

It was nearly dark when we reached Riva, which looked surprisingly like a Mediterranean fishing village at the foot of the Alps. Proceeding down the west side of Lake Garda, we immediately entered a series of long, unlighted tunnels open on one side like cloisters, with extended rows of arches looking out on the roiling lake. By the time we reached the first town, Limone, we were ready to stop.

Had the weather been fair, we probably would not have turned down a steep street to Limone’s imbarcadero, faced with small shops, restaurants and hotels. And we would have missed this jewel that I would choose as the most appealing of all of the enchanting lake towns we visited.

By 10 that night the rain had stopped, we had finished a fine dinner of lake trout, and now we sat on the little balconies jutting out from every room in our hotel. The moon edged out between the clouds, luminescent water lapped softly below and tiny clusters of lights shone at the base of mountains across the lake.

But Limone in the sunny morning sparkled. It is perched picturesquely on the water’s edge, with pinkish-brown cliffs rising directly behind. Oleanders and orange trees graced the waterfront walk, and bright blue fishermen’s rowboats bobbed in the cove.

The 20-mile drive south from Limone to Salo was spectacularly beautiful, lined with villas and palaces and gardens. But Lovere on Lake Iseo was Montagu’s favorite resort. She went there summers to take the curative waters and finally bought at a great bargain “a ruined and tattered old palace with terraced gardens down to the lake.” Montagu repaired six rooms to live in, and spent one full winter in Lovere.

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Once, while at her home near Brescia, Montagu became deathly ill. Alarmed, her neighbors sent for her doctor in Lovere, who ordered her carried there at once for the waters. Her local doctor declared that the journey would kill her, to which Montagu replied that it was a matter of the utmost indifference to her where she expired. But she survived the trip to Lovere and within three days regained perfect health.

A somewhat gritty looking modern-day Lovere disappointed us, however. We wandered down a narrow street toward the heart of the old town. Two women, clad in black from head to toe, stood at their doors visiting. We asked them where we might find a good place to eat. The Ristorante Due Ruote, they both immediately replied, up the hill at the hotel that overlooks the cemetery. Lassu si mangia bene--”There you eat well.”

Indeed, we did. With only four others in the large dining room of the Albergo Castello, we ate the most magnificent meal of our entire trip--for about $25 each, wine included.

“Never be bored” was Lady Mary Montagu’s bracing motto. Rather than mope when her Italian lover failed to join her, she spent her time at Lovere writing witty fairy tales and fiction. We admired her attitude, but drove on in quest of a more congenial setting.

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Lake Como has long been the best known and most accessible of the Italian lakes. Mary Shelley (1797-1851) chose Cadenabbia on its western shore to spend the summer of 1840. Many years before, her husband, Percy Shelley, and two of their children had died in Italy. In her “Rambles in Germany and Italy,” Mary Shelley recounts how those losses changed her life, “substituting for happy peace and the interchange of deep-rooted affections, years of desolate solitude and a hard struggle with the world.” Yet sweet memories of a more congenial way of life that she had known in her youth in Italy pulled her back.

When Shelley reached Lake Como, she was struck with the same overwhelming sense of beauty that we felt driving along its shores: The water was so blue, the sky so clear, and the hills, towns and villas so pure in line and composition. Before we knew it, we had passed through Cadenabbia, no longer the quiet village that Shelley knew.

We stopped a mile or so farther on at Menaggio and checked into a small, family-run hotel, with Grandfather dozing outside in the sun and two children coloring on the floor in the tiny lobby.

That evening I walked along Lake Como’s shore, remembering how Shelley had thought herself dead forever to any feelings of happiness. But after a few weeks on Lake Como, she wrote, “The sun of Italy has thawed the frozen stream--the cup of life again sparkles to the brim.”

A little two-car ferry took us across the lake to Bellagio. End-of-season sales of leather goods, sweaters and silk scarfs lured us into one elegant shop after another along the porticoed main street and up and down the charming, steep side streets. We had saved enough by staying in small hotels and eating in trattorias to indulge in an exhilarating shopping spree.

Rather guiltily, we realized that we hadn’t left time to visit the famous villas that enraptured Shelley. Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio was her favorite. It is now owned by the Rockefeller Foundation and used for cultural and philanthropic functions. Tours take two hours and entail a lot of climbing. Instead, we strolled through the Grand Hotel Serbelloni at lake’s edge on former villa property. Built in 1872, after Shelley’s time, its splendid rooms and gardens would have made her feel like the guest of royalty.

The last lake we crossed was Maggiore. Its romantic landscape was wrapped in a hazy mist, and it was easy to dream, as Shelley did, of spending one’s old age with friends on one of the islands here. Nevertheless, dreams, however ephemeral, are sustaining.

“Traveling will cure all,” Shelley wrote as she wandered through the hill towns and around the lakes of Northern Italy. Happily, the magic that restored her zest for life is still there. We are filled with dreams of returning.

Luree Miller is a Washignton D.C.-based author whose books include “Literary Villages of London” and “Literary Hills of San Francisco” (Starrhill).

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GUIDEBOOK: Lakes offering a View

Getting there: Asolo and other cities in the Lake District are most easily reached via Milan. For airline information see box on page L12. Asolo is about 150 miles east of Milan.

Where to stay: We chose family- run hotels a bit off the beaten track and too small to accommodate bus tours. These included, in Caerano San Marco near Asolo, Hotel Europa (Via Don Sturzo, 17, telephone 011-39-423-650-341), with double rooms at $72; in Limone on Lake Garda, the All’Azzurro (25010 Limone sul Garda, tel. 011-39-365-954-000), at $50 per double; and in Menaggio on Lake Como, Hotel Corona (Largo Cavour, 3, tel. 011-39-344-320-06), at $55 per double. All rates, which may be higher during summer season, include breakfast.

Where to eat: We ate at trattorias, small family-run restaurants usually found on side streets, whenever we could. Ristorantes are higher, but we were generally happily surprised by the modesty of our bills in expensive Italy.

For information: See guidebook on page L12 for Italian tourist office listing. Most Italian towns have tourist bureaus with maps and all the information one needs for the area.

--L.M.