IN early autumn, Lake Como (Lago Lario or di Como in Italian, Lacus Larius in Latin) looks impenetrable, the water’s surface the colour of liquid onyx. The trees that cling to the lake’s steep limestone and granite banks hold onto the last vestiges of green; many already in a state of transformation, tinged rust red and purple. One morning, I peel back the curtains to find the sky disconcertingly low, clouds immobile, ensnared by jagged mountain tops until the sun builds up enough warmth to burn through them.
The natural lake formed about 10,000 years ago, water filling an inverted Y-shaped groove carved deep into the ground by a glacier. So deep, in fact, that it is
