Under the Orange Awnings

Unbelievably, it was my first time. I have been to Italy more times than I can count: summers in Forte dei Marmi, Alassio and Santa Margherita, driving down from England with my parents, stopping in France, then Switzerland and St. Moritz for walks in the mountains before descending to the sea. And yet I had never been to Lake Como.

Expectations were high. The moment the hotel came into view, I knew I had chosen well. The beach club sits right on the water, with its floating pool, cabanas and deckchairs from another era; above it rises an Art Nouveau palace dressed in bright orange awnings, as if to tell you that you have arrived. The valets magic away the car and the luggage, you climb the grand steps, and a wood-panelled glass lift carries you up into a world of full-on glamour.

Built in 1910 for the social elite, Grand Hotel Tremezzo spares nothing. It is the scale that strikes you first, then the taste: modern, brilliantly coloured velvets on love seats and Chesterfields, perfect parquet, intricate cornicing, period furniture and ceilings that seem to go on for ever. Everywhere there are vast, unusual arrangements of the hotel's signature orange roses. Turn around and the whole front of the palace is glass, open to the lake and the mountains beyond. Even the sweets are kept in blown-glass jars.

What makes it unforgettable, though, is that none of this feels like a museum. The team are warm and utterly professional, and they make you feel at home immediately. You want to sit down, take it all in and stay. My children vanished into the clubby snooker room within the hour, and nobody so much as raised an eyebrow.

There is no doubt about it: this is a palace.

Behind the palace lies the park, climbing the hill through exotic greenery: a second heated pool, a tennis court, an outdoor pizzeria and sun loungers tucked into quiet corners. Keep walking for fifteen minutes and there is a surprise at the top, well worth it if you don't mind heights.

With an entrance like that, you half expect the bedrooms to disappoint. They don't. Ours had little balconies with views to die for, huge marble bathrooms with deep tubs, and the hotel's own toiletries, including its signature scent in a pretty perfume bottle. I brought it home, and I'm wearing it as I write.

Then there is the T Spa, one floor below the lobby and facing, of course, the lake: an indoor-outdoor infinity pool with a grotto, a white Lasa marble hammam, the glamorous Mosaico studio for hands, feet and hair, and daybeds from which to watch life on the water. A visit or three is obligatory.

We were there over my husband's birthday, and the hotel spoiled us with surprises. By far the most unforgettable was a private tour of the lake on a gleaming wooden motorboat: wind in our hair, late-afternoon sun, the great villas sliding past, the obligatory stories about George Clooney. I had never been one for boats. This converted me within seconds of stepping aboard.

Bellagio is ten minutes across the water by ferry: cobbled streets, green-shuttered houses, boutiques, and boats bobbing at the waterfront. And from the hotel's front door you can stroll to Villa Carlotta, three centuries old, whose botanical gardens are a kaleidoscope of colour.

In the blink of an eye it was over. This is where you stay for Lake Como; it is the ultimate, and I cannot wait to go back. Those orange awnings stayed with me long after we left. It is no coincidence that our Como bracelet is woven in exactly that shade of orange.

Photographs by Caron Bluestone.