From Merano, it’s only eleven kilometers to Lana, through vineyards and laden orchards. We could lean out of the window and grab an apple. On the edge of Lana, we leave the car in covered parking near the lift up to Vigilius Mountain Resort. None of us ever has been on a cable car. We load in our bags along with two brave souls and their coach, who are taking the lift up for paragliding. I’m scared, but once we begin, it seems that we’re never too far above the ground. Like the birds, we skim through the larch forest. Up we go. And up, the town of Lana and the valley receding quickly.
Gripping the railing, I focus on the wide view and try not to imagine the cable snapping, sending us careening down the mountain. William smiles all the way up. Ed, of course, talks with the paragliders and their coach.
Soon we swing gently to a stop. There to meet us is a man, incongruously in a suit, from the hotel. He whisks our luggage onto a small vehicle. We walk—no cars allowed up here—the short distance to the hotel, a luxury monastic building designed by Matteo Thun, architect of Merano’s thermal complex. The larch-wood exterior looks as though it was gathered from weathered old fences, though the sweep and shape of the design say that the place is contemporary. Instead of landscaping, there are purple and yellow wildflowers and swaying grasses. And views and views of blue-tinged mountains.
We get to stay three nights. Will I go stir-crazy? No car, no streets, no shops, the entire concrete world gone. What there is to do: Walk, read, swim, soak in a hot pool that is half inside and half outside in the trees. Eat, of course. The hotel has a casual restaurant in Tyrolian style, and, upstairs, Ristorante 1500—for 1,500 meters above sea level—which conjures the feel of a barn with its exposed wood and three-hundred-year-old beams.
An architect’s make-the-best-of-it moment in designing a hotel must be the hallways. How to design that difficult space, other than with wallpaper and patterned rugs? At Vigilius the halls are not static. They’re wide with smooth stone floors, and playful sculptures on pedestals punctuate the way. The sculpture exhibits change periodically. Our rooms have the Germanic folded duvet bedcovers—no top sheet—but also contemporary rosy velvet chairs facing the view. On a ledge, a book of short narratives, an annual publication written by guests, and a basket of Braeburn apples from a local farmer. The bathroom counters and tub surrounds are made of pale, smooth larch. By the tub, a jar of hay for a soaking bath.
All through this area, we’ve heard murmurs about climate change, and as many awards attest, our hotel is state-of-the-art eco. The dividing three-quarters-high wall between bedroom and bath is made of baked clay. It doubles as the heater for the room. I read an elaborate description of the hotel’s biomass (wood chip) heating system, with such filtration that pollutants are minimal. Many excellent hotels in the region have no air-conditioning because they’ve never needed it. End of June. Hot. Now they do. At night on the ground floor, we can open the door in our glass wall for a breeze but I’m afraid of animals coming in. Lucky for William, he’s on the second floor. Still, owls could fly in and settle on the bed.
WE’VE ARRIVED FROM Merano late in the day. William is ready for the pool. At the entrance to the spa area, I see Greek words from Heraclitus etched on the glass wall.
πάντα ῥεῖ
The attendant doesn’t know what it means, and neither do I. We have the indoor infinity pool to ourselves, the hot pool, too. Moving from the one pool to the other and back, we seem to float through the glass wall and into the view. Both pools are paved with white stone slabs. After, we feel energized. Is that because the water is slightly radioactive? Throughout the hotel this buzzy, prized water runs in all the pipes. It’s highly regarded as therapeutic, and is sold as bottled water as well.
William is out for shots of the streaky purple sunset. We rest. Already the go-go-go of the last few days melts away in the peace of this place.
ALL GUESTS ARE invited to the living room for a prosecco before dinner. I adore the unlikely colors. Long sofa banquettes built along two walls are upholstered in burnt-ocher velvet with orange, plum, and red pillows, all the colors that dance in the fireplace. Beyond the glass wall, we drift out to the terrace for the aperitivo. All the other guests speak German. My German is limited to es var einwal ein junger Bauer (there was once a young farmer), and Ed’s to Frühstück (breakfast) and Einfahrt and Ausfahrt (entrance and exit, which provoke laughs on the autostrada). We are exiled to our own company. William, the only child present, is brought a drink of mint and orange. Suddenly a downpour opens and we rush inside. A gray skein of mist covers the mountains and the larch forest darkens.
OUR FIRST NIGHT, we chose Stube Ida, the hotel’s Tyrolian bistro. I don’t know what home cooking is in these hills but, please, let it be like this. Frico, a fried potato crisp with guanciale and red onions; cabbage leaves stuffed with the great Piemontese Fassone beef, buckwheat, and sour cream butter; fried chicken with sour peppers and apple chutney; gnocchi with chanterelles and thyme; black bread soup; tagliata (sliced grilled steak) with rosemary and a sauce of vino schiava, a DOC grape of the area. Savory and comforting, like the restaurant’s atmosphere: A huge tile stove remains from an earlier incarnation of the inn; wooden tables and mountain chairs with heart shapes carved out of the backs speak to the tradition but don’t read as kitschy; and, of course, the mountain view. Hikers stop here at lunch and eat out on the terrace but it’s different at night, when the coziness kicks in.
OUT EARLY, WE take the short walk to chair lifts for further adventures in higher meadows and forests. This time, I’m not afraid; the ride feels exhilarating, bobbing along over hikers and cows ringing their bells and lowing. Closed into the chair with a bar across pulls out fleetingly some lost primordial memory of being confined in a stroller. We take well-marked trails to a lake, but when we arrive, we find the lake has become a marsh. The trails are easy and tamed. No scrambling or tricky footing, just alpine air and gorgeous blue sky. We walk all morning and circle back to the chair lift in plenty of time for salads on the terrace, more pool time, and, for the men, an hour with kettle bells in the exercise room. I retire to read.
WE’RE FALLING INTO a routine of hikes, lounging with books by the pool twice a day, and photographing bees burrowing into flower faces. Ed studies Italian. I’m unable to put down my Jane Gardam novel. We’re easily clocking seven or eight miles a day outdoors.
The last two nights we have long dinners at the more formal Restaurant 1500, where Chef Filippo Zoncato presides over the kitchen. We bond with a waiter from Sardinia who regales us with descriptions of Sardinian food while pouring tastes of Alto Adige white wines from the Cantina Terlano co-operative of twenty-four winemakers. Crisp and fresh as a local apple, their Terlano Chardonnay sets a standard. And here’s my love, Sanct Valentin sauvignon from St. Michael-Eppan. All their whites are winsome and strong. We also fall hard for the Pinot Nero Sonnenberg, Cantina Burggräfler.
Some of our favorite tastes from the chef’s brilliant locally sourced menu:
“Tacos” formed from celery root and filled with sweet and sour carrots, soft goat cheese, zucchini, and oregano.
Rice with asparagus, grated egg, and luppolo selvatico, wild hops.
Lamb with purée of fave and agretti, that bitter, grass-like green.
Suckling pig with kohlrabi, rye, roasted onions, and caraway.
Branzino, sea bass, with rhubarb, turnip greens, and toasted pine nuts.
Millefoglie with pistachio, hazelnut, and sorbet of sambuco (elder tree) flowers.
Yellow peach with cream of white chocolate and Champagne granita and basil.
After dinner, movies (usually in German) are shown in the library, or we can lie out in the wildflowers, looking up at the stars. They seem so close you could reach out and snatch one out of the sky, put the sparkle in your pocket.
Three slow and relaxed days paradoxically speed by. I forgot to take the hay bath. Shouldn’t I have had a facial? All too soon, we board the cable car and begin our descent.
The Greek quote written on the spa door—now I know what it means: Everything flows.