The drive to Gargnano, a village which D.H. Lawrence - not exactly the jolliest in the group - described as “One of the most beautiful places on earth”, is a twisting, turning, deliciously-stuck-in-third-gear beauty. No matter where you start off from, the panoramica really lives up to its name: shimmering lakes, armies of green forests poking the clouds, vineyards, and limonaie - strange-looking stone pillars which are actually lemon gardens and houses - spaced at regular intervals on the mountain slopes.

The Feltrinelli family contributed heavily to the public structures in this lovely little village. In 1903 they built a hospital and retirement home, in 1913 the road which connects the mountain hamlets of Navazzo, Sasso and Liano to Gargnano, and in 1921, the elementary school.

It made sense then that in 1913 the Villa Feltrinelli would pass on to Carlo Feltrinelli who, not content with managing an immense inherited fortune including lumber and private banking, went on to found Edison and the Italian Credit Institute. As a reward, King Vittorio Emanuele II granted Carlo’s family the title of ‘Marchese di Gargnano’.

You can feel this heavy drape of history the moment you step into the stunning Villa Feltrinelli, which today hosts guests as culturally and financially far from the bicycle-riding hordes on the panoramica as is humanly possible. Outside, no matter whether you turn up in a massive Merc or in a rental Aygo, the welcome is the same: one porter to unload it and another to welcome you with a tiny bouquet of flowers and lead you into the stunning reception area.

There is no check-in procedure: you are in somebody’s house and it really feels like it. And what a house. To say that the Grand Hotel Villa Feltrinelli is beautiful or breathtaking is to apply the understatement of the century. Every single part of it flutters with exquisite detail: the almost floor to ceiling (and the ceiling here is 20 metres high) stained glass windows, with the family ‘F’ insigna imprinted on each pane, are saturated colour drawing in the light even on the greyest of days. The mahogany and walnut tables of differing heights and sizes carry sepia family portraits in solid silver frames. The intricately carved ceilings frame the ice cream coloured frescoes and all of it serves to remind you of one thing: this was somebody’s home.

I could have chosen a suite outside of the main villa, as there are four: the Casa dei Fiori with its private entrance; the Casa Rustica basking in great views of the lake; the Limonaia with its three floors and large outdoor covered patio; or the Boat House, which comes with a fireplace, two private outdoor terraces and a marble bath.

Instead, I am staying in one of the guestrooms in the Villa itself because I really want to live this experience. It is called ‘Turchese’ - there are no numbers here - and although the lady leading me to it offers to take me up in the walnut and brass-clad lift, I prefer to take the pink-marble, wide staircase.

To call this a ‘guestroom’ is really not giving it enough credit. Most people live in houses smaller than this: the bed is huge and dressed up in a traditional 300-thread count design by Frette called the Fiandra. The draperies around the Villa are from the original pattern called the Feltrinelli Sheer, a delicate embroidered cream-coloured fabric reproduced by Rubelli of Venice. Normally I would not switch any music on, but here the sound systems (there are two, one for the bedroom and another for the dressing room) offer eight stations including jazz and opera, so I do.

Right next to the window - which is strategically placed so that you wake up to the never-ending gleam of Lake Garda, and just beneath, the heated swimming pool - is a writing desk with a selection of cotton writing paper and a Villa Feltrinelli roller-ball as heavy as Mont Blanc and equally beautiful to write with. Befitting, considering that it was Giangiacomo Feltrinelli - who published the works of Boris Pasternak and Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, bringing Italian literature to the world’s reading glasses - who was the last remaining family resident.

Giangiacomo was a rebel in the way only somebody with never-ending fortunes can be. The Villa itself was caught in the crossfire of two extraordinary destinies. Mussolini was confined here and forced into humiliating isolation by the Germans. Once the dictator departed, in came Giangiacomo, member of the Communist Party and a candidate for the Italian parliament. He also counted Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and Ho Chi Minh as his friends.

In the 1960s, Giangiacomo organised an anniversary party for the Feltrinelli Publishing House in the house. Shortly after, he left its leadership and joined terrorist political militancy which led to his tragic death: he blew himself up while trying to do the same to a power station. In all probability, the documents charting the terrorist activity of the Gruppo Azione Partiggiana, as well as correspondence with Pasternak, were in the Villa.

The drama of the period is still felt in the architecture. There are plump sofas everywhere, honesty bars, oil paintings depicting ‘extra’ guests in all the rooms, and books wherever you look.

For the first time ever, the beautiful dressing rooms, just up a couple of steps from the bed area and split into male and female on either side, pale into insignificance. The bathroom, with its heated marble floor and its 150ml bottles of Aqua di Parma products, is gorgeous, and yet still just a washing area when one considers that just outside there is the Villa Feltrinelli Park with its eight acres of landscaped grounds planted with magnolia, olive and orange trees.

I walk and walk. There are loungers everywhere you look, discreetly placed in twos away from everybody else, so I sit, read and stare at the lake. For some reason, and I am presuming that the hotel management actually manages this, there are no children anywhere. Although I can imagine that the kids would love the nature anyway, there are no child facilities which, for those wanting to get away, even from their own let alone from others’, is absolutely perfect.

While I am having a bespoke breakfast - the idea of a buffet in this place is, as one would imagine, ludicrous - I notice that somebody has just alighted from their helicopter on the helipad adjacent to the central area. He makes his way to a table on the lake which has obviously been specifically set up for him, has breakfast, spends an hour or so reading his newspapers, then gets back into his helicopter and leaves.

I wonder who he was. I wonder who the other guests - mostly couples, either very young or really quite advanced in age - are. The Villa Feltrinelli may be public these days, in that it will welcome anybody who can pay, yet it still manages to be stunningly private. There is no bling and no gift shops for those normally attracted to all that is ostentatious. There is just silence and beauty.