Livigno: A dream accomplished

We went to Livigno last September, but, several months on, my four-year-old still wakes up some mornings telling me: “Mama, I had a good dream last night. I dreamt we were in Livigno.” I know, on days like these, that there won’t be any grumpiness, or tantrums – such is the cheery effect of this green valley on her. Livigno, I am sure now, should be marketed as the new Calpol.

And to think that I very nearly gave it a miss, for in my mind, Livigno equals skiing. And if there’s one thing Kristina Chetcuti doesn’t do, is skiing (my ego can’t cope with toddlers flying past me on the baby slopes).

“In summer Livigno is a different place altogether: No skiing, promise,” said Stellina Galea, YTC tour organiser. “Just come,” she said.

Now, there’s another thing actually that I don’t do. And that’s tours. When you’ve been travelling independently for more than two decades, tours conjure up images of heavily commissioned tour leaders who even dictate which public loos you have to use.

“Oh, no. I certainly don’t do those kind of tours,” Stellina promised again. “Just come.” And I went. She was right: The trip was unclaustrophobic, yet homely. We were an odd mix: From parents with kids to honeymooners and from elderly travellers to party-loving teenagers. Stellina was a reference point, more of a mother-hen than a tour leader and somehow we all gelled, we all respected each other’s space for a whole week.

From Milan, it’s quite straightforward to reach the cut-off valley in the Alps with picturesque wooden houses not unlike our very own Popeye’s Village, sans the ricketyness of course.

The region used to be nicknamed Piccolo Tibet – Little Tibet – due to its remote, lofty position, but that was before 1964, when the Munt La Schera tunnel opened the resort up to thousands of (mostly poshy) tourists from northern Europe. Livigno is made up of four hamlets strung out over 12 kilometres: San Antonio, Santa Maria, San Rocco and Trepalle.

These are tucked in between some of the most rugged and beautiful mountain terrain that the Alps have to offer. No wonder then, that Livigno has more than 30 lifts and 110km of pistes for recreational skiing. But there’s none of that at this time of year: in summer the snow starts to melt and gushes down the mountains into the rivers. There’s only pleasant cable car rides to the top for a spectacular 360 degrees view of the mountains.

On top of Mount Mottolino and Mount Carosello – flanking either side of the valley at a height of more than 3,000 metres – there were neat little patches of snow. This was just enough for us Maltese bereft of the white stuff, to happily engage in a snow fight, imprint our names in the snow and build micro, gnome-like snowmen.

As well as being blessed with some of the most picturesque mountains in the Alps, Livigno has been a tax-free haven since 1600. It has more than 200 stores offering visitors a run for their money. But shopping when abroad is not for the likes of me – I tend to prefer to tend to my langorino.

At Mario’s (Via Rin, 84), the host welcomes his guest to his bustling restaurant with a complimentary glass of bubbly (and fresh orange juice for the wee ones), and I was sent on my way with a couple of generous measures of grappa some hours later. What the hell – I wasn’t driving – one of the joys of Livigno is that everywhere is within walking distance.

The local restaurants offer solid, local fare, and there are thankfully few rafia-wrapped- chianti-bottle-type establishments either. Typical Livigno dishes include: pizzoccheri (buckwheat noodles with magnuca cheese and potatoes) and sciatt (polenta filled with the local bitto cheese and soaked in grappa). Luckily, calorie counting was not a concern at all, as I was burning it off like there was no tomorrow. For the whole week I rented a bicycle with a little rickshaw-like cart at the back, in which I plopped the daughter. Not even the occasional drizzling rain prevented us from cycling about.

We stopped at intervals: to coax mountain goats to eat grass from our hands; to wade across streams; to roll on hills; to stare at grazing cows; to go donkey and horse riding; to listen to the soundtrack of crickets and crows; and to watch farmers harvesting the hay. We saw a cow being milked and that milk go in a bottle for consumption, and then tasted it, at the Livigno Latteria. I hadn’t felt like this in a long time: part of the cycle of nature.

In between these back-to-basics experiences, we also fitted in a spot of neighbouring-country reconaissance. As Livigno is on the border with Switzerland, the famous towns of Davos and Klosters – the favoured winter resorts of Prince Charles and William and single, eligible Harry – are a stone’s throw away. No prince was in sight on the day we were there, so we tried our luck at rubbing shoulders with the elite at chic Swiss town of St Moritz. I am glad to report, that, yes I could very much afford a couple of ice creams (but, ah, that’s just about it).

The trip also included a visit to the submerged village of Curon where only the church steeple can be seen above the surface of the shimmering Lago di Resia; the postcard perfect Swiss villages of Glorenz and Zernez; and the town of Bormio which for many years has been the holiday residence of the affluent Milanese and so has a sophisticated aura.

To guide us through all of this we had expert coach driver Matteo Rini, who thankfully has an incredible knack for manoeuvring gingerly through narrow winding mountain roads. He’s more local than the locals and, bless, is full of hilarious stories of his Robin-Hood-style smuggler of grandfather.

The final highlight was definitely the Bernina express: an old red train, in perfectly good shape, which for more than 100 years has been chugging and winding away through mountain tracks from Poschiavo in Switzerland to the Morterasch glacier bringing supplies and relief when no other access is possible in harsh winters.

On our last day, I cycled – with Pip at the back – right up to Val Alpisella which is where the river Po flows past down to the Danube. That’s a geography lesson falling in place, I thought. Somewhere close by, there was a little hut, on the door of which hung an etched sign: “When the last tree will be felled, the last river polluted, the last fish fished, you’ll realise that you can’t eat money.”

Nowhere makes you realise that more than Livigno. In truth it is a dream which we should all be dreaming.

• Ms Chetcuti travelled to Livigno courtesy of YTC. More information may be obtained by phone on 2142 1464 or 9942 0377, by e-mail: stellina@ytctravel.org or online: www.ytctravel.org.