As the lightning burns another complex reticulate pattern across the night sky, and the basso profundo thunder booms behind the mountains, and the rain hammers its increasingly frantic rhythms on the canopy above my head, I think, not for the first time, that I am in one of my favourite spots in the whole world.

I am sitting on the western shore of Lake Maggiore, enjoying the last of the summer’s Sturm und Drang playing out over the ranges that separate Italy from Switzerland. As autumn approaches, the see-sawing temperatures are levelling out, the circadian rhythm of heat wave and heavenly upheavals is slowly breaking down, and calm is once again descending on this lush, temperate enclave. The light show searing across the Alps might well be the last fling of the season, and I am making the most of it.

Ostensibly, I am in the far north of Italy to research a book, but the mesmerising beauty of the lake, with its jagged backdrop of peaks, the leisurely timetable of the ferries and the storms have lulled me into an agreeable torpor. Hilaire Belloc found the perfection of the vista so powerful, he was convinced there was something evil about it: the work of a sorcerer, designed to ensnare men. He might have had a point.

It is a good job he never stopped at the Hotel Cannero, which, by Belloc’s criteria, is surely the work of the devil himself. Situated behind the landing stage at Cannero Riviera, this is far from the grandest of hotels on the Italian lakes, a quotidian tiddler compared to Serbollini or Villa d’Este or Villa Feltrinelli, but it is neither as stuffy nor as credit card-humblingly expensive as some of its more recherché brethren. It is family-run (since 1902), the food is well above average for this part of the world, the service is outstanding, there is a pool to keep the kids happy (although mine quickly discovered the joys of lake swimming — not least because, come the end of summer, it is warmer than the pool) and, from your balcony, the constant movement on the lake, the bustle at the landing stage and the display on the promenade will keep you occupied for hours. The Cannero isn’t perfect — they need to invest in pillows that don’t feel as if they are moulded from solid polystyrene, and the all-day snacks are mediocre — but even the devil makes mistakes.

By sheer force of will, I have managed to pull myself away from the Cannero’s terraces to explore the lake. It’s a 10-metre stroll from the hotel to the shore, from where you can grab a boat and be whisked off to enjoy one of Maggiore’s attractions (well, whisked may be too strong a word — you have to allow a day for most excursions). Two you won’t want to miss are Isola Bella, one of the three Borromeo islands that are open to the public, and Monte Mottarone.

The Borromeos are a family from Milan who happen to own all the fishing rights on the lake. This has been a useful addition to the coffers since the 16th century, and doubtless funded some of the gilded excesses that constitute the palace on Isola Bella, which has astonishing terraced gardens.

Monte Mottarone is accessed by cable car from the charming resort of Stresa. From the terminus, at 1,491 metres, you can see not only wave after wave of ice-tipped Alps, but the Lombardy plain, with all the lakes perfectly laid out below. It is one of the best views in all Italy.

IF YOU TAKE the boat north from Cannero, you will cross into Switzerland, landing ultimately at Locarno, a lovely town built with open-air pleasures in mind — the porticoed Piazza Grande, at its centre, is often used for concerts, and there’s a lakeside promenade lined with rare and exotic trees. Just don’t forget your passport, or you’ll be enjoying the ride back sooner than you expected.

However, there is another way to reach Locarno from Italy — by rail. To do that, you must travel up to the terminus at Domodossola, on the Italian side of the mountains. You can get there by train, but I chose to drive from Cannobio, a snaking second-gear climb across jagged-walled valleys, through tiny villages, past a large monument to the partisans who fought in these mountains in 1943-45, and on up to the Val Vigezzo, an area of rolling hills and thick forests hemmed in by brooding, granite-faced mountains. Apparently, one of its main exports, 100 and more years ago, was chimney sweeps — if you were European nobility and wanted your many flues done properly, you’d hire a man (or boy) from hereabouts.

To the south of the Val Vigezzo is the wildest remaining part of Italy, the Val Grande National Park, home to chamois, roebucks, foxes, weasels, hares, marmots and stone martens. Its hawks, goshawks and buzzards often stand guard over the approach roads. The area is crisscrossed with mountain pathways (mule paths, shepherds’ roads, smugglers’ routes), many of them requiring great expertise from walkers, and all of them at their best in spring or autumn, when the temperature and the vegetation are more manageable.

However, this time my destination was the rather more workaday town of Domodossola, put on the map by the opening of the nearby Simplon rail tunnel in 1906. Despite its breathtaking surroundings, Domodossola is, like many railway towns, rather unprepossessing in itself. Part of its attraction, though, is symbolic rather than physical, for this place was the capital of the only substantial part of Nazi-occupied Europe to throw out its occupiers and declare itself independent (hence the partisan monument on the approach road from the lake).

Despite opposition from the British and American secret services — and the fury of Mussolini and the Germans — the Free Republic of Ossola, encompassing 82,000 people and 1,600 square kilometres, was declared on September 9, 1944. It was, of course, chaotic — the resistance was a confusing mishmash of opposing political parties, and food, money and weapons were in short supply — but the Swiss recognised the fledgling state and Red Cross parcels were sent.

It was as magnificent a gesture as it was foolhardy: as the allies had suggested, the Free Republic of Ossola’s very existence was an insult to the German occupiers. Frightened that other partisan strongholds would follow suit by declaring independence, a combined force of SS and fascist militia attacked the town on October 13. A heroic defence lasted three days, but in the end, the republic was overwhelmed. The majority of the defenders escaped to Switzerland on the narrow-gauge electric train that you can still take down to Locarno.

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