When we set up a special award for places our imagination and wonder cannot keep up with, our candlelit dinner at Stazione della Posta in Poschiavo will spring to our minds. A large room looking on the garden, and a long wooden table at which all the inn’s guests seat. The candles and the fireplace are the only sources of light. The smells of burning wood, of the soup of the day, of the flan, and of the apple pie, all cooked on the old wood-burning stove. After dessert, we linger at the table and feel the heart-warming instant intimacy that is created among similar travel companions. We climb together the stairs that lead to the rooms. Bonne nuit, Goodnight, Buonanotte. We fall asleep (and wake up in the morning) under thick handmade blankets after a hot bath in the copper tub, just like the pilgrims travelling from Italy to Switzerland did hundreds of years ago, when they and their horses rested among these walls. High wooden beds remind us of the ones we slept in as children at our grandmother’s, a stream runs under the room and breaks the absolute silence, and the starry sky is a vision we just had forgotten.
Breakfast is a basket of fresh eggs, a big coffeepot grumbling on the cast-iron stove, a bowl of fresh milk to gulp, a slice of bread and homemade jam, a handful of crisp nuts, a dish of goat cheeses of the house, and a table set with the cups of the best tea service and napkins of heavy linen. Meadows and mountains are right outside the window. Again, it is the wonder of a meal that resembles a ritual, and this time it is lit by the sincere brightness of a mountain sun that promises only utter beauty.
Words and pictures Laura Taccari. Translation Alessia Andriolo.