It’s a cloudless December day on Lake Como, the kind that would make anyone want to stay in bed and stock the pantry. Ever since we overtook Lord Byron—the unromantic hydrofoil ferry, not the Romantic poet—the only fast-moving object that skipper Giorgio Cantaluppi and I have spotted is a cormorant, cresting the ripples in the direction of George Clooney’s villa, wingtips skimming the water.

When we stop by the ridiculously picturesque bridge and waterfall of Nesso—where, in summer, a flotilla of tourist boats face off against an army of selfie sticks—we are still gloriously alone. The waterfall is sublime, but so is the sun warming my back as I turn to the north. Somewhere over there, beyond those snow-dusted peaks on the border between Italy and Switzerland, people are skiing. Me, I’m wondering if the hotel pool is still open.