I'm sitting at a white-cloth silver-service table on an outdoor jetty that stretches into Lake Garda, in Italy's north. It is early evening and the water is dark and quiet, supremely beautiful, with massive snowcapped mountains lurching up out of the depths directly across the lake. I'm staying at the Belfiore Park Hotel near the ancient town of Brenzone, about halfway up the lake's 52-kilometre length on the eastern side. Here, the water is narrow, more like a river than the vast expanse that makes the lake feel like an ocean in the south. An occasional family of swans paddles home as evening closes in, and perhaps the two friendliest waiters in Italy, Marcello and Alber, light candles and pour drinks before serving dinner to a half-dozen or so tables. Alber, the younger, has already introduced me to Aperol spritz, by now surely the Italian national drink. Marcello, his boss, doesn't raise an eyebrow when I opt for another one of those instead of wine. I feel welcome, absurdly at home, and deeply relaxed. On this trip I chose Garda over Lake Como following a few days in Milan. After the caffeine-fuelled pace of the city, the pretentiousness that seems to strut hand in hand with high fashion, and a couple of unusually difficult encounters with bar staff, the thought of more fashionistas going gaga for George (Clooney, who owns a Como lakeside villa) was too much to bear. I craved bucolic beauty, picturesque waters and a deep connection with nature. And I longed for the warmth and friendliness I'd encountered in Italy's south, in Tuscany and even in Rome. Because when it comes to the beautiful series of lakes in Italy's north, most people just want to talk about Como, and they generally rave about the possibility of bumping into Clooney, Madonna or Richard Branson. Truly, do people make travel choices on the likelihood of celebrity encounters? Do the stars really hang out where they can be beckoned and burdened by the hoi-polloi? Of course Lake Como is sublime – that's why the rich and famous flock there. But if you only have time for one lake stay in Italy's north, you really should consider Lake Garda. In terms of natural beauty, it is easily the equal of Como and it has an unparalleled sense of history stretching back to ancient times. No, you won't see the indulgent celebrity piles stretching down to the lake's edge, but you will see some of the most beautiful and historic little towns and villages in Italy. And you will save a significant fortune. So I exited Milan on a train headed for Brenzone and alighted, in accordance with the visitgarda.com website's recommendations, at Peschiera del Garda. There, the site assured me, I would find buses and taxis to take me wherever I needed to go. But there were no buses or taxis to be seen. And it was raining. One other traveller got off the train with me, a middle-aged Italian woman with far too much luggage. She punched numbers into her cellulare, then spoke in machine-gun-rapid Italian before moving her burden to shelter. She lit a cigarette and adopted the posture of a person resigned to waiting. A few minutes later a car appeared and she and her luggage were gone, leaving me to wonder what sort of giant mistake this might all have been. Then, out of the mist and rain, came the inevitable taxi. But the driver was reluctant, thinking the journey – 44 kilometres – too long. Perhaps my crestfallen face changed his mind. As is often the case with coastal roads the world over, the journey was full of tantalising glimpses of water which were then obscured by buildings or hills as we motored up the east coast. These glimpses were made even more elusive by light fog and drizzle. An hour later, just as the sun broke through, we arrived at the Belfiore Park, and a white-coated porter dashed out to help with the bags. I didn't know it then, but this was Alber: porter, waiter, barkeep and broken-English raconteur. Mostly, expectations built up by online research are deflated. But this was one of those times when far more was delivered than promised. My room was metres from the water's edge, which meant that the first thing I saw in the morning – and the last at night – was the lake in all its moods and splendour. For kilometres, the water's edge near the hotel in both directions is walkable, and ablaze with colour in the form of cultivated flowers, archways and stone bridges. A walk to the north took me past one of those idyllic Italian harbours dotted with coloured fishing boats. To the south, the town of Brenzone, with its ferry and bus connections to the rest of the lake's towns. My days were spent climbing on and off ferries exploring places such as Limone, a village hardly shy about exploiting its lemony heritage with every lemon coloured, lemon-flavoured and lemon-scented piece of produce you can think of, from soap to limoncello liqueur, for sale in street stalls. And then there's historic Sirmione, which to this day transports you back to ancient times. At the very south of the lake, where it is widest, Sirmione sits on a peninsula that pokes out like a stylus into the lake. The place was rhapsodised by, among others, the poet Catullus (84BC-54BC) who praised the beauty of the city he sometimes called home: "What full, extended glee, Sirmione, seeing you again more beautiful than all the islands and peninsulas that Neptune raises on the different waters of transparent lakes or the immense sea." As the ferries chugged across the water from town to town, the photographic opportunities were priceless: crescent harbours, brightly coloured foreshores, soaring steeples, flotillas of boats. Each lake town seemed prettier than the last, the collective intake of breath as the ferry approached a universal expression of joy among the many nationalities represented on the open decks. And then it was time to explore the towns a piedi (on foot), to meet the locals, to taste the produce, bargain for trinkets and try to capture the beauty at close range. In the evenings I would return to the hotel toting a camera with full memory card and drained batteries, wondering what culinary magic Marcello had willed his team into creating. Yes, there were other restaurants within walking distance, but none was as fine and absolutely none had a jetty in the lake. Occasionally from my room I saw that jetty appear to rock lightly as a riverboat passed. But out there, not even insects disturb the sense of peace. Ian Cuthbertson travelled to Italy at his own expense.