This season's colours are the reds of the roof tiles and Ferraris, the rich greens of the hillsides, the whites of sails and the wakes of speedboats, and always the sharp, penetrating blues of the lake itself.

You smile or nod towards an impossibly elegant signora hidden behind huge, dark glasses, with poodles and possibly a husband in tow. The nod is returned. You're in with the 'In' crowd. But you don't show your excitement. Cool as the waters.

An aperitif? You may not be able to afford a room in a belle époque palace but there's always a lakeside table and a Campari in a crystal glass in the evening. And you're in good company. Byron and Hemingway wrote here. Royalty and superstars won and lost fortunes at the casino tables. An immaculate couple step off a water taxi and join you on the terrace. They could be admiring you as you admire them. You're no longer a tourist.
 

Later now. The shadows of the mountains reach further amongst precariously perched villas and perfumed gardens. A string of pearls lights up along the far shoreline. The funicular becomes a hilltop beacon: a lighthouse for the sailboats heading back from the islands. Time to eat. White starched tablecloths and heavy silver cutlery, faultlessly arranged. A leather-bound menu, strictly à la carte.

You don't have to be a millionaire to share this millionaire's playground. Like so may others around you, you simply have to act the part.