Anyone who wanders along dusty paths through the Montafon and eventually finds their throat dry often dreams of a place like this. The Bitschweil Inn lies there, as if scattered from another era – a wooden courtyard with flower boxes, parasols, and the scent of fried potatoes and changing weather. Not a place for haste, but for arrival. For slowly relaxing.
The view stretches far – over lush greenery that stretches down the slope, over forests that line the horizon like brushstrokes. Somewhere in between is the reservoir, which seems almost Caribbean in the midday sun. And in the middle of it all: people who want nothing but to sit, watch, chew – and maybe chat a bit.
The waitress knows most people by name, the innkeeper knows the weather for the next three days. You can hear the clinking of glasses, the laughter under the parasol, the bleating of a billy goat from the slope behind the house. Somewhere a dog barks, friendly, as befits this place.
Those who stop here stay longer than planned. Not because the food is so opulent—although the Kaiserschmarrn certainly has its merits—but because the world up here seems a little wider. And quieter. As if you've not only left the valley behind, but also forgotten a little.