However you come to Istria, by jet into Pula, from Venice or Trieste, or straight off a yacht, a car is already waiting, and from that moment the driving is no longer yours to think about.
Guests arrive from every direction. Some fly into Pula, forty minutes from the house. Many come through Venice, a little over two hours by road or an afternoon by boat across the top of the Adriatic, and others through Trieste or Ljubljana. Whichever runway or berth you use, a chauffeur is there as you arrive, and Istria begins from the back seat.
For every mile a guest travels, LaMaison works with Belistria alone. A stay runs on trust, and the person at the wheel is part of it, discreet, punctual, and known to us over years, in a quiet fleet of new Mercedes kept dark and immaculate.
The same car stays with you through the week, at the door while you dine at a Michelin table, up to a truffle morning in the Motovun forest, along the wine roads between the cellars, and ready again whenever the evening moves somewhere new. The driving, the parking and the route are all taken care of before you think of them.
Each day is composed by Belistria, and built once. A yacht for a slow crossing to Venice or out to the islands, a table held at one of Istria's starred kitchens, an olive estate above Bale, a private morning through the old town of Rovinj when the light is best, a hot air balloon lifting over the interior at dawn with a glass in hand. Whatever the week holds, it is shaped for you alone.
Tell the concierge where you land and what you would like to see, and the rest is understood. The plane, the boat, the road and the table all arrive on time, and your part is only to be in it.