The sanctuary of innocence: A space for dreamers

Il Rifugio

At Hermity, we are inspired by Guillaume’s journey—a quest for solitude, resilience, and reconnection through the restoration of a mountain refuge. Rooted in childhood memories of building shelters in nature, he set out to create a sanctuary where simplicity and creativity can flourish.

Through the slow and mindful process of rebuilding a stone ruin, Guillaume rediscovers the essence of presence—each beam placed, each stone lifted, a tribute to the dreams we often leave behind. His refuge, nestled in the Alps, is more than just a place; it is an invitation to pause, to breathe, and to find meaning beyond the rush of modern life.

Guillaume’s story reminds us that solitude can be a source of renewal rather than isolation. In the heart of the mountains, he invites us to rethink disconnection—not as an escape, but as a return to something deeply human. We thank him for sharing his vision with Hermity and for inspiring us all to seek our own refuge, wherever that may be.

Rediscovering childhood: Building a refuge for dreamers

There are places that call to us. Places that seem to resonate with something deep within, a distant echo of our childhood memories. It is in this intimate quest that Guillaume found his project: to renovate a ruin perched in the mountains and turn it into a refuge for dreamers and adventurers.

“Don’t you ever feel like escaping to a place where you truly belong? A quiet sanctuary, far from the noise. A place where dreams are the only luxury that matters.”

The imprint of our childhoods

As a child, he built treehouses in the woods, made tents with sheets. Every corner of the forest or the backyard became a shelter, a sanctuary of freedom.

“When I was little, I created this place… One day, it was a treehouse in the woods, the next, a tent made of sheets. I could sleep there and dream. I was shielded from the noise of adults and their world, which I didn’t fully understand. I could invent another world.”

But time passed. Carefree days faded. The treehouses gave way to sturdier, more functional structures. Like all of us, he learned the codes of the adult world—the ones that dictate we build to live and to own.

“As I grew up, I built fewer and fewer hideouts and focused on more serious matters. I studied construction, made it my career, and built my own house.”

Yet, something was missing. The call of the refuge, the place where one feels truly at home, had never stopped.

Travel, adventure & the mountains as an answer

Traveling, leaving, discovering new ways of inhabiting the world—this is how he started reflecting on what he truly wanted.

“From time to time, I escape from the world, setting out on adventures or expeditions, immersing myself in landscapes of steppes and mountains. I discover different ways of living, different ways of belonging.”

And one day, he found it. That place he had imagined as a child had taken shape under another name: Rifugio Lim’. Perched at 1,800 meters in altitude, it was there, waiting for a second life.

“This place, I searched for it—and it exists… Almost. It is Rifugio Lim’. Perched at 1,800 meters, I found an inspiring place at the end of last summer.”

Here, time slows down. You don’t drive there—you walk, ski, or snowshoe your way in. You stay for a week, letting its rhythm seep into you. Solitude is a benevolent companion.

“You don’t just visit for a day—you stay for a week. You don’t rush there—you arrive on foot, on skis, or with snowshoes. The view shifts with the seasons; it’s beautiful, it’s slow. At night, you see the stars and the distant glow of a summer pasture. In winter, you are alone. The ‘you’ is me, is you, is all of us.”

Rebuilding, stone by stone

Bringing this ruin back to life is an ambitious project. He traded his working hours for a pile of stones and a deed in the Italian Alps. It’s not just about building—it’s about creating a place rich with meaning.

“To launch the project, I converted my work hours into money, as is customary in our society. Then, I traded that money for a pile of stones and a piece of paper in the Italian Alps. My time for stones.”

Each season brings its own set of tasks—clearing out debris, dismantling old floors, reinforcing the structure. Everything must be rebuilt, but with a clear vision.

“I spent my vacations clearing out years of accumulated waste and dismantling the rotten wooden floors with my family. Next spring, we’ll start reinforcing the structure.”

A refuge for dreamers

This place is not meant to be just a shelter. It will be a refuge for those who want to build, create, and dream. A space to rediscover the freedom we had as children, when a simple wooden cabin was enough.

“The stone ruin is transforming—a new refuge is emerging from this land. A refuge for dreamers and builders of hideaways.”

Here, everyone can contribute, whether by laying a literal stone or bringing something symbolic to the space.

“In the end, I want this refuge to be a place where people exchange a part of their time—whether by rebuilding walls, writing music, or carving elegant ski tracks through the snow. It’s all the dreams we once had in our childhood hideouts… To me, that is what makes the world beautiful.”

By building this refuge, Guillaume is not just reconstructing a stone wall. He is giving life to an idea—a place where one can be free, where one can dream without limits. A cabin, finally at an adult scale.

The hermitage and the search for meaning: A refuge for the soul

Sometimes, we feel an irrepressible need to step away from the noise of the world, to find a place where we can simply be. It is not an escape, but a deep urge to reconnect with ourselves. Hermitage, in all its forms, responds to this call. It is not just a return to silence—it is a return to the essential, a deep breath in a world that moves too fast.

Hermitage: A universal answer to inner turmoil

Having a refuge, a place of one’s own, where time seems suspended—who has never dreamed of such a place? It could be a cabin by a lake, a wooden house deep in the forest, or a sunlit room where one feels safe. Thinkers and sages have long understood the necessity of these retreats.

Seneca and the Stoics sought to detach themselves from distractions to cultivate wisdom. Thoreau, in Walden, did not merely experiment with solitude—he sought to prove that a simple life, stripped of the unnecessary, could reveal an unparalleled freedom. Taoist hermits did not abandon the world; they engaged with it differently, attuning themselves to nature’s rhythms rather than resisting them.

Sanctuaries rooted in every culture

The appeal of hermitage is not limited to a handful of philosophers and writers. Across time and cultures, humanity has sought to create these sanctuaries.

In Scandinavia, the friluftsliv philosophy champions life in the open air, far from the stress of cities. In the desert, Sufi mystics found in the vast emptiness a way to shed the inessential and touch the profound. On Mount Athos, monks still live in inhabited silence, where solitude becomes a form of prayer.

But this need is not confined to ancient traditions. Today, more and more people dream of tiny houses nestled in the mountains, of silent retreats where they can indulge in a rare luxury: the art of doing nothing. Some seek self-sufficiency, others find refuge in writing, painting, or meditation. Each person builds their own inner sanctuary.

Why the need for refuge is more crucial than ever

In a hyper-connected world, where attention is constantly hijacked by screens, spaces of solitude become sanctuaries. The goal is not just to escape noise but to reconnect with a deeper listening. Being alone does not mean being isolated—it simply means giving oneself the space to exist fully.

Having a refuge is granting oneself a moment outside of time. Whether it’s a solitary walk in nature, a secluded retreat, or simply a quiet moment at home, these spaces are fortresses against the world’s acceleration. They remind us that we need emptiness for something authentic to emerge.

The question remains: in a society that glorifies hyperconnectivity, how do we preserve these bubbles of disconnection? Perhaps, like Guillaume, by building them ourselves, stone by stone—or by discovering them in those fleeting moments where we finally breathe freely.