Over here in Umbria, it's a little like only Passignano's the place and Trasimeno's the body of water. This ain't no river, though, it's a lago or a lake if you'd rather and the fourth largest in Italy after the ones that most people go to .
That included , no less, back in the early 1800s and his often muddied mind may have convinced him not to detour south. Despite 50 square miles of water, Trasimeno is largely just 15 foot deep and that's the main reason why they're not swarming here in vast numbers.
People, that is, Shelley included who would have just been sat here sucking his quill anyway because there's really not much that rhymes with 'mosquitoes'.
 You know how Cumbria got its name don't you? A Roman soldier is doing the night shift on top of when there's a shout from down in the ditch. 'Where you from?' to which the soldier replies 'Umbria'. One of them newfangled but rotten tomatoes splatters on the soldier's shield and the insurgent runs off shouting into the woods. Sensing dissent but not quite catching the words, 'I think he said "For Cumbria?"... Ah! So that's what they call this place.'
Satisfactory, self-catering lodgings with a small swimming pool, which with hindsight was a little too far from town.
Maybe it's an Italian thing but the small kitchen didn't contain a single item of crockery or cutlery. Luckily, there's a supermarket next door for some paper plates and a tiny saucepan that you'll be needing when you're confined to barracks during the next downpour.
They'll let you up and inside for a few €euros where, amongst the mainly standard medieval fayre, it's one-way traffic on the narrow ramparts with a, not entirely unexpected, nice view of the lake.
To distinguish it from dozens of others in Italy, the full name of the place is Castiglione del Lago and is one of a few acceptable pit-stops on the 25-mile-or-so drive round.
 The lake is fairly circular so A = Πr2 so r = √ (49.4 / 3.1415926) = 3.9654141 with C = 2Πr = 24.9154316 ≈ 25 miles and you said at the time when will you ever need to use that!
Pick of the half-a-dozen-or-so pizza and pasta providers, possibly, because they've got Pesce del Lago on the menu here. Literally, 'lake fish', yum, the flakes are of an unspecified species although it's likely to be pike or carp or tench and wasn't as muddy tasting as expected.
They shouldn't be eaten, really, they keep the insects down, you see, but millions of mosquito larvae will still make it out even during September.
The terrain hereabouts is best described as ' hilly' and it's up and just five miles east that you'll find yourselves in Castel Rigone, a smart-looking village that sounds to be popular with some English.
Highlights include Castel Rigone 's football ground and that's a joke, of course, the real one was inexplicably overlooked and the team was disbanded the season after this visit.
The ground's now as lively as the local cemetery whose walled caskets were not so much forsaken but, rather respectfully, pictures not taken.
There are three islands in the lake although Isola Maggiore is the only one that's accessible from Passignano. It isn't, however, the largest so it's not quite your standard Major \ Minor, Majorca \ Menorca scenario here.
That'll be and the troublesome negotiation at the ferry landing involving having to change to get there, even though you didn't want to, was put down to the local dialect.
 'No Polvese, Maggiore! Maggiore!' You can see it, I'm pointing at it, 'That one! That one! Per favore.'
Meanwhile, back in Passignano, the reason for being here is because it's not too far from Tuscany, which isn't that hard to reach if you've a local flight provider. It's a chance to mooch around an area that's not quite so well known and there's also a train for when you're too scared to drive to Perugia.
There's some hardcore strolling to be done down by the waterfront and most of the mosquitoes have scarpered by mid-September.
It's a shame that Shelley didn't make it here because the fig-eating fop might well have written, as he popped yet another one into his gob...
There once was a lake of mosquitoes,
That would bite arms, legs, heads, necks and feet, toes,
There's not yet a train,
And what with the rain,
Tuscany's where me and Keats go.
 Oh no they haven't!
Nominally an ice-cream parlour but the big screen's up for the match and there's Peroni™ on draught. Where better to watch the cling on for a disappointing 2-2 draw in Bulgaria with a crowd of increasingly crabby locals?
Ha ha ha! See, it's not just our lot.