I have never been so grateful for a sat nav with a sense of humour as I was driving up to Fai della Paganella. There I was, winding through the Dolomites, absolutely convinced I was about to arrive at this gorgeous mountain flat with the sort of views that make you forget your own name. Instead, the sat nav decided to send me down what I can only describe as a goat track with pretensions. I spent twenty minutes reversing past a very unimpressed herd of cows, one of which I am fairly certain judged my life choices. By the time I found the actual road, I had sweated through my shirt and developed a newfound respect for rural postmen.

The flat itself sits in Fai della Paganella, a village so charming it almost feels like it is showing off. I stumbled in, still slightly traumatised by bovine confrontation, and was immediately intercepted by Signora Bianchi from the flat below. She must have heard my dramatic arrival. Within thirty seconds she had established that I was unmarried, underfed, and driving a car far too small for mountain roads. She said this with the efficiency of someone who has sized up strangers for several decades. Before I could defend my hatchback, she pressed a slice of still-warm apple strudel into my hand and informed me that dinner was at seven, whether I liked it or not. I liked it very much.

The owner of the flat, a chap called Marco, turned up an hour later to hand over keys and explain the boiler. He had the relaxed manner of a man who has never once been rushed by anything, including avalanches. Every sentence began with a philosophical pause. He explained the heating, the recycling system, and the local walking routes with equal weight, as though sorting your plastics was spiritually equivalent to climbing Cima Paganella. When I mentioned my sat nav disaster, he nodded slowly and said, "Yes, the cows know the real roads." I am still not sure if this was wisdom or a joke. Possibly both.

That evening I ventured to the little bar in the village square, mostly because Signora Bianchi had mentioned it four times and I feared consequences. The barman, Renzo, had apparently been waiting his entire career for a British person to practise his English on. His vocabulary was immaculate but his confidence was catastrophic. He would deliver a perfect sentence about local wines, then freeze with panic, as though expecting examination results. When I ordered a beer, he launched into a fifteen-minute explanation of Dolomite brewing history, complete with hand gestures that nearly took out a passing cyclist. His wife, Carla, emerged periodically from the kitchen to correct his dates and tell him to stop talking and actually pour drinks. Their bickering had the rhythm of a long-running radio show.

An older gentleman at the corner table, who introduced himself only as "the Doctor" despite my not asking, insisted on translating Renzo's English into Italian for my benefit. The Doctor's Italian was, by his own cheerful admission, heavily influenced by fifty years of watching football commentary. Everything was "magnificent," "tragic," or "a situation." He had retired to Fai della Paganella twenty years prior and still found the place endlessly entertaining. "The mountains," he told me, gesturing broadly at the darkening peaks, "they do not care about your plans. This is why I like them." Then he bought me a grappa that made my eyes water for legitimate geological time.

By the end of that first evening, my cheeks hurt from laughing. I had arrived flustered and slightly cow-shamed, and found myself folded into a village that treats strangers as temporary relatives. The flat was warm, the strudel was exceptional, and I already suspected I would be leaving with more stories than photographs. Some places impress you with scenery. Fai della Paganella seemed more interested in claiming me through conversation, one eccentric local at a time.