I should have known the Dolomites would not let me arrive without a bit of drama. We had been driving from Venice Marco Polo airport, winding our way north through increasingly ridiculous scenery, when my phone decided this was the perfect moment to die. Not the battery, mind you, the whole thing. Black screen, refusal to turn on, the lot. There I was, supposedly the navigator, holding a very expensive paperweight while my partner drove us deeper into mountains that looked like they had been painted by someone showing off.

The mishap came at a roundabout somewhere past Belluno. Without my phone, I was attempting to read a printed map I had grabbed at the car hire desk more out of nostalgia than usefulness. I got us going the wrong way entirely, which we only realised when the road started climbing steeply up what felt like the side of a cliff rather than heading toward Longarone. My partner's expression did not need words. We turned around, found the proper road, and eventually spotted the sign for our holiday home.

Arriving in Longarone itself was like stepping into a place that had not bothered to announce itself to the world. The town sits in a valley where the Piave and Vajont rivers meet, surrounded by these extraordinary limestone peaks that catch the evening light in ways that make you stop mid-sentence. I did actually stop mid-sentence, which was probably the first time that day my partner had been grateful for the mountains.

Our property was one of those solid, unpretentious buildings that Italians seem to construct with the confidence that they will outlast whatever fashion trends come and go. Terracotta roof, wooden shutters, a small garden that someone had clearly loved into existence. The key was in a lockbox, and I managed to get it on the third attempt while doing a small dance of frustration that I am sure the neighbours have seen many times before from other visitors.

Inside, the place smelled of clean linen and old wood. The kitchen had everything you need and nothing that feels borrowed from a showroom. I immediately opened every window, because the air here carries something different, something that makes London feel very far away indeed. My phone remained dead on the counter, and I found I did not much care.

That first evening, we walked without purpose, which is something I rarely allow myself. No destination, no review to hunt down, just following streets that seemed interesting. We found a tiny bar where an elderly man was watching football with the volume far too loud and drinking something red from a small glass. He nodded at us. We nodded back. This was the extent of our interaction, and it was somehow perfect.

The gentle self-reflection came later, sitting on our small terrace with a bottle of local wine that cost embarrassingly little. I am someone who plans, who checks, who relies on screens to confirm that experiences are worth having. Getting lost on that roundabout, arriving without my digital safety net, I had stumbled into something better than efficiency. The unplanned bar, the unremarkable street that suddenly opened to a view of the Civetta massif glowing pink in sunset, the conversation with my partner that wandered because we were not checking anything.

Longarone does not shout for attention. It simply exists, solid and welcoming, in one of the most dramatic landscapes Europe has to offer. My phone eventually revived the next morning, but I left it in my bag more than usual. Some mishaps, it turns out, open doors that careful planning would never find.