I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey to Castello Tesino began with the kind of autumn morning in South Tyrol that makes you believe every travel brochure you have ever seen. Mist hung low over the apple orchards, the Dolomites loomed in the distance like a promise, and I was absolutely convinced I had taken the wrong turning at Bolzano.

The sat nav, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the most direct route to our holiday property involved something the locals probably call a lane and I would call an ambitious footpath. There I was, crawling along in a hire car that was definitely not designed for agricultural use, dodging fallen chestnuts and the occasional bewildered-looking cow. My partner sat in the passenger seat making helpful comments like "I think we're going uphill" and "that sign definitely said dead end in German." By the time we spotted the actual turning for Castello Tesino, I had aged approximately eleven years and developed a nervous twitch every time the GPS made its little ping noise.

But then we rounded the final bend, and autumn did what autumn does best in this part of Italy. The property sat nestled among trees that were having what can only be described as a competitive colour-changing event. Copper, gold, deep burgundy, the occasional stubborn patch of green holding out against the inevitable. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth and something faintly sweet that I later learned was the last of the grape harvest drifting up from the valley vineyards. I forgot about the sat nav entirely. I nearly forgot my own name.

The first thing that struck me about the place was how completely the season had made itself at home there. This was not a property that fought against October; it had surrendered to it beautifully. The stone walls were patched with ivy that had turned the most extraordinary shade of vermilion. A pergola near the entrance still held a few tenacious grapevines, their leaves translucent and golden in the afternoon light. Someone had stacked firewood with almost artistic precision against one wall, and I found myself already imagining evenings with that particular kind of autumnal contentment that British people abroad always seem to chase.

I should mention that I had packed for what I imagined Italian autumn to be. This turned out to be catastrophically wrong. I had visions of mild evenings, perhaps a light cardigan, maybe sipping something local on a terrace while wearing sunglasses. The reality, as I discovered when I stepped out of the car into a wind that had apparently originated somewhere near the Austrian border with malicious intent, was that South Tyrol in late October has opinions about appropriate clothing. I was wearing a jacket that would have been perfect for a pub garden in Kent. I looked ridiculous. I felt ridiculous. I immediately developed a deep and abiding respect for the local tradition of proper outdoor wear.

The property itself seemed to understand this seasonal character perfectly. The rooms had that particular quality of mountain autumn light, thin and golden and somehow nostalgic even when you have only just arrived. The wooden furniture had the weight and darkness of something that has seen many winters come and go. I kept finding myself standing at windows watching the light change, which sounds poetic but was mostly just me being too tired from the drive to properly unpack.

What I had not expected, and what the season delivered with almost theatrical generosity, was the afternoon transition. One moment the sun was doing its best impression of a summer holdout, all golden warmth and long shadows. The next, a bank of cloud would roll down from the mountains and the temperature would drop ten degrees in as many minutes. The first time this happened I was outside investigating what I believed to be a promising-looking walking path. I returned to the property at something approaching a jog, pursued by the distinct possibility of sleet, and discovered that the heating had been timed to come on precisely when sensible people would want it. Someone, somewhere, understood autumn in South Tyrol better than I ever would.

That evening, wrapped in what I can only describe as an industrial-strength blanket that I found in a cupboard, I watched the last of the daylight fade behind the mountain silhouettes. The trees that had seemed merely colourful in afternoon sun became almost black against a sky that shifted from apricot to violet to something approaching navy in the space of a single glass of the local Lagrein. The season had turned what could have been a straightforward property stay into something that felt deliberately, carefully atmospheric.

I thought about the sat nav mishap, the wrong turn, the cow. I thought about my inadequate jacket and my stubborn insistence on packing for an Italy that exists more in my imagination than in this particular alpine corner of it. Autumn here was not a backdrop; it was a participant, slightly demanding, occasionally surprising, utterly unwilling to be ignored. I had come for a holiday. The season, it seemed, had other plans for what I might experience. I finished my wine and decided I was entirely happy with the arrangement.