I have never been so grateful for a cup of strong Italian coffee as I was the morning we finally found our way to Dimaro in Val di Sole. The journey from Verona had been straightforward enough until I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that the sat nav was "probably being a bit dramatic" about the mountain route. Reader, it was not being dramatic. We ended up on a road so narrow that I found myself apologising to a startled goat, which stared at me with the kind of weary disappointment I usually reserve for my own reflection.

By the time we rolled into Dimaro, my partner and I had argued about directions, argued about who chose the scenic route, and argued about whether that goat had actually judged us. We were not at our best. Then we met Giovanni.

Giovanni ran the little alimentari near our holiday let, a compact wooden place with a balcony that looked directly up at the Dolomites. He was perhaps seventy, with eyebrows that seemed to operate independently of his face, and he took one look at our dishevelled state and said, "English?" in a tone that suggested this explained everything. When I admitted we'd got lost, he threw his head back and laughed so hard his glasses fogged up. "The goat!" he wheezed, when I mentioned it. "That goat is famous. He is the mayor of that road. You pay toll in fear."

He insisted on making us espresso right there, refusing payment, and introduced us to his wife Rosa who appeared from the back muttering about him giving away the profits. She was tiny and fierce and within thirty seconds had established that we were unmarried, childless, and clearly in need of feeding. "You are too thin," she announced, though this was objectively untrue given my devotion to biscuits. "Tomorrow you come for polenta. Giovanni will show you how he makes it wrong." Giovanni beamed at this character assassination.

Our actual accommodation was one of those solid Alpine buildings that smell of pine and possibility, with a kitchen where everything clicked shut with satisfying precision. I spent a good ten minutes opening and closing cupboards while my partner made concerned faces. But it was the balcony that saved us, that first evening, sitting with a cheap bottle of local Teroldego and watching the light change on the mountains. I found myself laughing about the goat, properly laughing, and realised how tightly wound I'd been. There's something about being slightly ridiculous in a foreign country that strips away your pretences. You're already the person who argued with a sat nav. Might as well enjoy it.

The next morning we took Giovanni up on his polenta offer, though Rosa had clearly been the one expecting us. She greeted us with a wooden spoon and immediate criticism of my footwear. The polenta was magnificent, served with mushrooms Giovanni had foraged himself, which led to a twenty-minute dispute between them about whether he'd found them "near the old church" or "near the other old church, the one you never remember." Their bickering was operatic, performed for our benefit, and I understood suddenly that this was their gift: letting strangers witness their ordinary affection.

We met others over the week. There was Marco at the bike hire place, who spoke perfect English but pretended not to whenever technical questions arose, forcing me to pantomime "gears" with embarrassing commitment. There was an elderly woman in the village square who sat on the same bench every morning and commented on passersby with the frankness of someone who'd earned the right. She told me my hair needed the sun, which I choose to interpret kindly.

By our final evening, Giovanni had progressed to pressing homemade grappa on us, which I suspect was distilled in a shed of questionable legality. Rosa pretended to disapprove while pouring generous measures. We sat outside their shop as the valley cooled, and I understood something about why people return to places. Not for the mountains, though they were staggering. Not even for the polenta, though I dream about it still. For Giovanni's eyebrows. For Rosa's spoon. For being known, briefly, by people who owe you nothing.

We left the next morning, early, and passed the goat on our way out. He looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us had changed.