The sat nav gave up somewhere between Verona and the Dolomites, which is exactly when I realised I had been confidently mispronouncing "Lamon" for the entire six-hour drive from Treviso Airport. I had been saying "La-MON" with a theatrical flourish, like a French perfume advert. Turns out it is "LA-mon," short and sensible, much like the village itself. My partner found this hilarious. I found it less so after three wrong turns and a near-miss with a tractor carrying what looked like an entire vineyard.

We had booked a traditional stone farmhouse through Novasol, tucked into the Belluno province of Veneto. The listing promised mountain views, a proper wood-fired oven, and enough rural charm to make me forget my inbox existed. What it did not promise was the final half-mile approach, which involved a gravel track so narrow I genuinely considered abandoning the hire car and walking the rest with our cases like Victorian travellers.

The mishap came during this very approach. Convinced I was being clever, I attempted to reverse to let another car pass, and promptly backed one wheel into a drainage ditch with a slow, mortifying crunch. The other driver, a local man in a flat cap, watched without surprise. He said something in dialect that I am fairly sure translated to "another one," then produced a tow rope from his boot with the practised ease of someone who had done this many times before. Ten minutes later we were free, my dignity somewhat less so, and he refused payment with a wave and what I choose to believe was friendly amusement rather than pity.

The farmhouse revealed itself properly only after this comedy. You crest a small rise and there it sits, weathered stone and wooden shutters, with the Feltrine Alps rising behind it like a painted backdrop. The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for longer than I care to admit, still rattled from my off-road adventure. The door opened with a satisfying heaviness, that particular weight of old buildings that immediately tells you they have witnessed generations of arrivals far more graceful than yours.

Inside smelled of dried lavender and woodsmoke, even in late September. The ceilings were beamed and low enough that I, at six foot, developed an instant cautious stoop that would become habitual over the week. The kitchen was the obvious heart of the place, with that promised wood oven dominating one corner like a rustic throne. I ran my hand along the stone counter, cool and slightly uneven, and felt that particular holiday satisfaction of knowing you will actually use a space properly. There would be slow mornings here. There would be coffee made in the moka pot provided, and bread from the bakery in Lamon village proper, which we had passed with its metal shutters down for the afternoon riposo.

The first evening, we did little but unpack poorly and stand on the terrace with cheap Valpolicella from the supermarket in Feltre, watching the light change over the mountains. The silence was not absolute, which I liked. There were church bells from somewhere below, distant dogs, the occasional scooter. It felt inhabited rather than isolated, connected to something rather than escaped from it.

I thought about my sat nav failure, the ditch, the flat cap man. Travel humbles you in small ways, I decided, swirling wine in a glass that did not match any other in the cupboard. You arrive somewhere with your plans and your mispronunciations, and the place simply waits for you to catch up. I was catching up now, slowly, one wrong turn behind me and the right one finally found.