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On one unconventional Thanksgiving, my husband Joe and I were not carving the big bird or taking extra helpings of yams. We were strapped into a small helicopter, piloted by a young woman with billowing red curls, on our way to a remote island off Italy's Adriatic coast. We departed at dawn from Foggia's empty airport on a cold and cloudy November day. In 20 minutes we landed on San Domino, the largest of the five Tremiti Islands. And it was overcast here, too.
We realized we were probably the only two people on earth who would venture to this little-known island on the cusp of the dreary fall-winter season. Arturo Santoro, the owner of Pensione Belvedere, met us on the bleak air strip and loaded our bags into his clunky white van, with one door hanging off its hinge. We then sped along the wild vegetation-lined gravel roads of this Robinson Crusoe-like isle.
Arturo, a world-champion scuba diver, lamented this sudden cold spell that would prevent us from seeing the island's preserved red-coral reefs up close. A vigorous man in his mid-60s, he sported longish hair dyed a Grecian Formula orange and smoked a Parodi.

Our room faced the island of San Nicola, visible over the thick clusters of electrified trees. From our perspective, its stacked medieval church, castle and fortress looked like the remnants of a discombobulated movie set. Then we could see our breath and realized Arturo didn't turn on the heat. After all, we were the only guests. With some gentle prodding on our part, he agreed to turn up the thermostat - enough for us to no longer see our breath. But we still wore our fleece jackets inside.

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Though we reveled in the prospect of discovering an island in the middle of nowhere, we felt the pangs of being alone here during the off season. Since no restaurants or bars were open, we agreed to take all of our meals at Pensione Belvedere, prepared by the multifaceted Arturo himself - who was already tossing around pots and handfuls of flour when we bid him farewell to take a walk. As we gritted our teeth against the chilly wind, Joe and I wondered if Arturo ruled this strange place alone - a modern-day Prospero commanding the rocks, trees and ocean breezes. Then something happened that made us believe San Domino was enchanted.

As we walked toward a bluff, passing two curious horses grazing in an open field, an Irish setter came loping along. Then another one darted out from behind a trash-strewn yard.  Soon a boxer, with low-hanging nipples, appeared and discreetly trailed us across the high grasses -- like the hound of the Baskervilles. Two black labradors joined in. By the time we returned from the foam-splashed precipices and Afro-topped Aleppo pines, a whole pack of dogs began to follow us. We soon reached a vacant soccer field, where the dogs encircled us. Could we have been the chosen victims of a bizarre dog-spirit sacrifice? To our relief, they rolled on their backs and just wanted their tummies rubbed. One of the black labs, with a velvet-smooth coat, stayed at my side. Her longing eyes seemed to be those of a transformed mythic figure, such as Isis or Minerva. The army of canines dispersed peacefully once we returned to the pensione. But our loyal lab remained beneath our green-shuttered window. She gazed up every time we looked outside.

By now, Arturo had cooked up a storm. We dined in a room whose walls were painted with giant green, orange, yellow, blue and red fish. Joe and I sat in front of a monster-sized mural of a lobster, its claws poised to strangle us. We were serenaded by a spunky canary and surprised to discover more humans. At the next table sat four young men, in navy-blue pea coats, from the Coast Guard. They nodded our way as they puffed on cigarettes and ate their insalata di mare while watching a soccer match on Arturo's wide-screen television. The rugged, unassuming Arturo clad in a jogging suit served us lunch while chewing on his attached Parodi. We started with an antipasto of grilled calamari, capers, oregano and olive oil and continued with seafood risotto. Once we polished off our mint-and-olive-oil-spiced swordfish, we noticed the words "Arturo Santoro: Campione Mondiale di Pesca Subacquea" inscribed on the bottom of our white-ceramic plates. We were in the presence of a celebrity, who shrugged off our admiration by saying he was just a guy who dives in the ocean for a living. In fact, he was out earlier in a wetsuit spearing fish for tonight's dinner.

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We figured it was best to walk off our lunch. So Joe and I continued toward the other side of the island, past rows of empty brick homes, discarded refrigerators and a cavalcade of animals: kittens sleeping in a box; rabbits in cages; a solitary cow; finches buzzing around a makeshift aviary; and more dogs. An old Irish setter sat erect like a sphinx on a stoop. An elderly fisherman, the only other person we encountered, tipped his cap our way as he repaired nets on his front porch. His white angora cat lounged alongside prancing hens and a rooster. Nature flourishes here, and there's a certain outer-space iridescence to the red-and-gold vegetation.