I am writing from Robert Redford's bed in Sundance, Utah. Out of the window is his mountain. And above my head, bolted to the foot-thick exposed rafter beam of the ceiling is a somewhat eccentric fan; it is not a ceiling fan, but rather resembles a 19th-century desktop oscillating fan that has been turned upside down and fixed overhead. The blades are aimed squarely at my head. It is the first thing I notice when I enter the room because it is not a fan I have seen before. My first thought is:“My father, he would have loved this fan.”

My father was born in 1935 and raised in the American South. He loved the Andrews Sisters and for the duration of my childhood considered fans to be a proper cooling mechanism. I do not believe he owned an air-conditioner until he was nearly dead. Looking at the fan sparked in me a hunch. I googled Robert Redford. He was born in 1936. And this is when I knew for sure: it was Redford himself who selected this curious fan.

Which is why I say that I am writing from Robert Redford's bed. Because even though I am in merely one of many guest cabins on the 6,000-acre mountain resort, the leading man's fingerprint is everywhere.

Sundance is the first stop on my book tour for the paperback release of A Wolf at the Table, a memoir about my frightening and sociopathic father. As it has turned out, Sundance is the ideal location to begin because Redford's Sundance is one thing above all else: it is a father's work.

It is my belief that fathers were designed by nature to do one thing: build. Prehistorically, they built fires. And they built the family food supply by downing wild, woolly beasts. But if we think of the things that contemporary fathers are not only expected to do, but compelled, we see a pattern: when a child comes to a father and expresses fear or confusion, or simply seeks guidance on any subject, the father immediately sets about building a bridge - one that will carry the child from his or her state of dissatisfaction on to the solid territory of resolution.

When the child says, “I'm afraid. Something bumped under the bed. And I think I felt a finger on my leg. I think I felt a green finger,” the father's single purpose for living is to turn on the light, lower himself to the floor and inspect the area. Finding, nine times out of ten, that there is no green creature under the bed, the father once again builds, this time a kind of safety net, woven from reason. “See? There's nothing under there. Nothing at all. Which means that you must have been dreaming. And a dream can't hurt you. But even if there were a green creature under your bed, think of how small it would have to be to fit under there. I am at least three times too large to fit under your bed. If you were a green creature, would you want to climb under any bed in my house? I think not.”

Fathers build confidence by pretending not to be so terrific at catching the ball or guarding the goal. They build trust not by always having the right words to say but by always hugging a little too hard.

But not always. Sometimes the man who is a father is locked behind a kind of wall. And he is unable to build a thing at all. He lacks the tools. Afraid to raise a sissy of a boy, he might avoid being affectionate. Or perhaps he believes that supreme discipline creates a strong and fine young man.

But what actually creates a strong and fine young man is for this young man to know in the marrow of his bones that life comes with a factory-installed safety net: Dad. And that he may potentially screw up big time, but that he cannot fail his father.

Because when young people know that they cannot fail, that failure is impossible because no such standard exists, they take bolder risks. This can mean accepting more challenging classes at school. Or trying out for a sport that seems a little too intimidating. Knowing that one can fall only so far, feeling there is ultimately a great and steady hand beneath one, creates courage.

And this is what I have thought about during my time at Sundance. Not the ravishing slopes - even in spring still covered with a thick blanket of the most perfect snow - or the beautiful food prepared by careful hands over hardwood flames. When I step out of the glass shower I face a wall of century-old pine trees and, beyond them, another mountain. Because this is what Mr Redford wanted me to see.

No developer could have created Sundance. Sure, they could have carved the roads and raised the ski lifts; they could have constructed the cabins and hired the chefs. But that would not be the same. For one thing, there would be no such fan over the bed, possibly the finest fan currently made in the world. A fan only a man of the 1930s would even know to appreciate.

And at Sundance, when you need to go down the hill to the store, you do not get into your car. You call the front desk and tell them that you'd like a ride. Then you go outside and wait. And while you wait, it is impossible not to feel like a kid again, waiting for your father to pick you up for soccer practice or violin lessons. After dinner somebody asks: “Do you need a lift home?” If at first this annoys you, it will come to be the thing that charms you most.

A developer, perhaps, would have offered a bus. Only a father, however, would give you a ride.

Some people make the mistake of thinking that because I had such a terrible father, I must have something of a grudge for the guys. On the contrary, what I have is a kind of radar. I see good fathers everywhere. Not all of them are quite so handsome, and most of them have not conquered mountains, but I can recognise a good father just the same.

Never mistake “good” for perfect. There is no such thing. Perfect exists only in bedtime stories. Which are, as we know, the territory of the mother.

A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of My Father by Augusten Burroughs is published by Virgin Books at £7.99.

To order it for £7.59 inc p&p call 0845 2712134 or visit timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst

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