I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and my recent trip to Burgenland proved no exception. There I was, cruising down what I was absolutely certain was the correct road toward Eisenberg, smugly congratulating myself on my excellent navigation skills, when the tarmac abruptly turned to gravel, then to something resembling a farm track, and finally to what I can only describe as a field with aspirations. My phone had given up on signal roughly twenty minutes prior, and my printed directions, which I had proudly not bothered to check, mentioned nothing about fording small streams or dodging free-range chickens with clear attitude problems.

The thing about Burgenland, I was rapidly discovering, is that it does not particularly care about your plans. This is Austria's easternmost province, a place of rolling hills and vineyards and lake views that sneak up on you when you are thoroughly lost and slightly panicked. I had set out for a long weekend at a holiday property in Eisenberg, somewhere near the Hungarian border, a region known for its wine and its stubbornly independent character. Instead, I found myself crawling past a vineyard where an elderly gentleman in overalls watched my progress with the amused expression of someone who has seen many tourists discover that their satnav has betrayed them.

I waved. He waved back, still grinning.

What happened next was either luck or the universe's way of apologising for the chickens. I took what I hoped was a shortcut back toward civilisation and stumbled upon a tiny chapel perched on a hillside, barely visible from any proper road. There was no sign, no car park, no gift shop selling miniature versions of itself. Just a wooden bench, some wildflowers, and a view across the Neusiedler See that made me forget entirely about my accommodation for a solid ten minutes. I sat there, engine still running like the city person I am, and finally turned it off. The silence was immediate and complete and rather wonderful.

From there, I wandered further down a track that looked recently used by tractors, convinced I was heading vaguely north. The vineyards here are not the manicured tourist attractions you find elsewhere. They are working landscapes, slightly scruffy, full of character. I passed a cellar door with a handwritten sign offering wine by the glass, though the door itself was firmly shut and no one answered my tentative knock. The sign looked weathered, permanent in its way, as if the owner would appear eventually and pour for whoever happened to be passing. I made a note to return, though I suspected I would never find it again.

By the time I actually reached the property in Eisenberg, the afternoon had softened into evening and I had collected enough wrong turns to fill a small atlas. The owners, when I finally located them, seemed entirely unsurprised by my dishevelled state. They asked no questions about my route, merely handed me a key and pointed toward a path that led, they said, to a viewpoint I might enjoy. I laughed, perhaps slightly hysterically, and explained that I had already found several viewpoints entirely by accident. They nodded with the satisfaction of people who understand that this is precisely how Burgenland works.

That evening, I sat on the terrace with a glass of local Blaufrankisch, watching the last light fade across the hills I had accidentally traversed. My luggage contained a proper map now, purchased from a petrol station during my eventual return to something resembling a main road. I had no intention of using it. Some places are better found by getting thoroughly, completely, gloriously lost.