I have never been one to trust a weather app, and my trip to Hannersdorf in Burgenland only proved why. The forecast had promised a solid week of sunshine, which in my experience is the meteorological equivalent of a politician's promise. Still, I packed my walking boots with the optimism of someone who has clearly forgotten what Austrian spring weather can do.

The journey from the UK was largely uneventful until I reached the final stretch of rural roads. Following my sat nav's increasingly confident instructions, I found myself on what I can only describe as a farm track that grew narrower with every metre. The tarmac gave way to gravel, then gravel gave way to something that might once have been mud but had achieved a higher state of being. My hire car, a sensible Volkswagen that had done nothing to deserve this, bottomed out with a sad crunch. I sat there for a moment, weighing my options, before a farmer appeared from a nearby field and directed me back to actual civilisation with the patient expression of someone who has rescued many idiots before me. I arrived at the property twenty minutes later with a slightly bruised ego and what I suspected was a dented exhaust.

The holiday home itself was an immediate comfort. A traditional Burgenland farmhouse with thick walls and a generous garden, it sat among rolling hills that seemed designed specifically for walking. I dumped my bags, laced up my boots, and set out that same afternoon with the enthusiasm of a man who had not yet checked an updated forecast.

The first walk was glorious. A gentle loop through vineyards just beginning to show green, the path winding between rows of Blaufrankisch grapes with views south toward the Hungarian border. The air smelled of turned earth and something faintly herbal. I walked for perhaps two hours, returned to the house as light faded, and cooked a simple dinner feeling thoroughly pleased with myself.

The following morning I woke to grey skies and a steady drizzle that the locals would probably call gentle but I would call persistent. Being British, I refused to let this deter me. I set out for a longer route toward the nearby hills, telling myself that proper walkers do not melt. Within forty minutes I was properly soaked, the kind of soaked that seeps through supposedly waterproof jackets and finds the gaps in your boots. The path had turned slick, and I spent an uncomfortable amount of time concentrating on not falling rather than enjoying the scenery. I passed a small chapel, Dreifaltigkeitskapelle, and sheltered in its porch for a while, watching the rain intensify with what felt like personal malice. A local woman walking her dog passed by, nodded at my dripping form, and carried on without apparent concern. I took this as a sign that I was being soft.

By day three the weather had shifted to something more dramatic. Heavy clouds rolled in from the east, and the temperature dropped noticeably. I attempted another walk, this time sticking to lower ground near Hannersdorf itself, but the wind made it a battle rather than a pleasure. Small branches came down from the trees. My map became difficult to hold. I turned back after ninety minutes, feeling oddly defeated by conditions that back home in Yorkshire I would have considered fairly standard.

That evening, sitting in the warm house with a glass of local wine, I had one of those moments of uncomfortable self-reflection. I realised I had become the sort of person who plans a walking holiday around idealised weather, then complains when reality does not cooperate. There was something almost funny about travelling hundreds of miles to experience rain and wind that I could have found perfectly easily without leaving Britain. The difference, I supposed, was the landscape itself. Even in poor conditions, the Burgenland hills had a quiet character that kept me wanting to go back out.

The remainder of the week settled into a pattern of compromise. I walked in shorter bursts, choosing routes carefully based on hourly forecasts that proved only slightly more reliable than reading tea leaves. One morning brought unexpected sunshine, and I covered a satisfying stretch of the Weinidylle trail before clouds regrouped with what felt like spite. Another day I abandoned walking entirely and drove to a nearby thermal spa, which felt like admitting defeat but was probably the sensible choice.

By the final day I had developed a sort of weather-induced humility. I walked a last local loop in misty conditions, boots squelching slightly, and found I enjoyed it more than the sunny first day. There was something about lowered expectations, about accepting what you are given rather than demanding sunshine, that made the experience more genuine. The hills were still there. The vineyards were still there. I was merely somewhat damp.

I left Hannersdorf with my walking boots still not properly dry, a hire car that made an occasional worrying noise, and a renewed appreciation for the British habit of discussing weather as if it were a personal grievance. Some things, it turns out, you cannot escape simply by crossing borders. The rain follows you, or perhaps you follow it. Either way, the boots went straight into the bin when I got home, and I have no regrets about either the purchase or their retirement.