I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Heiligenbrunn in Burgenland proved me absolutely right. We had been driving for hours from Vienna, dreaming of wine and quiet village life, when I confidently announced I knew a shortcut. My partner raised an eyebrow but humoured me. Twenty minutes later we were bouncing down a gravel track between pumpkin fields, our satnav cheerfully insisting we were "arriving at destination" while surrounded by nothing but confused-looking crows. The shortcut had taken us to a farmyard. A very nice farmyard, admittedly, with an excellent dog, but not our holiday home. We eventually found the proper road, slightly dusty and thoroughly humbled, which I suppose is the proper Austrian way to begin.

The house itself sits among the famous Kellergassen of Heiligenbrunn, those rows of adorable whitewashed wine cellars with their thatched roofs that look like something from a children's storybook. Our particular cottage had a proper kitchen with a wood-fired oven, which I immediately decided would be my domain for the week. This was, in retrospect, ambitious. I am a person who once set fire to a ready meal because I misread the microwave instructions.

The first evening we walked to the village pub, a proper rustic affair where the landlord looked at my attempt to order in German with the patient expression of a man who has heard many things in his time. I asked for "zwei Bier, bitte" and somehow received three. We did not complain. The food was simple and perfect: a thick bean soup with speck, heavy with paprika, served with bread that had proper chew to it. My partner had the Backhendl, that glorious Austrian fried chicken, and I spent the entire meal making strategic fork movements toward his plate until he surrendered a piece.

The next morning I declared we would visit the market in Gussing, the nearest proper town. I had visions of returning with armfuls of fresh produce, of becoming the sort of person who casually throws together a rustic feast while drinking local wine. The market did not disappoint for atmosphere - stalls of peppers and tomatoes in impossible reds, proper cured sausages hanging like edible curtains, wheels of cheese that smelled of actual meadows. I bought too much of everything, as one does when slightly overwhelmed by choice and the encouraging smiles of vendors. A pumpkin the size of a small child. Paprika paste in quantities that suggested I was feeding a regiment. Sour cherries for a clafoutis I had absolutely no intention of making.

Back at the cottage, I attempted the wood-fired oven. The first fire went out. The second fire threatened to become interesting. By the third attempt I had something approximating heat, and I threw together a simple meal of fried peppers, local eggs, and that glorious speck from the market. It was not elegant. It was slightly burnt in places and underdone in others. But eaten at the wooden table in the garden, with a bottle of Blaufrankisch from the cellar opposite, it tasted of something I cannot properly name. Accomplishment, perhaps, mixed with relief.

We ate out more than I planned, if I am honest. The local Heurigen, those wonderful seasonal wine taverns, proved irresistible. There is something about sitting under vine-covered pergolas with a glass of young wine and a plate of cold meats and cheese that makes cooking seem like an unnecessary complication. One evening we found a particularly lovely one just outside the village, where the hostess brought us Liptauer cheese spread so fresh it still held the shape of the bowl, and pickled vegetables from her own garden. I tried to recreate it the next day. My version tasted primarily of regret and too much caraway.

The village pub became our regular haunt. The landlord stopped looking surprised to see us, which felt like winning a small prize. We worked through the menu with the dedication of people who have no other plans and no particular hurry. The Schlutzkrapfen, those little pasta pockets filled with spinach and cheese, became a particular favourite. I once ordered them as a starter and a main, which my partner found excessive. He was incorrect.

On our final evening I made one last attempt at the wood oven, a simple roast chicken with the remaining peppers and potatoes. It emerged looking vaguely respectable, which I consider a triumph of hope over experience. We ate it outside as the light faded over the Kellergassen, drinking the last of our wine, talking about nothing in particular. The holiday had not gone exactly as I planned, with my shortcuts and my cooking ambitions and my market overenthusiasm. It had been better than planned, in that particular way that holidays are when you stop trying so hard. I had not become a person who casually produces rustic feasts. But I had become someone who could light a wood oven without genuine panic, who knew which Heurigen had the best Liptauer, who could order three beers with complete confidence. Some skills, I decided, are enough.