I have never been brilliant at reading maps, and my first attempt at finding the Winten in Burgenland proved this beyond doubt. The sat-nav decided to have a little holiday of its own somewhere near the Hungarian border, leaving me circling a sunflower field three times while a local farmer watched from his tractor with what I can only describe as deeply amused sympathy. By the time I spotted the actual turning, I had named every sunflower in that field and was ready to abandon the car entirely.

It was late October when I arrived, and Burgenland wears autumn like a favourite jumper. The vineyards had turned that particular burnt orange that makes everything look slightly filtered, and the air carried the last warmth of the year mixed with something sharper, something that promised misty mornings and the need for proper socks. I stepped out of the car and immediately felt the season press against my face, gentle but insistent, like a dog nosing for attention.

The Winten itself sat low and welcoming, a proper Burgenland property with that sensible Austrian architecture that knows exactly what it is doing. In summer, I imagine, the place would buzz with outdoor living, but autumn had changed its personality entirely. The terrace furniture sat stacked and slightly apologetic, cushions stored away until next year. Instead, the whole character of the stay had shifted inward, toward fireplaces and thick walls and the particular pleasure of watching weather happen rather than participating in it.

My first evening, I discovered the heating system with the enthusiasm of a man who has spent the afternoon lost among sunflowers. The controls were in German, naturally, and my GCSE vocabulary failed me at the crucial moment. I spent twenty minutes convinced I had activated some sort of sauna function before realising the radiators were simply doing their job with Austrian efficiency. I opened windows, closed windows, opened them again, and eventually surrendered to a warmth that felt like being gently hugged by the building itself.

Morning brought the season's proper introduction. Fog had rolled across the Neusiedler See region overnight, and the world outside had shrunk to about twenty metres of visible vineyard before dissolving into soft grey nothing. I stood with my coffee on the small covered terrace, wrapped in a blanket I had found in a cupboard, and watched the mist slowly lift to reveal rows of grapevines stripped nearly bare, their autumn leaves pooled around the posts like discarded ideas. The birds sounded different here in autumn, more businesslike, less of the frantic territorial shouting of spring. Even the light seemed to move slower, as if the shorter days had taught it patience.

The local shop in the nearby village had already shifted to winter stock, which meant pumpkin seed oil and jars of preserved things and bread that tasted properly of something. I bought supplies with the particular satisfaction of someone preparing to burrow, to make the most of early darkness and the excuse it provides for doing very little with great intention. Back at the Winten, I cooked badly with local ingredients and did not care, because the season had given me permission to be amateur, to be slow, to be someone who circles sunflower fields and cannot operate central heating.

That first evening's fog returned each morning of my stay, and I came to depend on it, to feel slightly cheated when one day dawned unexpectedly clear. The Winten in autumn was not the property it would be in summer, and that was exactly the point. I had arrived expecting to find Burgenland, but the season had found me first, and I was entirely glad to be caught.