I have never been so relieved to see a lake in all my life, and that includes the time I got lost on the M25 trying to find a service station. The drive to Afritz am See had been going swimmingly until I decided my sat nav was "suggesting" rather than "instructing" and took what I can only describe as a scenic detour through what felt like every mountain pass in Carinthia. Three hours became five. My passenger, a bag of slightly squashed cheese and onion crisps, offered no comfort whatsoever.

The property itself, a proper Austrian holiday home with wooden balconies that looked like they belonged in a postcard, appeared at exactly the moment I was considering whether I could survive on emergency mints and stubbornness alone. I stumbled out of the car, legs cramped, and immediately smelled woodsmoke and something herby cooking nearby. My stomach made a noise that I am fairly certain echoed off the mountains.

The first thing I did, because my priorities are impeccably ordered, was investigate the kitchen. It was one of those gloriously practical Austrian affairs, all solid surfaces and a cooker that looked like it had actually been used for proper cooking rather than just reheating ready meals. I had grand plans. I had brought a cookbook. I had, in my infinite wisdom, decided that a week in Carinthia would transform me into someone who casually whips up dumplings and slow-cooked stews.

My first evening, I walked to the nearest Gasthaus, which took roughly twelve minutes and involved me gawping at every chalet garden like a proper tourist. The place was warm and low-ceilinged, with an elderly gentleman in traditional dress who looked at my attempt to pronounce "Kasnudeln" with the patient tolerance of someone who has heard much worse. The pasta parcels, stuffed with potato and cheese and topped with browned butter, arrived steaming and enormous. I ate until I needed to loosen my belt in a way that would have been embarrassing had anyone been watching, which they absolutely were because I was the only person making appreciative noises at that volume.

The next morning, I attempted breakfast at the property. The local shop had provided me with Speck that was so beautifully smoky I kept opening the packet just to smell it, proper rye bread, and butter that actually tasted of something. My coffee, made in a slightly temperamental machine I never fully mastered, was either magnificent or dreadful depending on which button I accidentally pressed. I ate on the balcony, watching mist lift off the lake, feeling briefly like a person who has their life together.

By day three, I had convinced myself I was ready for the farmers market in a nearby village. I returned with more than I could carry, including a cheese that the vendor described with such passion I felt obliged to buy an enormous wedge. My attempt to recreate the previous night's goulash, using what I believed to be authentic techniques gleaned from vigorous nodding during a conversation I only half understood, resulted in something edible but spiritually disappointing. The dumplings, in particular, achieved a density I suspect could have damaged flooring. I ate it anyway, standing at the counter, drinking a local beer that improved everything considerably.

The pub culture in Afritz am See itself surprised me. I had expected quiet evenings and early nights, but the lakeside establishments had a proper buzz, locals and visitors mixing over rounds of Villacher beer and conversations that moved between German and English with casual ease. I became a regular at one place where the landlord, upon learning I was attempting to cook local dishes, would occasionally appear with a small plate of something "to show you how it is done." His sauerkraut, I must confess, reduced my own efforts to something approaching sadness.

My final evening, I abandoned cooking entirely and committed to a proper meal at a restaurant overlooking the water. I had the lake trout, caught that morning, simply prepared with butter and herbs, alongside potatoes roasted until they crunched. It was the sort of food that makes you realise some things are best left to people who know what they are doing, and that there is no shame in being a devoted eater rather than a gifted cook.

I left Afritz am See with my car pointing the right direction, a cooler bag stuffed with cheese and cured meats, and the quiet understanding that my kitchen ambitions had been thoroughly humbled by Austrian expertise. Some holidays change you. This one mostly changed my waistline, and I regret absolutely nothing.