I have never been so relieved to see a road sign in my life. After three hours of driving from Klagenfurt Airport, my partner and I finally spotted "Ferlach" on a weathered post, and I may have let out a small cheer that was far too enthusiastic for someone who had merely succeeded in following sat nav instructions. The relief was short-lived. In my excitement, I completely missed the turning for our holiday let and carried on for another two miles before realising I was now heading towards the Slovenian border with a boot full of Austrian wine and a rapidly deflating sense of achievement.

The Ferlach property itself, when we eventually reversed our way back to it, was one of those traditional Carinthian houses that looks deceptively modest from the outside and then opens up into something rather special. Wooden beams everywhere, a kitchen that clearly understood the assignment, and a balcony that peered directly over the Drau Valley. I stood there with a cup of tea that first evening, watching the light fade over the Karawanks, and felt that particular smugness that comes from having booked somewhere with actual cooking facilities after months of making do with a London flat the size of a generous cupboard.

The kitchen became my kingdom over the following days, though I use the term "kingdom" loosely given my first attempt at Kärtner Kasnudeln. These cheese-filled pasta parcels are a Carinthian institution, and I had watched approximately four YouTube videos which made me dangerously overconfident. The result was edible, technically, but my partner described them as "rustic with character" which is relationship code for "I am being supportive but please never make these again." The local dairy products were sublime though, that much I will defend. The farmer's market in Ferlach town centre, held on Friday mornings, yielded the most extraordinary Topfen and a smoked cheese that I ate in inappropriate quantities directly from the wax paper while standing in the kitchen like a man who had forgotten basic civilisation.

We found our local almost immediately, a Gasthaus ten minutes walk away where the landlord looked at my attempt to order in German with the patient expression of someone who had seen this many times before. His wife cooked proper Carinthian Eierspeis that made my own efforts look frankly tragic, and the local beer flowed with dangerous ease. By our third visit he was greeting us like regulars, which in British terms means he nodded slightly more recognisably than before. I ate their Brettljause, that magnificent board of cured meats and cheeses, with the focused attention of a man who had finally found his true calling in life.

The nearest proper restaurant was in the town itself, family-run for three generations apparently, where I had Reindling for pudding and immediately needed to be rolled back towards the Drau. I attempted to recreate this yeasted cake twice in our kitchen, failing both times with what I can only describe as magnificent consistency. The second attempt was so dense it could have served as a doorstop. My partner photographed it for posterity and still brings it up at dinner parties.

My finest culinary moment came entirely by accident. After another market visit, I threw together leftover Speck, the good mountain cheese, some of the local pumpkin seed oil that Carinthia does so brilliantly, and fresh bread from the bakery near the church. Simple, unplanned, eaten on that balcony as the valley turned golden. Sometimes the best meals happen when you stop trying to honour tradition and just assemble excellent ingredients in a greedy fashion.

I left Ferlach several pounds heavier and with a newfound respect for anyone who can fold dumplings without them resembling small, sad sacks. The kitchen had seen my failures and my one modest triumph. The local Gasthaus had seen me become embarrassingly emotional about proper bread. I would return tomorrow, though perhaps with a promise to leave the Kasnudeln to the professionals and simply eat my way through every Brettljause within walking distance instead.