I have never been so relieved to see a wooden chalet in my life. After seven hours of driving from Salzburg, during which I managed to get us spectacularly lost in what I am fairly certain was someone's private vineyard, we finally rolled into Kolbnitz. The satnav had given up on us around Villach, and my partner had adopted that particular tight-lipped silence that I have learned means I will be hearing about this for approximately the next decade.

The chalet itself was a proper Austrian gem, all timber beams and flower boxes spilling over with geraniums. But I will be honest with you, the first thing I noticed was the kitchen. We had booked a self-catering place specifically because I had grand visions of cooking proper local food, buying fresh ingredients from village markets, and generally pretending I was some sort of alpine culinary genius. The reality, I suspected, would be rather different.

We dumped our bags and immediately drove the five minutes to Kolbnitz village proper, hunting for supplies. The local supermarket was compact but brilliantly stocked, and I filled our basket with Carinthian specialities: Kasnudeln, which are these wonderful cheese-filled pasta parcels, a lump of Gailtaler Almkase that smelled like it could walk home by itself, and several bottles of local wine that I told myself were for cooking. There was also a small butcher's counter where I attempted to order something I could not actually pronounce, pointing enthusiastically at what turned out to be excellent smoked ham. The butcher was patient with me in that way Austrians have, where they are too polite to laugh directly at you but you can sense the amusement.

That first evening I attempted Kasnudeln from scratch. I had watched a video, how hard could it be? Very hard, apparently. The dough stuck to every surface in the chalet including, somehow, the ceiling. My partner found me two hours later, flour in my hair, drinking wine straight from the bottle and muttering about altitude affecting flour hydration. We ended up eating the ham and cheese with bread from the bakery in Obervellach, which was ten minutes away and absolutely worth every moment of my dough-based humiliation.

The next morning I swallowed my pride and asked our host for recommendations. She directed us to a proper Gasthaus in Obervellach, where I had the most extraordinary Brettljause, one of those wooden boards loaded with meats and cheeses and pickles that makes you wonder why anyone ever invented plates. The landlord was a character, refilling my beer whenever it dropped below a certain level without me asking, which I found both dangerous and deeply hospitable.

I became slightly obsessed with the local food shops after that. There was a farm shop near Mallnitz, again within easy reach, selling homemade schnapps and jars of honey with bits of honeycomb still in. I bought three jars and a bottle of something clear that I was assured was plum-based. We cooked simpler meals after my pasta disaster, excellent local sausages with sauerkraut, fresh trout from a nearby farm, potatoes fried in butter until they were practically a religious experience.

By the end of the week I had gained what I conservatively estimate to be half a stone, developed a genuine affection for the local beer, and learned that sometimes the best cooking on holiday is knowing when to let someone else do it. We found a brilliant little pub in Kolbnitz itself for our final night, nothing fancy, just good food and locals who eventually stopped looking surprised when we walked in. I ate goulash that had clearly been simmering since approximately 1987 and was all the better for it.

Driving away, I caught my partner smiling at my flour-stained jacket, still in the boot. Some holidays are about what you cook, and some are about what you learn to appreciate others cooking for you.