I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I confidently marched up to what I thought was our rental cottage, jiggled the key for a solid three minutes, and only realised my mistake when a very confused German shepherd appeared at the window and started giving me the sort of look usually reserved for people who put pineapple on pizza. Turns out I was one door down. The actual Weissenstein cottage, mercifully, had no guard dog and a key that actually turned.

The drive from Villach had been gorgeous in that slightly stressful way that all Alpine drives are gorgeous. You are trying to navigate winding roads, keep two children from car sickness, and not crash into a ditch while gawping at mountains that look like they have been lifted straight from a chocolate box. My partner did most of the driving. I did most of the gasping and pointing, which I maintain is equally important work.

Weissenstein itself sits in that sweet spot just outside Villach proper, up in the hills where the air smells like pine and the silence is so complete it actually takes a minute to adjust. The cottage was one of those solid Carinthian numbers, all wooden beams and sensible shutters, the kind of place built by people who understand that winter happens and happens hard. A proper stove sat in the corner like a promise. I made a mental note to master it later, probably with disastrous results.

The children shot off to investigate before we had even unloaded the car, which meant the first ten minutes of our holiday involved me chasing them down a slope while shouting about nettles and ticks in a voice that carried embarrassingly well across the valley. Carinthia is brilliant for that sort of thing though. Space to run, hills to roll down, none of the manicured preciousness you get at some holiday parks. Just grass, trees, and the occasional cow bell drifting over from somewhere you cannot quite see.

The kitchen smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the previous guests' coffee, which I found weirdly comforting. We had brought supplies like the middle-aged people we are, including an alarming quantity of local cheese from a petrol station near the border that I had impulse-bought while my partner was in the loo. The fridge was one of those compact Austrian affairs that hums with purpose. I arranged my cheese collection like a trophy display. This, I decided, was living.

By late afternoon we were on the terrace with drinks that had gone slightly warm because we kept forgetting to put them back in the cooler. The view down toward Villach was doing that golden-hour thing where everything looks soft and forgiving, even the pile of washing up we had already accumulated. The kids were filthy, properly filthy, with grass stains and what I chose not to investigate on one knee. They had found a stick each and were engaged in some elaborate game that seemed to involve a lot of shouting and running in circles.

I found myself doing that thing I do on holiday, where I try to force a perfect moment into being and then catch myself and stop. The cottage was not trying to be anything other than what it was. Comfortable, slightly creaky, surrounded by proper Carinthian countryside. No spa, no concierge, no curated experience. Just a solid base for doing very little with great enthusiasm.

The shepherd next door barked once, perhaps in greeting, perhaps in continued judgment. I raised my warm drink in its direction. We were here, we were messy, and we had a whole week of absolutely nothing planned. It felt exactly right.