I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving car quite so much either. The journey to Konigsdorf in Lower Austria had been going swimmingly until I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I knew better than the robotic voice telling me to take the next left. "Shortcut," I muttered, turning right onto what I can only describe as a glorified goat track. Forty minutes later, I found myself staring at a very confused farmer, three chickens, and the growing realisation that I was now officially lost in rural Austria with nothing but a packet of Werther's Originals and a dwindling sense of pride.

When I finally limped into Konigsdorf, the little hamlet just south of the Danube, I was ready to kiss the tarmac. The holiday property sat there like something from a postcard, all traditional Lower Austrian architecture with timber framing and a garden that looked like someone actually enjoyed tending it. I stumbled out of the car, stretched my legs, and immediately smelled something that made my stomach perform an elaborate gymnastics routine. Woodsmoke. Somewhere nearby, someone was cooking with actual fire, and I suddenly remembered I had not eaten since a grim service station sandwich outside Linz.

The first evening, I did what any self-respecting British person would do: I attempted to cook. The property had a proper kitchen, rustic but well-equipped, and I had grand plans for a Wiener Schnitzel that would make my grandmother weep. I marched down to the local butcher in the neighbouring village, armed with phrasebook German and desperate optimism. The butcher, a man whose forearms suggested he had personally wrestled every pig in Lower Austria, looked at my request for "dunnes Fleisch" with what I can only describe as professional pity. He handed me something that was definitely meat, definitely pounded thin, and definitely not what I had asked for. I later discovered I had purchased something intended for stewing, not frying. My schnitzel attempt that evening was less golden and crispy, more... educational. I ate it anyway, washed down with a local Gruner Veltliner that cost less than a London pint and tasted like liquid sunshine.

The next morning, I found the local farmers' market. And by local, I mean a modest gathering of stalls where people who had actually grown the food were selling it to people who were going to eat it. Novel concept. I bought fresh eggs with feathers still stuck to them, tomatoes that smelled like tomatoes rather than refrigerated disappointment, and bread from a woman who communicated entirely through vigorous nodding. Back at the property, I made the simplest lunch of my life: sliced bread, butter, tomatoes, salt. It was genuinely one of the best things I have ever eaten, and I say that as someone who once paid thirty quid for a burger in Shoreditch.

By day three, I had abandoned any pretence of culinary competence and embraced the local pubs and Heurigen, those wonderful Austrian wine taverns where you sit under chestnut trees and drink young wine with cold cuts and cheese. There was one tucked away on the edge of the village, nothing fancy, just benches, locals, and a proprietor who remembered my order from the previous visit. I ate Brettljausen, these magnificent wooden boards loaded with cured meats, pickles, and spreads, while attempting to explain in broken German that I was a writer. The locals nodded politely and continued their card game, which I suspect had been ongoing since approximately 1987.

I did try to recreate one of these boards back at the property, visiting a deli I had spotted near the market. The woman behind the counter took one look at my selections and physically removed the industrial cheddar I had picked up, replacing it with something local and smelly without a word of explanation. She was absolutely correct to do so. We had a moment of mutual understanding, two people united by the understanding that some cheeses have no business near a proper Austrian meat board.

The pub culture in Lower Austria is not like ours. People do not seem to drink to get drunk; they drink to sit, to talk, to watch the light change over the vineyards. I found myself slowing down, ordering another glass, not because I wanted more wine but because I was not ready to leave the conversation I was eavesdropping on. I understood perhaps one word in twenty, but there is something universal about the rhythm of men arguing gently about football.

On my final evening, I attempted one last meal at the property. Simple again: the leftover cheese, some market ham, those ridiculous eggs scrambled simply with butter. I ate on the terrace as the sun went down, thinking about how I had arrived frantic and hungry, how getting lost had somehow led to this. The sat nav had been right, of course. I should have turned left. But sometimes the wrong turn gets you somewhere worth being, even if it takes you through a chicken farm first.