I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I missed the turning for Reinersdorf not once but three times. There I was, squinting at my phone in one hand, steering wheel in the other, convinced the sat nav had developed a personal vendetta against me. My wife sat in the passenger seat with that particular expression of British patience that is somehow both supportive and deeply judgmental. "Perhaps the third time round the roundabout," she offered, in the tone of someone suggesting we try breathing for a change.

The cottage itself, when we finally found it, sat tucked among the rolling hills of Lower Austria like a well-kept secret. A traditional Reinersdorf property, all timber and terracotta roof tiles, with a garden that looked as though someone had spent decades perfecting the art of relaxed neglect. My daughter immediately claimed the swing seat, my son vanished to investigate what he called "the shed of mysterious tools," and I stood there with our suitcases, feeling that peculiar mixture of relief and mild panic that accompanies every family self-catering adventure.

The key was in a lockbox, which sounds simple enough until you realise the code only works if you apply exactly the right amount of pressure whilst standing on one leg and reciting the Austrian national anthem backwards. I may be exaggerating slightly, but not by much. When the door finally swung open, we were greeted by that particular cottage smell of wood polish and slightly damp wool blankets that I find inexplicably comforting. My wife wrinkled her nose. "Authentic," she declared, which is her code for "needs a good airing."

The kitchen became our immediate headquarters, as kitchens always do on family holidays. I attempted to operate the coffee machine with the confidence of a man who has never met an Austrian coffee machine before. It gurgled, spat, and produced something that resembled espresso in the same way that a puddle resembles champagne. My son filmed the entire fiasco on his phone, already planning his social media debut. "Dad versus technology," he announced, "episode four thousand and twelve."

By mid-afternoon, the garden had worked its particular magic. We found ourselves doing very little of any consequence, which was rather the point. My wife dozed in a deckchair with a book she had no intention of finishing. The children established a complicated game involving the apple trees and rules that seemed to change every thirty seconds. I attempted to light the barbecue with enthusiasm rather than skill, producing more smoke than heat and accepting this as a metaphor for middle-aged endeavour.

What struck me most about that first day was the particular quality of the light as evening approached. Lower Austria does this remarkable thing where the hills seem to glow from within, turning the vineyards and orchards into something almost theatrical. I found myself standing at the garden fence with a beer I had not earned, watching the bats begin their evening patrol, and feeling that rare sensation of having arrived somewhere both physically and mentally.

The mishaps continued, of course. Dinner was slightly burnt, someone forgot to pack towels, and the shower produced water at temperatures that cycled between Arctic and volcanic without warning. But sitting there as darkness fell, with my children squabbling good-naturedly over card games and my wife laughing at my attempts to translate the German instructions for the television, I felt something settle. This was not perfection. This was something better. This was the particular, lovely chaos of a family finding its rhythm in a place that asked nothing of us except our presence.

I went to bed that night with the window open, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the Austrian countryside, already knowing that I would miss this when it ended, already planning how we might return.