I had been dreaming of proper Austrian dumplings for weeks, so when our sat-nav cheerfully announced "you have reached your destination" while pointing at a field of very unimpressed cows, I knew something had gone slightly wrong. Turns out I had typed "Groarl" instead of "Grossarl" and our lovely little holiday home was actually another twenty minutes up the valley. My partner sat in stony silence while I performed a three-point turn that definitely needed five points, and we finally rolled up to our chalet-style place in Grossarl proper with me muttering apologies and the faint smell of brake pads in the air.

The kitchen, though. That first evening, I flung open the cupboards with the confidence of someone who absolutely cannot cook but has watched far too many food programmes. The plan was simple: hit the local supermarket, grab some regional ingredients, and whip up something that would make the neighbours weep with envy. The reality involved me standing in the village Spar staring at a packet of Speck with the sort of confusion usually reserved for advanced algebra. Is it bacon? Is it ham? Why is it so square? I bought three different kinds just to be safe, plus some grey-looking cheese that the woman behind the counter assured me was "very traditional," which I have learned is Austrian for "you might not like this, but it is your fault, not the cheese's."

Back at the chalet, I attempted Kasespatzle with the kind of doomed optimism that characterises most of my culinary adventures. The spatzle maker I had spotted in a kitchen drawer suddenly seemed less like a helpful tool and more like a medieval torture device. Cheese went everywhere. I mean everywhere. I found a bit in my hair three hours later. My partner, who is far too kind, said it tasted "authentic," which I suspect was them being authentically polite. We ate it on the balcony with a bottle of Gruner Veltliner that cost less than a London sandwich and watched the mountains turn pink, and honestly, the cheese in my hair felt like a small price to pay.

The next morning, I abandoned cooking and we wandered down to the village bakery. I have never been so happy to see a pastry in my life. The woman there spoke roughly six words of English and I speak roughly zero words of German beyond "danke" and "bier," but we communicated beautifully through the universal language of pointing at things that looked buttery. I ended up with a Topfenstrudel that was still warm, plus some seeded rolls that I told myself were healthy enough to balance out the strudel. We ate them on a bench near the church, watching locals go about their business with the kind of unhurried purpose that made me feel slightly frantic by comparison.

That evening, we found a proper Gasthaus about ten minutes walk away, the sort with dark wood panelling and a menu that assumed you already knew what everything was. I ordered something described only as "Bauerngrill" because it sounded hearty, and what arrived was a plate of meat that could have fed a small family. My partner went for the goulash, which came in a heavy ceramic pot with a side of dumplings that I eyed with professional jealousy. They were perfect, of course. Light but substantial, soaking up the sauce without falling apart. I made a mental note to ask the owner for tips, then remembered my spatzle disaster and thought better of it.

We got talking to the landlord, a man with impressive moustache and even more impressive patience, who explained that the local farmers still bring their dairy down to the valley cooperative every morning. He recommended the Friday market in the next village, where a woman sells fresh butter that apparently "tastes like the meadows smell." I have no idea if that is true because we missed it, having slept in after one too many of those excellent white wines, but I like to believe it.

By our third day, I had developed a routine of sorts. Morning bakery run, afternoon hike to justify the bakery run, evening either attempting something simple in the chalet kitchen or surrendering to another Gasthaus. I did manage a respectable Brettljause one lunchtime, arranging meats and cheeses on the wooden board provided with the kind of artistic flair that absolutely did not merit how proud I felt. My partner photographed it. That is how low my cooking standards have fallen.

The local schnapps, purchased from a farm shop after some enthusiastic gesturing, became our nightly ritual. We would sit on that balcony, slightly full, slightly tipsy, watching the lights come on in the valley below. I never did master the spatzle, and I definitely never found that cheese in my hair. Some holiday mysteries are better left unsolved.