I have never been very good at reading instructions, which is how I ended up driving our hire car down what I can only describe as a glorified farm track somewhere near Radstadt, convinced I was taking a scenic shortcut. My partner, Beth, was gripping the door handle and making that particular humming noise she does when she is trying not to say something she will regret. The satnav had given up on us three miles back, and I was pretending this was all part of the adventure.

We had flown into Salzburg that morning, collected a Volkswagen that smelled faintly of air freshener and anxiety, and set off toward what the booking confirmation called a "traditional Austrian holiday home." I had pictured something from a chocolate box, all timber and window boxes and perhaps a friendly goat. What I had not pictured was me reversing down a narrow lane while a very patient local farmer waited in his tractor, wearing an expression of profound Austrian resignation.

By the time we found the actual property, I had aged approximately ten years. But then we turned the final corner, and there it was, perched on the edge of Radstadt with the mountains looming behind it like a theatrical backdrop. The place was all dark wood and steep roofs, the sort of building that looks as though it has been there since people first decided mountains were good for skiing down. A wooden balcony ran along the front, and someone, presumably the owner, had left a small lantern glowing by the door. I felt my shoulders drop for the first time since landing.

The mishap, though, was not quite finished with us. I had the key code written on my phone, which I had somehow managed to drain to four percent during my scenic detour. We stood in the fading light, me frantically jabbing at a dying screen, Beth suggesting perhaps I should have written it down, me suggesting perhaps she could try being helpful, both of us becoming increasingly aware that the temperature was dropping fast and we were dressed for Gatwick Airport in April. I got the code in with one percent to spare, and the door swung open with a satisfying clunk that felt like forgiveness.

Inside smelled of pine and something else, something clean and cold that made me think of proper winters. The hallway was narrow and dark, all wooden panels and a rack for boots that I immediately knew we would fill with disastrous enthusiasm. We stumbled through to the main room, still bickering slightly, and stopped. Huge windows framed the mountains in a way that felt almost aggressive in its beauty, like the landscape was showing off. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner, and someone had left a small pile of logs ready. Beth and I looked at each other, and I could see she was trying not to smile, which meant I was forgiven, mostly.

I will admit that my first act as a responsible holidaymaker was to nearly trip over the step into the kitchen, which was smaller than I expected and equipped with a cooker that looked like it had been installed in a more optimistic decade. The fridge hummed with the determination of an appliance that has seen many tourists come and go. I opened it to find it empty except for a single bottle of sparkling water, which felt like either a welcome gift or a comment on our driving, I could not decide which.

The bathroom revealed another discovery: a proper wooden sauna in the corner, the kind that makes you feel immediately healthier just by looking at it. Beth declared she would live in it. I declared I would probably set something on fire in it, given my track record so far that day. We explored the bedrooms, which were all sloping ceilings and floral bedding that managed to feel charming rather than dated, then found the balcony and stood there in the cold air, watching the last light fade behind the mountains.

I had planned to cook something elaborate that first night, something involving local ingredients and perhaps a recipe I had saved specifically. Instead, we drove the ten minutes back into Radstadt proper, found a restaurant that looked warm, and ate dumplings and drank beer while I made self-deprecating jokes about my navigation skills and Beth finally laughed properly. The drive back was straightforward, which I took as a small victory, and we fell into bed early, exhausted by altitude and mishap and the particular tiredness that comes from finally arriving somewhere you have been looking forward to.

Lying there, listening to Beth breathing and the unfamiliar silence of actual darkness, I thought about how I always do this to myself, turn arrivals into small dramas, let my confidence outrun my preparation. But I also thought about that lantern by the door, left burning for strangers, and the mountains waiting patient and enormous outside, and how sometimes the mishaps are what you remember, what make the warmth inside feel earned. I fell asleep planning to do better tomorrow, knowing I probably would not, and feeling oddly content about it.