The Satnav Saga That Led Me to Altaussee

I have never trusted a satnav less than the one guiding me from Graz Airport to our cottage in Altaussee. Three hours it promised, then four, then suddenly we were on something called a "Gemeindestrasse" that appeared to be a logging track with delusions of grandeur. My partner, ever the optimist, kept saying "it must be a shortcut" right up until we scraped the hire car's underside on a rock the size of a sheep. I got out to assess the damage, slipped on wet leaves, and landed on my backside with such theatrical completeness that a passing farmer actually slowed his tractor to applaud. Welcome to Styria, I thought, brushing leaf mulch from my jeans.

We finally arrived at the cottage proper defeated, damp, and smelling faintly of woodland floor. But oh, the sight of it. The place sat nestled among pines with the sort of view that makes you forget you have bruised your coccyx in front of Austrian agricultural workers. Lake Altaussee glimmered below like someone had polished a slab of slate. I stood there on the terrace, still clutching my mud-caked jacket, and felt that particular humiliation of arriving somewhere beautiful whilst looking absolutely dreadful.

The weather, naturally, had been reading my mood. British weather had followed me to Austria, apparently. Low cloud, persistent drizzle, the full miserable ensemble. I had packed for alpine sunshine like the naive islander I am. Three pairs of shorts, one emergency cagoule, and a misplaced confidence that "the mountains will be fine." My partner, who had actually checked a forecast, produced waterproof trousers with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has won an argument without needing to speak.

We woke to proper rain the first morning, the kind that comes horizontally and questions your life choices. Our planned hike to the Trisselwand was immediately abandoned. Instead we did what any self-respecting Briton does when defeated by precipitation: we put on every layer we owned and went walking anyway. The lakeside path from Altaussee village was more stream than trail in places. My boots, allegedly waterproof, developed a personality and began squeaking with each step like a small, distressed mammal.

The second day brought brief hope. Sun appeared around ten, weak and apologetic, like someone arriving late to their own party. We seized it with desperate gratitude and set off for the Loser Panorama Road, that winding route up toward the limestone peaks. The walking there is spectacular when visible. We had perhaps forty minutes of actual views before the cloud descended again, thick and theatrical, reducing visibility to the end of my own arm. We stood on what we believed to be a viewpoint, surrounded by white nothingness, and laughed at the absurdity of it. Two Britons in Austria, paying to see mountains we could not see, congratulating ourselves on excellent planning.

By day three I had developed what I can only describe as weather Stockholm syndrome. The constant damp had become normal, almost companionable. We walked the forest trails near the salt mines, where the trees dripped rhythmically and the path squelched with a consistency that felt personal. My cagoule had surrendered at the seams. My partner's waterproof trousers had begun to look smug. Yet there was something genuinely lovely in this stubborn continuation, this refusal to let precipitation dictate our movements.

The locals, I noticed, treated weather as mere information rather than obstacle. They walked past us in sensible jackets, nodding at our bedraggled determination with what I chose to interpret as respect rather than pity. An elderly woman passed us on the lakeside promenade, umbrella deployed with military precision, and said something in dialect that sounded encouraging. I nodded back, dripping, feeling briefly like an honorary Styrian.

Our final morning brought the only proper sunshine of the week. We climbed the steep path toward the Tressenstein, finally seeing the views that had been hiding, the whole Salzkammergut spread below in ridiculous beauty. I stood there in my still-damp boots, sun finally warming my face, and understood something obvious: the walking had been good even in the rain, perhaps better for the comedy of it. The mishaps had become the story. The bruised backside, the squeaking boots, the navigational incompetence, the clouds that refused to part until we were leaving.

We drove back to Graz with the satnav behaving itself, the car making ominous scraping noises on every bump, my partner's waterproof trousers finally packed away with evident satisfaction. I had learned nothing about checking weather forecasts and everything about the particular joy of continuing regardless. Some holidays are perfect sunshine and postcard views. Others are soggy, ridiculous, and somehow more memorable for it.