I have never been so grateful for a pair of waterproof trousers in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once wore them to a wedding by mistake. The journey to Feldbach in Styria had started well enough - a smooth flight to Graz, a hire car with suspiciously enthusiastic air conditioning, and the sort of motorway driving that makes you feel terribly continental. Then came the mishap.

Somewhere between the airport and my turning, I became convinced I was being followed. Not by anything sinister, you understand, but by my own suitcase. I had left it on the roof of the car. At a petrol station. Twenty minutes back. The chap behind the counter found the whole thing hilarious, particularly when I returned sweating and muttering apologies to find it still sitting there like a forgotten hat. Austrian honesty, I have decided, is both wonderful and slightly humiliating.

The property itself sits on the edge of Feldbach, a proper working town rather than some chocolate-box village invented for tourists. My first impression, once I had stopped checking my passport was still in my pocket for the fifteenth time, was how green everything looked. Not the polite green of an English lawn, but something almost aggressive in its verdancy. The hills rolled about in every direction like a badly made bed, and the air smelled of cut grass and something faintly agricultural that I chose not to investigate too closely.

I had arrived with grand walking plans, naturally. The Riegersburg castle was visible from the garden, perched on its volcanic hill like a grumpy uncle at a party, and I had mapped out a glorious circular route for the following morning. The weather app had shown nothing but cheerful sun icons. I should have known better. I am British. I have been let down by weather apps more often than by politicians.

The morning brought horizontal rain. Not British drizzle, which at least has the decency to be apologetic, but full-throated Austrian downpour that bounced off the patio stones and made mockery of my carefully planned route. I stood at the kitchen window with my coffee, watching what I can only describe as a small lake forming where I had intended to begin my hike. My waterproof trousers, freshly rescued from their petrol station ordeal, seemed to be laughing at me from the wardrobe.

By midday the rain had softened to something more manageable, and I set off toward the Schöckl anyway, because I am stubborn and had packed three different maps. The paths near Feldbach wind through farmland and forest in that satisfying way where you cannot see what is round the next corner. Within ten minutes I was soaked through in places my waterproofs did not reach, and happier than I had any right to be. The woods smelled of wet bark and pine, and somewhere a woodpecker was doing its best to demolish a tree.

The following day brought proper sunshine, and I walked toward Riegersburg along marked trails that switchbacked through vineyards. The volcanic soil here makes for excellent wine, apparently, though I was more interested in not twisting my ankle on the loose stones. From the castle walls the view stretched across eastern Styria in a patchwork of fields and woodland that made my soggy previous day feel almost worthwhile. Almost. I still had blisters that resembled small countries.

What struck me most, walking back to Feldbach as the light softened, was how the weather had forced a kind of patience I do not naturally possess. I had wanted to tick off routes efficiently, to be the sort of walker who covers distance with purpose. Instead I had pottered, waited, adapted. The British compulsion to press on regardless had met Austrian conditions and come off rather second best. I found I did not mind as much as expected.

On my final morning I walked the local path that circles the town itself, a gentle hour through meadows where buttercups were finally out in defiance of everything. My boots were still damp from three days previous. My map had turned to papier-mache in my pocket during that first downpour. I had walked less than planned and enjoyed it more than anticipated, which feels like the sort of lesson I will forget by next Tuesday but appreciated in the moment.

I left the property with mud on everything and no intention of cleaning my boots before the flight home. Some things, I have decided, are better worn in.