I have to admit, the drive to Fohnsdorf did not start auspiciously. Somewhere past Graz, convinced I knew a shortcut, I found myself down a single-track road behind a tractor whose driver appeared to be operating it at a speed that suggested he had nowhere to be until next Tuesday. By the time I reached the holiday home, my carefully planned arrival time had evaporated, along with my dignity and most of my patience. Then came the mishap: in my flustered state, I managed to reverse into the small wooden post marking the property boundary. The post wobbled, sighed, and remained upright through what I can only describe as sheer Austrian stubbornness. I, however, had crumpled my rear bumper and whatever remained of my composure.

The house itself, when I finally stopped hyperventilating and actually looked at it, was exactly the sort of solid, unpretentious place that makes you exhale. Wooden balconies, views of gentle hills, and a kitchen that announced itself with the confident air of somewhere that had witnessed many attempts at cooking, some successful, others best forgotten. I unpacked with the haste of a man who had eaten nothing but a service station sandwich since Munich, then immediately set about investigating my prospects for proper food.

Fohnsdorf, I quickly discovered, is not a place that shouts about itself. It murmurs. The local supermarket, blessedly still open, revealed the first truth of Styrian cuisine: this is pumpkin seed oil territory, and they are not shy about it. I bought a bottle, some speck, a dense loaf of bread, and what I believed to be cooking herbs but later identified as something far more decorative. That first evening, I attempted a simple supper. The bread was excellent. The speck was transcendent. My attempt to incorporate the pumpkin seed oil into everything simultaneously revealed both my enthusiasm and my lack of planning. I ate at the kitchen table, slightly too much of everything, and felt genuinely content for the first time that day.

Morning brought the market in nearby Judenburg, which operates with the orderly precision one expects. I wandered between stalls, accumulating more than I could reasonably carry: fresh cheese that the vendor insisted I sample three times, apples with actual flavour, and sausages that smelled of woodsmoke and intention. I bought eggs from a woman who communicated entirely through gestures and disapproving facial expressions, which I interpreted as commentary on my selection technique. She was not wrong; I had no technique, only hunger and optimism.

The pub situation required investigation. Styria does not lack for places where one can sit with a beer and contemplate one's errors, and I found a Gasthaus within walking distance that served precisely this function. The landlord, observing my Britishness with the wary tolerance of a man who has seen many things, recommended the Backhendl. I accepted. The fried chicken arrived, properly crisp, with a salad that actually tasted of something, and a glass of Morillon that made me reconsider every wine choice I had made in the previous decade. We discussed football, badly, and the weather, thoroughly. He informed me that the pumpkin seed oil I had purchased was, in fact, excellent. I chose not to mention my bumper.

Back at the house, I attempted to cook properly. This meant dumplings, which I have since learned require a certain touch I do not possess. My first batch dissolved into the boiling water with what I can only describe as theatrical self-destruction. The second batch held together but achieved a density that made them more weapon than food. I ate them anyway, with a stew of local beef that forgave many sins, and drank more of the wine I had acquired. The kitchen, by now, bore the marks of my occupation: oil splatters, flour on surfaces I had not known existed, and a growing collection of herbs I could not identify.

I found another Gasthaus, then another. Each had its particular character, its regulars who regarded me with polite curiosity, its version of the dishes that define this region. At one, I ate Käferbohnen salad, the Styrian runner beans dressed with that ubiquitous pumpkin seed oil, and understood finally why people become evangelical about such things. At another, I had a Gulasch that had clearly been simmering since approximately my childhood, tender and deep and entirely restorative.

By my final evening, I had accumulated provisions I could not possibly finish. Cheese, sausages, the remaining wine, bread going slightly stale. I made a meal of leftovers, standing at the counter, eating with my fingers in a way that would have horrified the disapproving egg woman. The kitchen smelled of everything I had attempted, successfully and otherwise. Through the window, the hills did that particular Austrian thing of looking impossibly green in the fading light.

I left the remaining pumpkin seed oil for the next guest, with a note of warning and encouragement. The wooden post remained, slightly scarred, still upright. I drove away more carefully than I had arrived, already planning what I would cook differently next time, which pub I would revisit, whether I might eventually master the dumpling. Some holidays teach you about monuments and scenery. This one taught me that I am capable of eating far more speck than previously believed, and that there is profound satisfaction in failing at dumplings in a foreign kitchen, then eating them anyway.