I have always believed that the best holidays begin with some mild catastrophe, and our drive to Friedberg in Styria did not disappoint. My partner had entrusted me with navigating, which was our first error, and I had confidently directed us down what I described as a scenic route. It turned out to be a farm track belonging to a very patient man named Klaus, who found us attempting a three-point turn between his hay barn and what I later learned was his prize-winning pumpkin patch. My German extends to ordering beer and apologising, so I did both repeatedly while my partner sat with her head in her hands. Klaus eventually pointed us toward the proper road, and we arrived at Friedberg forty minutes later with our dignity in tatters and a free pumpkin rolling about in the boot.

The property itself sits among rolling green hills that look almost aggressively picturesque, the sort of landscape that makes you feel inadequate as a photographer. Friedberg is a proper working farmhouse, not some sanitised holiday let, and that becomes apparent the moment you step inside. The kitchen particularly seized my attention, being vast and slightly chaotic, with pots hanging from hooks and a wooden table that has clearly witnessed decades of proper cooking. I stood there planning elaborate meals while my partner unpacked, already dreaming of the culinary masterpieces I would produce.

Our first evening, we walked to the nearest village pub, which I shall not name because I never quite mastered the pronunciation. The landlord was a woman in her sixties with forearms like a blacksmith and an unwavering commitment to Styrian tradition. I attempted to order wine, which was my second error of the day. She looked at me with the disappointment usually reserved for wayward children and placed two glasses of farmhouse cider before us instead. This was Styrian cider, sharp and cloudy and nothing like the sweet nonsense they sell in British supermarkets. We drank it with bread and pumpkin seed oil, which the landlord produced from beneath the counter like a magician revealing a rabbit. She watched us eat with maternal intensity, clearly assessing whether we deserved seconds.

The village market occupied the following morning, and I approached it with the misplaced confidence of someone who owns a large kitchen. I purchased vegetables I could not identify, cheese that smelled like it was plotting something, and sufficient cured meats to alarm a cardiologist. My partner questioned the wisdom of buying unlabelled root vegetables, but I waved her concerns aside. Back at Friedberg, I attempted to construct lunch from my acquisitions while consulting my phone for translations. The white root I had assumed was some variety of parsnip turned out to be horseradish, and my soup achieved a potency that cleared our sinuses for approximately three days. We ate bread and cheese for dinner, humbled but wiser.

By our third day, I had developed a respectful relationship with the local ingredients and stopped pretending I could improve upon them. We returned to the pub, where the landlord seemed to sense my chastened state and permitted me a glass of Blaufrankisch, the local red wine that tastes of dark berries and stubborn mountain soil. She produced a platter of speck and sausage, and I accepted it without attempting to contribute anything of my own. My partner noted that I had finally learned something, though she said it with sufficient irony that I chose to interpret it as praise.

The remainder of our stay developed into a comfortable rhythm of modest cooking and frequent pub visits. I mastered the preparation of kasespatzle, though mine remained inferior to the version served at a gasthof two villages distant. We discovered a bakery where the owner rose at four each morning to produce bread that made our British attempts seem like baked apologies. I bought pumpkin seed oil to bring home, though I knew it would never taste as right anywhere else.

On our final evening, we cooked a simple meal at Friedberg using only ingredients we understood completely. We sat at that enormous kitchen table with bread, cheese, cured meats, and a bottle of wine from a vineyard we had visited the previous afternoon. I had stopped trying to prove anything with food and simply enjoyed what the place offered. My partner raised her glass and noted that I had also stopped getting us lost, which was true but felt unnecessarily pointed. Outside, the Styrian hills rolled away in every direction, green and patient and indifferent to my culinary education. I had arrived with ambitions of mastery and departed with something more valuable, an appreciation for knowing when to stop interfering and simply eat what is given.