I should have known the Styrian autumn was going to assert itself the moment I packed nothing but short sleeves. There I was, bombing down the A9 from Graz, windows down, feeling terribly continental with a petrol station croissant in one hand and misplaced confidence in the other. The sat nav had given up trying to pronounce "Oberhaag" and simply displayed it in stern silence. I took this as a sign we were nearly there. We were not nearly there. We were, in fact, circling the same vineyard for the third time, watching the same chestnut tree drop conkers onto the bonnet with what felt like deliberate mockery.

The mishap, when it came, was spectacularly undramatic. I pulled into what I believed to be the property's gravel drive, only to discover it was the neighbouring farm's manure heap, freshly turned and steaming with agricultural enthusiasm. The farmer, emerging from a barn with a wheelbarrow, regarded me with the weary patience of a man who has watched many southerners confuse his livelihood with holiday accommodation. I reversed with what dignity I could muster, which is to say none whatsoever, and found the actual entrance twenty metres further on, marked by a far more welcoming pair of stone pillars and a pumpkin display that looked almost aggressively seasonal.

The Oberhaag itself sat nestled into a slope of terraced vineyards, the kind that make you immediately want to do something productive like learn wine-making or write a novel, despite having no qualifications for either. The autumn light was doing that particular Styrian thing, low and golden and somehow thicker than normal daylight, as if the season had decided to pour honey over everything. The wooden balcony, which I would later discover was perfect for morning coffee and evening self-pity, overlooked rows of vines that had turned the most extraordinary colours. Not simply red or yellow, but something between burnt sienna and regret, shifting constantly as the sun moved.

Inside, the place smelled of wood smoke and dried lavender, that deliberate rustic aroma that could feel contrived but somehow did not. The stone floors were cold enough to remind you, with every barefoot step, that autumn here is not the gentle back-to-school affair of southern England but something more assertive, more properly seasonal. I immediately turned the underfloor heating up to what felt like a reasonable temperature and later discovered this was approximately the surface of Mercury. The windows, generous and slightly draughty in that honest continental fashion, framed the mist that began rolling down from the Koralpe mountains as afternoon became evening.

What struck me most, that first day, was how completely the season dominated every sensation. The apples in the bowl on the kitchen table were local, irregular, and tasted properly of something. The darkness arrived early and without apology, bringing with it a silence broken only by distant cowbells and the occasional optimistic owl. I found myself, that first evening, standing on that balcony with a glass of the region's own white wine, watching my breath cloud in front of me, feeling the particular melancholy that comes from realising you have packed entirely wrong for the weather and entirely right for the mood.

The autumn, I understood then, was not merely a backdrop here. It was the entire point.