I have never been so relieved to see a wooden stag carving in all my life. After six hours of driving from Salzburg airport, my partner and I finally pulled up to the Hirschalm in Upper Austria, only to realise I had spent the last twenty minutes confidently navigating us towards what turned out to be a dairy farm. The actual property sat two valleys over, smugly waiting with its traditional timber facade and a view that almost made me forget my navigational shame. Almost.

The journey itself had been textbook British holiday chaos. We had set off with grand plans of a leisurely afternoon arrival, perhaps a stroll before dinner. Instead we got stuck behind a tractor carrying what I can only describe as an aggressive amount of hay for seventeen miles of single-track road. My partner developed a twitch in his left eye that I have not seen since. Then came my brilliant shortcut through a village whose name I still cannot pronounce, which added forty minutes and involved a tense negotiation with a goose who had claimed the road as his personal territory. I named him Gerald. Gerald won.

By the time we actually found the Hirschalm, nestled among rolling meadows with the Salzkammergut mountains looming behind, I was in that peculiar state of exhaustion where everything becomes either hilarious or deeply upsetting. The property itself tipped me firmly towards hilarious. It is a converted farmhouse or hunting lodge style building, all dark wood beams and flower boxes that look like they have been tended by someone with genuine patience, which immediately made me feel inadequate about my own window sill basil plant at home. The name Hirschalm roughly translates to something like deer alpine meadow, and sure enough there was a carved wooden stag head above the entrance that seemed to judge my driving with a fixed expression of mild disappointment.

The owner greeted us with the sort of warm efficiency that only Austrians seem to manage, simultaneously offering us homemade schnapps and pointing out that we had parked blocking the neighbour's tractor access. I moved the car with the speed of a man who has just been offered alcohol and does not wish to jeopardise the arrangement. The schnapps was excellent and medicinal, by which I mean it burned away the memory of Gerald and the hay tractor.

Stepping inside for the first time, the smell hit me properly. That particular alpine property scent of old wood, maybe some dried herbs hanging somewhere, and the faint promise of a proper stove. The Hirschalm had clearly been done up with care, keeping the rustic character while sneaking in modern comforts. Exposed beams everywhere, which I immediately began mentally hitting my head against despite being of average height. My partner, who is not of average height, looked genuinely worried for his skull.

I made the classic mistake of exploring too enthusiastically before unpacking. Found the terrace with its view down the valley, promptly forgot where I had left my phone, then spent ten minutes searching only to discover it in my own coat pocket. Found the wood-burning stove and became unreasonably excited about fire-building prospects despite having the practical skills of a man raised in central heating. Found the bedroom with its sloped ceiling and immediately calculated the exact angle at which I would concuss myself getting up for the loo in the night.

By the time we ventured out for supplies to the nearest village, which sits just a few minutes down the road, I had achieved that particular holiday state of being simultaneously overwhelmed and deeply content. The local shop had everything we needed plus several varieties of sausage I felt compelled to investigate. We returned with more cheese than was strictly sensible and a bottle of local wine that the shopkeeper had recommended with a gesture so confident I dared not question it.

That first evening, we sat on the terrace as the light faded and the mountains turned that particular blue-grey that makes you understand why people paint landscapes. My partner opened the wine, which was excellent. I attempted to light the stove with the confidence of a man who had watched one YouTube video, and achieved smoke and mild panic before eventual success. We ate too much cheese and watched moths commit slow suicide against the outside light while bats performed acrobatics above them.

I thought about Gerald the goose, and the hay tractor, and my terrible navigation. I thought about how I would definitely do it all again exactly the same way, because arriving in chaos makes the stillness afterwards feel earned rather than given. The stag carving watched from above the door, still judging, but I chose to interpret his expression as softening.