Within the EU of course, crossing borders is now almost imperceptable. There may be (as there were) a couple of bored-looking policemen standing at the roadside but it seems more for show than anything and we were in Austria in the blink of an eye. I say Austria, but specifically we were in the Tyrol – very much a region to itself. We got a taste of its history at the mighty Kufstein Fortress which glowers over the town from a high cliff as it has in one form or another, since the 13th century.

It is described as the “Gateway to the Tyrol” and with its canon and barracks, the fortress dictated much of the politics of the region for centuries. All merchants passing on the river were obliged to offer their wares to Kufstein. Today it is more welcoming, with a natty little funicular to bring you up to it.

Tyrol’s history is dense and, for an outsider, hard to keep up with. Suffice to say everyone wanted a bit of it and chunks of it changed hands fairly regularly. Is it German? Austrian? Italian? Yes, yes it is.

In the 19th century the fortress was used to incarcerate political prisoners and the list of inmates gave an insight into the reach of the Hapsburg empire. Nationalists from Hungary, Romania, Poland and beyond were imprisoned in the tower, some for merely writing poetry about their wish to live in independent nations.

The castle today is a good blend of history and kitsch.

Our base for the next few days was Bad Hofgastein, at the back of a farm, opposite the chicken house. Two utterly charming sheepdogs – Bessie and Gin – came to make friends as soon as we had stopped.

Bessie was just desperate to chase sticks and ran up and down in front of the chicken’s field, shadowed by the chickens which were thrilled to be part of something. Bessie runs for a stick and the chickens run alongside the fence with her. Bessie runs back with the stick, the chickens scamper back as well.

Bad Hofgastein proper was half an hour’s walk in the sunshine beside paddocks full of glossy horses, fields of corn and hay, and apple trees bowing under the weight of their fruit. It felt like an advert for the 1950s.

The town though is modern and compact with a handful of craft stalls in the central square. A couple of young lads with accordions were serenading the tourists. We walked through the town and along the side of the valley to Bad Gastein. This turned out to be quite the hike, taking us at one point through the mountain to avoid a treacherous section of path.

Bad Gastein is a spa town on a vertiginous hillside with rapids cutting it in half.

It had the air of a proud showgirl whose best days were behind her. Grand, lofty buildings with peeling paint, closed shops, empty streets and a general air of not quite making the rent. But you can’t beat that location.

We followed the river back in the baking afternoon heat and appreciated Bad Hofgastein’s unshowy, ordinary charm.