I’ll never forget the drive up to Aviemore – we’d packed the car to bursting with wellies, board games, and enough tea bags to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Perth. It insisted on a shortcut that turned out to be a single-track road with more sheep than tarmac, and at one point, we were nose-to-nose with a farmer in a Land Rover who looked like he’d rather ram us than reverse. A classic Scottish welcome, that was – laughing about it now, but I was proper fuming at the time, windows down, yelling directions like a deranged rally co-driver.

By the time we trundled into the Highlands proper, though, all that stress melted away. The anticipation had been building for weeks – visions of crisp air, cosy fires, and no emails pinging. And when we finally pulled up to this tucked-away former shooting lodge, reborn as our private retreat in the heart of Cairngorms National Park, blimey, it hit us like a warm hug. Great first impressions: the sort of place that whispers “relax” before you’ve even unpacked.

It’s characterful, you know? Steeped in that old Highland tradition but spot on for modern living – perfect for a family like ours who just wanted to switch off. No grand plans, mind. We’d come for the joy of doing sod all, and that’s exactly what we did. Lazy cottage days stretched out like the Spey itself, which you can glimpse from the garden on a clear day. Mornings kicked off with brews on a tray, then straight out to that sprawling garden – wild and welcoming, with benches dotted about for soaking up the sun (when it deigns to show) or watching the clouds chase each other over the hills.

I’d flop in a lounger with a dog-eared paperback – some cracking crime thriller I’d been saving – while the kids mooched about, building fairy houses from twigs or just lying on the grass pretending to be explorers without actually going anywhere. Lunch was a faff-free picnic right there: cheese, oatcakes, and whatever we’d rustled up, eaten off knees with the birds providing the soundtrack. Afternoons blurred into dozing, a bit of gentle wandering down to the nearby riverbank for a paddle (feet only, no heroics), or just staring into the middle distance, letting the quiet work its magic.

Evenings? Pure bliss. We’d light the fire – no faffing with instructions, it just roared to life – and hunker down with hot chocolate and stories. One night, I caught myself staring at the flames, thinking how I never do this at home. Work’s always nagging, isn’t it? That gentle nudge to keep busy, achieve something. Here, though, slowing right down felt like the biggest win. No guilt, just contentment. A moment of self-reflection over a whisky (sipped slowly, naturally): maybe doing less is the real adventure.

We didn’t trek the Lairig Ghru or chase reindeer – Aviemore’s got all that on tap if you fancy, but we stayed close, savouring the stillness. By the end of the week, we were all a bit softer around the edges, recharged without moving a muscle. If you’re after proper Highland hygge, find yourself a spot like this. It’ll change your pace for good.