I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car in the drizzle of a typical Scottish morning, me navigating with my phone propped up like a divining rod, hubby at the wheel, and the dog wedged in the back with our weekend bags. About halfway there, just past the M6 turn-off, I decided to fiddle with the sat-nav settings for a “scenic route” – big mistake. It rerouted us onto some winding B-road that turned into a single-track lane flanked by sheep who looked as surprised as we were. Then came the mishap: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken right in front of us, sending us swerving into a puddle that soaked the windscreen and had the wipers going berserk. Cue hysterical laughter (and a bit of bickering) as we fishtailed our way back on track, arriving at the cottage an hour late, covered in mud splatters and buzzing with that mix of relief and excitement.

Pulling into the courtyard, though, all the chaos melted away. This one-and-a-half storey cottage, one of six converted from an original 18th century farm steading, sat there like a proper welcome-home hug. Offering stunning views of the surrounding countryside, it nestles close to the historic village of Thornhill, right at the foot of the dramatic Southern Uplands on the banks of the River Nith. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – I mean, absolutely spot-on. The place had that cosy, lived-in charm you crave on holiday, with the courtyard buzzing gently with the other cottages’ comings and goings. We tumbled out, unpacked in record time, and within minutes were sipping tea on the patio, gazing out at the rolling fields that stretched like a green quilt under a clearing sky. The dog, bless her, immediately claimed a sunbeam on the grass as her territory.

That arrival anticipation I’d built up all week – wondering if it’d live up to the photos – was smashed out of the park. Thornhill itself is a gem, just a short stroll away, with its quaint streets and that fascinating bit of history: it was here in 1826 that Scottish historian Thomas Carlyle married his sweetheart Jane Welsh. We wandered down later that afternoon, still chuckling about our road antics, and popped into the local for a pint and some gossip with the barman about the best walks nearby. The river Nith sparkled invitingly, tempting us for a gentle amble along its banks the next day.

Staying put felt perfect after our travel farce – no grand plans, just pottering around the courtyard, firing up the barbecue as the sun dipped behind the Uplands, and reflecting on how these little hiccups make the best stories. I caught myself thinking, mid-bite of a slightly charred sausage, how daft it is that we city folk chase perfection on holidays when it’s the messy bits that stick. A proper tonic for the soul, this corner of Scotland. We’re already plotting a return – sans pheasants, hopefully.