I’ll never forget the drive up to the Isle of Skye – that winding single-track road from the mainland, with sheep dodging out like they owned the place. We’d piled into two cars, kids buzzing in the back, when disaster struck just past the bridge: a flat tyre from one of those sneaky potholes. Cue half an hour of swearing-free faffing (mostly me pretending I knew what I was doing with the spare), but we laughed it off over emergency crisps and made it to Carbost by late afternoon. As we pulled into the spacious off-road parking, the house came into view – a proper homely job, perfect for our lot including the little ones and my mum who’s not as nimble as she used to be. Stepping through the porch, dripping wellies in hand, the first impression was pure cosiness: leather sofas begging you to flop down by the flickering electric fire, Smart TV ready for a binge, and that garden stretching out with views that hit you like a dram of the good stuff.

We’d come for the quiet, but Skye had other ideas – or rather, we did, by getting gloriously lost at every turn. First morning, fancying a wander, we aimed for the obvious Fairy Pools trail but took a daft wrong turn down a unmarked lane near Carbost. Ended up at this hidden beach cove, all pebbled and empty save for seals barking like overexcited labradors. The kids paddled while we picnicked on pancakes whipped up at the breakfast bar – hob-fresh and syrup-drenched. Pure magic, that accidental find; no crowds, just the sea whispering secrets.

Next day, post a lazy family feast in the dining bit (dishwasher earning its keep), we struck out for Talisker distillery – all of five minutes away – but veered off onto a sheep path that led to a forgotten bothy ruin overlooking Loch Harport. Sat there with flasks of tea, watching mist roll in like a Highland ghost. I had one of those moments, you know? Staring out, thinking how daft it is rushing through life back home when getting lost like this resets the soul. Laughed at myself for once being the chap who needed Google Maps for everything.

Afternoon took us stumbling onto a wee fairy glen tucked behind Fernilea – not the tourist one, but a proper off-the-grid hollow with twisted thorns and wildflowers that felt like stepping into a storybook. The bairns ran wild, we adults sipped coffee from the kitchen’s ample mugs, pretending we’d planned it. Evening back at base, feet up, fire humming, swapping tales of the day’s “mishaps” that weren’t mishaps at all.

Our last detour? A boggy track from the garden gate straight to a secret waterfall viewpoint – thunderous, misty, utterly ours. Skye’s full of these hidden gems if you embrace the lost art of getting lost. We left fatter in the heart, already plotting the next wrong turn. What a stay.