I’ll never forget the drive over to the Isle of Arran – or rather, the ferry crossing, which started with a classic me moment. I’d packed the car the night before, feeling all organised, only to realise halfway to Ardrossan that I’d left my favourite mug behind. No biggie, I thought, but as the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry chugged out into choppy waters, I was already daydreaming about cups of tea in peace. The crossing was bracing, with seals popping up like cheeky locals waving hello, and by the time we bumped into Lochranza, my anticipation was bubbling. Arran looked like a proper postcard – rugged hills, glassy sea, and that fresh island air hitting you straight away.

Turning south down the west coast road, the excitement built. Less than a mile from Machrie Bay’s sandy stretch, we pulled up to this unique 19th-century courtyard bothy, and blimey, first impressions didn’t disappoint. Tucked away in its own little world, it felt like stepping into a hug – cosy, unpretentious, with a style that whispered ‘kick off your shoes and stay a while’. The courtyard garden was an instant love affair: wildflowers nodding in the breeze, a couple of weathered benches, and views that stretched to the sea without a soul in sight.

Truth be told, that’s exactly what we did. No grand plans for Goatfell climbs or wildlife spotting marathons – though the standing stones at Machrie tempted us for a gentle wander one afternoon. Mostly, it was all about doing very little, and it was pure bliss. Mornings kicked off with lazy brews on the garden bench, watching mist lift off the bay while the world woke up slowly. I’d crack open a book – some dog-eared paperback I’d been meaning to read for months – and lose hours to it, only pausing for a biscuit raid or to listen to the waves whispering in the distance.

Afternoons melted into garden lounging. We’d potter about the courtyard, picking a few herbs for lunch (nothing fancy, just cheese on toast elevated), then flop into those chairs with a thermos of soup from the local tearoom up the road. The bothy’s open fire became our evening ritual – no telly needed, just flames crackling as we sipped whisky from Arran’s distillery (a quick bike ride away, if you’re feeling energetic). Stargazing from the garden was magic; the sky so clear you could practically touch the Milky Way. One night, I caught myself staring up, thinking, ‘When did I last just… stop?’ Work stress, endless to-do lists – it all felt miles away, like the mainland itself.

There was light humour in my attempts at ‘relaxation yoga’ on the grass, which mostly ended in giggles and a nap. Self-reflection crept in too: turns out, slowing down isn’t lazy, it’s essential. We did dip into Machrie’s beach for a barefoot amble and a round at the golf course – I’m rubbish, but the views made up for the slices. Exploring on foot or bike around here is effortless, with trails leading to hidden coves or the odd historic spot without straying far.

Those few days in the bothy were a reminder that holidays don’t need itineraries. Just the garden, a good read, and the joy of pottering nowhere fast. If you’re after proper downtime on Arran’s west coast, this is the spot. I’m already plotting a return.