I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot on the Isle of Arran – it started so promisingly, crossing from the mainland on the ferry from Ardrossan, with the sea sparkling under a rare patch of Scottish sun and Arran’s rugged peaks rising like a promise of adventure. But then came the mishap: halfway round the single-track road from Lochranza, our sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, directing us down what looked like a sheep track masquerading as a lane. We ended up in a muddy puddle of a layby, engine idling while I frantically waved at a passing local in a battered Land Rover. “Tower house? Aye, straight on, but mind the hairpin!” he chuckled, before vanishing into the mist. Typical me, overpacking the car so much that half our bags had spilled out during the detour, leaving me fishing soggy socks from the verge. By the time we arrived, I was half-laughing, half-apologetic to my long-suffering other half.

Pulling up to this fantastic 19th-century tower house, though, all the chaos melted away. It looked straight out of a storybook, perched there like something a duke might’ve dreamed up, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit posh just standing at the door. Originally built for the Duke of Hamilton, it’s been done up to the height of luxury now – think cosy firesides and views that stop you in your tracks. Ours was over lush parkland rolling down to the sea, with Kintyre peeking across the water like a cheeky neighbour. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – sorry, dashed brilliant. We dumped the bags and straight out onto the endless walks to the stone boathouse on Loch Lorsa, the air crisp and brimming with that island magic.

That first afternoon, we wandered down to the secluded Dougarie Beach, toes in the sand, seals bobbing about like they owned the place. I had a quiet moment of self-reflection there, sat on a rock watching the waves: here I was, city lad turned pretend aristocrat, realising how daft I’d been stressing over work emails before we left. This was proper reset territory. Later, we fancied a bit of fishing on one of the nearby beats – sorted by separate arrangement, mind – though I mostly caught weeds and a good telling-off from the rod. Light humour in my ineptitude, but who cares when the scenery’s this good?

Arran’s only 55 miles round, so nipping out was a doddle. We popped to the distillery just eight miles away for a tasting that had us giggling like kids, then the brewery for a pint with a view. Brodick Castle and Gardens were 11 miles down the road – perfect for a mooch through the blooms and history. Best bit? The island safari with Mogabout, also 11 miles off, bouncing through pristine forests and coast in a four-wheel drive. Felt like explorers, wind in our hair, spotting deer and eagles.

Staying here was pure escapism – arrival kerfuffle and all. If you’re after west coast bliss, this tower house delivers. We’re already plotting a return, minus the sat-nav drama.