I’ll never forget the drive over to the Isle of Mull – or rather, the ferry crossing from Oban that nearly did me in. We’d loaded up the car with enough snacks and dog leads to survive a siege, hearts racing a bit with that holiday buzz, when halfway across, the waves turned proper choppy. Our spaniel, Monty, decided it was the end of days and hurled everywhere. Cue me, elbow-deep in emergency wipes, laughing through the panic while my other half gripped the wheel like it was a lifeline. By the time we docked and trundled the few miles to Lochaline, we were knackered but buzzing with anticipation – what if this was the spot to finally switch off?

Stepping out near the cottage, though, it was love at first breath. Parked up easy enough, and there we were, wrapped in birdsong and that deep, velvety calm you only get in the Highlands. It’s a proper characterful place, tucked into the grounds of an old school, with sea views peeking through and a couple of woodburners ready to roar. Dog-friendly too, which had Monty wagging before we’d even unpacked. The garden swept out around it like a big green hug – broad lawn, plenty of space to flop – and I felt my shoulders drop right there. No traffic hum, no emails pinging; just us, the sea whispering, and the promise of doing sweet nothing.

That first afternoon set the tone. We wandered the garden, Monty chasing shadows while we plonked deckchairs in the sun (rare for Scotland, but we’ll take it). I cracked open a dog-eared paperback I’d been meaning to read for months – something light and escapist – and lost hours to it, only pausing to brew tea and listen to the gulls. Dinner was simple: local bread, cheese from down the road, and whatever we’d rustled up, eaten on the grass as the light faded. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. Bliss.

The days blurred into this glorious rhythm of laziness. Mornings meant firing up a woodburner, brewing coffee strong enough to wake the dead, then spilling into the garden with books and board games. I’d read till my eyes crossed, sneak a nap under a blanket, and wake to the joy of Monty snoring beside me. Afternoons? More of the same – stretching out on the lawn, watching clouds drift over the Sound of Mull, maybe a gentle potter to stretch the legs but nothing strenuous. One evening, as the sun dipped gold over the water, I caught myself just staring, mug in hand, and had a proper moment: when did I last let the world slow like this? Work’s a treadmill, life’s a rush – but here, in this pocket of peace, I realised doing bugger all is the real luxury. No FOMO, no hustle; just being.

We left fatter in the soul, if not the waistline (those woodburner sessions with shortbread didn’t help). If you’re after a scenic escape to recharge, find a spot like this. Slow down, read, flop in the garden – it’s the holiday your batteries didn’t know they needed.