I’ll never forget the drive up to the Isle of Skye – that hairpin road from the mainland had me gripping the wheel like my life depended on it, only for the real drama to hit when we got a puncture just shy of the bridge. There we were, me, the wife, and the kids, faffing about in the drizzle with a spare tyre that wouldn’t budge, when this chap in a battered Land Rover pulls up. “Ach, dinnae fash yerselves,” he says in the thickest Hebridean brogue, hopping out with a toolkit and a flask of something suspiciously strong. Turned out he was Angus, a local fisherman who’d just come off the water. Ten minutes later, we were sorted, and he waved us off with a grin: “Safe travels – and mind the midges!” What a start – I was buzzing with anticipation by the time we rolled into Carbost.

Our little croft house was perfect, all cosy and tucked away near the hills, with that classic Skye vibe that screams “switch off and unwind”. First impressions? Magic. The views over Loch Harport from the garden had us proper gobsmacked, and after unpacking, we wandered down to Fiscavaig Beach, just a gentle stroll away. It’s this hidden gem of a spot – empty sands, waves lapping lazily, ideal for the kids to paddle and me to pretend I’m David Attenborough beachcombing for treasures.

But the real stars of the trip? The locals. Carbost is tiny, but packed with characters who made our stay unforgettable. Next morning, we popped into the village for supplies, and who’s behind the counter at the wee shop but Moira, a no-nonsense widow in her seventies with stories for days. “You here for the whisky, then?” she asked, eyeing my wife’s city trainers. I confessed we were thinking of the Talisker tour, and she launched into a tale about her grandad, who’d worked the distillery floors back when they still used pony carts for barley. “None of your fancy malts today – it’s all machines!” she chuckled, slipping us a couple of free shortbreads. Proper warm welcome that.

Later, on a guided walk from the village – only a couple of miles out, nothing too mad – we met Hamish, our guide. He’s this wiry ex-postie turned hill man, with a beard like a Highland cow and anecdotes that had us in stitches. “See that wee burn there?” he pointed, mid-stride. “Lost a boot in it once chasing sheep. Boot’s still there, mind – the sheep’s not.” We puffed up for views that took your breath away, him regaling us with yarns about storms that “rattle the windows like the devil’s at the door”. The kids adored him; even I felt ten years younger, laughing till my sides ached.

Evenings back at the croft, we’d chat with neighbours over the fence – like old Jock, who’d amble by with his dog, sharing tips on spotting otters by the loch. One night, he reckoned the best cure for a Skye chill was a Talisker nightcap, and who were we to argue? We did the distillery tour ourselves, and the guide there, a cheeky lad called Finn, demo’d the whole process with flair, joking he’d “fermented more than whisky in his time – like that time I brewed heather ale and turned purple!”

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it wasn’t just the scenery or the peace – it was those quirky souls who made Skye feel like family. They’ve got that effortless way of turning strangers into mates, midges and all. If you’re after a holiday that sticks with you, Carbost’s your spot. We’re already plotting a return.