I’ll never forget the drive up to the Isle of Skye – or rather, the comedy of errors that got me there. We’d left Inverness early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist. But Skye had other plans. About halfway across the bridge, the satnav lost its marbles, directing us down what looked like a sheep track masquerading as a road. Narrow doesn’t cover it; we were scraping hedges, heart in mouth, as a tractor loomed round a blind corner. I swerved just in time, but not before clipping a wing mirror on a passing postbox. “Welcome to Skye,” my mate laughed, while I muttered about needing a stiff drink. By the time we reached Gedintailor, that tiny crofting village seven miles from Portree, we were frazzled, covered in midgie bites from a quick loo stop, and starving.

Pulling up to the detached croft house – a proper 100-year-old traditional beauty right in front of a working croft, with sheep grazing lazily in the fields – it was like stepping into a postcard. The views hit us first: stunning panoramas over the Narrows of Raasay, with the Isle of Raasay hazy in the distance. We tumbled out of the car, bags everywhere, and I fumbled the keys in my excitement, dropping them straight into a puddle. Typical me. But as we pushed open the door, all the chaos melted away. First impressions? Magic. It’s the perfect getaway spot, cosy and unpretentious, ideal for switching off from the world.

Ground floor’s all the action: a cracking kitchen with a dining area dominated by this multi-fuel stove that promised cosy nights in. We dumped our stuff and cracked open a couple of tins, toasting our survival. Upstairs, the two bedrooms – a double and a twin – have these charming sloping ceilings that make you feel snug, like the house is hugging you. Ours overlooked the fields, and with the sun dipping low, painting everything golden, I had one of those moments: staring out the window, sheep ambling by, thinking, “Blimey, when did life get this good? I’ve been grinding away at that desk job too long.”

Next morning, we wandered the croft paths, dodging more sheep (they’re everywhere, cheeky sods), and nipped over to nearby Staffin for a proper fry-up at the beach café – bacon butty heaven with waves crashing. Hiked up to the Quiraising, that mad lunar landscape just a short drive away, slipping on wet rocks and giggling like kids. Afternoons were for pottering: foraging for winkles on the shore, spotting otters in the bays, and evenings firing up the stove with local venison from Portree market. One night, we even tried stargazing from the garden – Skye’s skies are ridiculous, no light pollution, just the Milky Way winking down.

That little mishap on arrival? Best thing that happened. It made the peace that followed hit harder. Sat there now, back home, I’m already plotting a return. Skye’s got under my skin – sheep, stoves, and all. If you’re after a proper escape, hunt down a croft like that. You won’t regret it.