I’ll never forget the drive up to the Isle of Skye – that hairpin road from the bridge had me white-knuckling the wheel after a sudden downpour turned it into a slip-and-slide. We’d packed too many snacks for the journey from Inverness, and in the chaos of a quick loo stop, my other half left our fancy picnic hamper on a verge somewhere near Broadford. Typical us, eh? Still, by the time we crested the hill towards Bernisdale, the clouds parted like they’d been waiting just for us, revealing Loch Snizort glittering below. Heart skipped a beat – this was going to be magic.

Pulling up to our 4* Visit Scotland-rated holiday cottage, a sleek modern bungalow tucked in a private spot with those jaw-dropping views across the loch and out to the Cuillins, we were buzzing. It screamed luxury for our group of four: open-plan living, all mod cons, and that wraparound deck for sunset gins. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of Skye Brewery’s Hebridean Gold – local tipple to christen the place.

Food became our mission from the off. Portree’s just a short hop away, so day one we wandered its harbour market, noses twitching at fresh seafood stalls heaving with langoustines, mussels, and plump Skye scallops. Bargain-hunted some smoked mackerel and crusty sourdough from the bakery van – proper Scottish fare. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a masterchef, firing up the hob for a seafood linguine. Disaster struck when I overdid the garlic (three bulbs? Amateur error), but slathered in lemon and chilli from the well-stocked pantry, it was devoured with laughs and seconds all round. The views made it taste Michelin-star, honest.

Evenings were pub perfection. The Stein Inn, a cosy wee spot by the water not far off, served the best beer-battered haddock I’ve had – crispy, flaky, with proper mushy peas and a pint of Red Cuillin to wash it down. We chatted with locals about their catches, feeling dead Isle-y. Next night, I tried posher: roasted a leg of local lamb from Portree’s butcher (they do a cracking Skye Black Face), with tatties and neeps. Undercooked it slightly – pinker than planned – but paired with a bottle of Isle of Skye Blaven whisky liqueur, it was a hit. Gentle nudge to meself there: less faffing, more oven thermometer next time.

Markets ruled our middays too. Picked up artisan cheeses from the Uist van – sharp cheddar with heather notes – and homemade oatcakes. Breakfasts were feasts: porridge topped with local honey and berries, fried eggs from the farm shop eggs. One rainy arvo, we hunkered in with fish pie from fresh cod and prawns, bubbling away while rain lashed the windows. Pub crawls kept us going – the Isles Inn in Portree for venison burgers, juicy and gamey, with tattie scones that melted in the mouth.

Self-reflecting over our last cottage supper – Cullen skink from market smoked haddock, creamy and soul-warming – I realised it’s these simple, hearty meals that stick. No fancy restaurants needed; just good grub, mates, and that Skye magic. We left fuller in belly and heart than we arrived. Can’t wait to go back.