I’ll never forget the drive up to Oban – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, board games, and enough tea bags to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just as we hit the twisty roads around Loch Feochan. “Recalculating,” it chirped cheerily, while I white-knuckled the wheel and my other half, Sarah, clutched her thermos like a lifeline. We ended up looping back on ourselves twice, laughing at how we’d turned a straightforward journey into a rally stage. But honestly, that little mishap just ramped up the anticipation – by the time we crested the hill into Lerags Glen, we were buzzing like kids on the last day of term.

Pulling up to the spacious detached, traditional farmhouse felt like stepping into a proper hug from the countryside. Nestled in these tranquil surroundings, just a ten-minute drive from Oban, it was everything we’d hoped: welcoming, unpretentious, and screaming “kick off your shoes and stay a while.” First impressions? Spot on. The views over the glen had us grinning like idiots before we’d even unloaded the boot – misty hills rolling down to the sea, sheep dotting the fields, and that fresh, briny Oban air hitting you square in the face.

We’d come for a chilled-out couple’s break, no grand plans, just us, some simple pleasures, and a bit of cottage life chaos to keep things real. Mornings kicked off with brekkie in the big kitchen, faffing about with bacon butties and strong coffee while the Aga hummed away. We’d wander down to Ganavan Sands, barely a mile away, for pebble-skipping on the beach and bracing dips in the sea – nothing says romance like both emerging blue-lipped and cackling. Afternoons were for pottering around the garden, picking blackberries (and pretending we weren’t nicking them from the wild edges), or firing up the barbecue for slightly charred sausages as the sun dipped low.

One evening, we drove into Oban town – that quick hop was a godsend – and mooched along the harbour, scoffing fish and chips from a harbourside van while watching the ferries chug out to Mull. The chaos peaked when we tried a “cosy night in” with board games by the fire; Sarah trounced me at Scrabble so badly I accused her of hiding bonus tiles in her jumper. Cue mock outrage, tea-spilling, and us collapsing in hysterics. It was daft, perfect nonsense – the kind of holiday where you realise you don’t need fireworks when you’ve got each other and a cracking cuppa.

Looking back, that gentle self-reflection hit me on our last morning, sipping tea on the patio as mist lifted off the glen. We’d arrived knackered from life’s treadmill, and left recharged by the quiet rhythm of it all – the simple joy of no agenda, just being. Lerags Glen’s magic is in those unhurried moments, and this farmhouse nailed it. If you’re after a relaxed escape with your favourite person, pack your thermoses and get yourselves up there. You won’t regret it.