I’ll never forget the drive up to Scrabster for the ferry to Orkney – or rather, the moment I realised I’d left my phone charger in Edinburgh. Typical me, dashing off without a second thought, only to spend the next few hours nursing a dying battery while the North Sea views whipped past. Still, that small mishap added to the anticipation; by the time we boarded the ferry to Westray, I was buzzing with that proper holiday excitement, wondering what the ‘Queen o’ the Isles’ had in store.

Pulling up to our cosy stone cottage just outside Pierowall felt like stepping into a postcard. It was all low ceilings, quirky nooks, and that lived-in charm you get with these traditional island spots – perfect for kicking back after a day of exploring. First impressions? Spot on. The sea views from the kitchen window had us grinning like idiots, seals bobbing about as if to say hello.

Westray’s magic, though, isn’t in the obvious spots; it’s in the hidden gems you stumble upon when you take a wrong turn – which, let’s be honest, I did plenty. Our first wander started innocently enough, heading towards Noup Head Cliffs about six miles away. We missed the main track and ended up on a pebbly path that led to this secret cove, tucked away from the tourist puffin-spotters. Waves crashing, empty sands, and not a soul in sight. I plonked down with a thermos of tea, feeling a proper twit for ever stressing about work emails back home. Who needs deadlines when you’ve got that?

The real joy came from getting properly lost. One afternoon, aiming for the Heritage Centre in Pierowall – just a couple of miles from the cottage – we veered off onto a single-track road that didn’t look promising. Turned out it looped to a forgotten beach with shells like polished jewels, and right there, a tiny knitwear stall run by a local lady who’d been crafting since she was knee-high. She sold me the softest jumper, all while sharing tales of Norse longships that once haunted these shores. Felt like uncovering buried treasure.

Another gem? We botched the way to Noltland Castle, three miles out, and pitched up at a wildflower meadow buzzing with bees. Ravens circled overhead, and I swear I spotted a peregrine falcon stooping like a fighter jet – pure poetry. No crowds, just us and the wind. And don’t get me started on the passenger ferry hop to Papa Westray from Pierowall; we caught it on a whim after ‘accidentally’ lingering at a roadside gallery full of straw-backed chairs that looked straight out of a fairy tale. The crossing was a ten-minute thrill, landing us on a neighbouring speck where we found an abandoned bothy turned bird hide, alive with gannets wheeling about.

Staying in that cottage taught me something daft but true: the best holidays aren’t planned to death. They’re about embracing the detours, the mishaps that lead to those off-the-beaten-track wonders. Westray’s got them in spades – if you’re brave enough to get lost. We left with sandy boots, a bag of local crafts, and a resolve to return. Next time, I’m packing the charger, mind.