I’ll never forget the drive off the NorthLink ferry at Kirkwall – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked off our Orkney getaway. We’d splashed out on a last-minute holiday to this cracking little spot in Tankerness, just five miles from Kirkwall and a doddle to reach by car from the ferry (or a quick three-mile hop from the airport if you’re flying in). Picture this: me at the wheel of our overloaded estate car, crammed with wellies, binoculars, and enough cheese toasties to feed a small army, while my mate Dave fiddled with the satnav like it was a Rubik’s Cube. “Turn left in 200 yards,” it chirped, just as a rogue Orkney sheep decided to audition for the world’s daftest roadblock right in our path.

Heart in mouth, I swerved – missing the woolly idiot by inches – and promptly took a wrong turn down a single-track lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. Dave’s howling with laughter, I’m muttering about “island logic,” and we’re both convinced we’ve ended up in Narnia. Twenty minutes of reversing past bemused farmers later, we finally spot the turning for this beautifully renovated cottage on a working farm. Phew. As we pull up, the chaos melts away like morning mist over Scapa Flow.

First impressions? Absolute belter. The cottage sits snug amid rolling fields, with the farm’s gentle hum – tractors chugging, cows lowing softly – giving it that proper lived-in charm without any fuss. It’s the perfect base for mates or family, cosy and kitted out just right for island jaunts. We tumble out, still buzzing from the sheep saga, and unlock the door to a warm welcome: fresh scones on the table (cheers to the hosts!), a wood burner ready to roar, and views straight out to the sea that make you grin like a fool. I plonk my bag down and think, “Right, this is it – proper escape mode.”

That first evening, we barely moved. Dave cracked open a couple of local Orkney beers while I rustled up pasta, and we watched the sun dip low over the fields, painting everything gold. No telly needed; the sky was the show. Next morning, anticipation from the drive’s drama turned to pure glee. We hopped in the car (double-checking for sheep first) and headed to Burray Beach, just a short spin away – sands like talcum powder, seals bobbing offshore like cheeky locals waving hello. Picked up crab sandwiches from a wee café nearby, then wandered the farm tracks right from the doorstep, spotting oystercatchers and maybe even a hen harrier if we’re lucky.

Later, we nipped to Tankerness Kirk, that ancient roofless ruin a stone’s throw off, feeling history seep into our bones amid the wildflowers. It’s all so effortless here – no crowds, just space to breathe. Sat on a drystane wall at dusk, munching fudge from Kirkwall’s tempted stall (grabbed some on the way), I had a quiet moment of self-reflection. Life back home’s a whirlwind of deadlines and doom-scrolling; out here, with the wind whispering secrets and the cottage waiting like an old pal, I realised how daft we are not to unplug more often. That sheep nearly did us in, but it was the best mishap ever – launched us into three days of pure, salty bliss. Orkney’s got me hooked; we’re plotting a return already.