I’ll never forget the drive up to the Orkney ferry terminal in Scrabster—pouring rain, windscreen wipers on full pelt, and me cursing my decision to skip the sat-nav update. Turned out, I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere near Thurso, adding a good half-hour of looping around sheep-dotted fields. By the time we boarded the NorthLink ferry to Tingwall, I was knackered but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, tea in hand, watching the Pentland Firth chop up like a witch’s brew. Rousay’s just a short hop from there, and as the ferry chugged into the bay, those rolling green hills and endless skies hit me like a tonic—first impressions? Magic.

Pulling up to the cottage after the quick hop over on the roll-on/roll-off from Tingwall, I was grinning ear to ear. It’s this lovely single-storey place tucked on a working farm, with views stretching out over the fields that make you feel miles from anywhere (in the best way). Inside, it’s all generous rooms, simply kitted out—proper practical for kicking off boots after a stomp. The kitchen’s a dream for faffing about with home cooking, the living area’s spot on for a post-walk slump with a cuppa, and there’s a sociable dining nook begging for shared plates. Two bedrooms—a big king double and bunks for the kids—and a bath with shower over to rinse off the day’s muck.

But let’s be honest, the real star was the food. We’d stocked up en route at the co-op in Kirkwall, grabbing Orkney cheddar, oatcakes, and a slab of that legendary St Magnus Cathedral shortbread. First night, I fancied myself a chef—roasting local lamb from the farm shop down the road with rosemary from the cottage garden (well, pinched from next door’s hedge, shh). It came out pinker than planned, but slathered in mustard and paired with new potatoes, it was a belter. We cracked open a bottle of Orkney Gin—dark and moody like the weather—and planned the next day over plates piled high.

Mornings kicked off with full fry-ups: bacon from the island butcher, eggs so fresh they nearly clucked, and black pudding that’d make your nan weep. We’d wander a mile or so to Trumland for a peek at the pier, stomachs rumbling, then hit the farm’s honesty shed for cream and berries. Lunch was picnic-style—smoked mackerel from the Rousay smokery, crusty bread, and pickled beetroot that stained everything purple. One afternoon, my cooking attempt went pear-shaped: attempted Orkney clapshot (neeps and tatties mash), but I over-boiled the turnips to mush. Laughed it off with the kids, turning it into “mystery soup” with cheese on top—turns out, disasters taste better shared.

Evenings were pub heaven. A short drive to the Pier on Rousay for pints of local Scapa ale and plates of battered haddock, chips crisp as autumn leaves, mushy peas on the side. The craic was brilliant—locals swapping tales of the recent up-helly-aa vibes, while we hoovered up cranachan for pud, all whisky-soaked raspberries and cream. One night, I reflected over a dram: rushing about London life, I’d forgotten how food grounds you, especially here, where every bite’s got a story of sea and soil.

Back at the cottage, we’d linger over brekkie leftovers, plotting the next feast. That’s Orkney for you—simple eats that stick with you longer than the selfies. Can’t wait to go back.