I’ll never forget the drive up to Orkney – or rather, the ferry crossing that nearly did me in. We’d splurged on the car ferry from Scrabster to Stromness, buzzing with that giddy anticipation of finally reaching those wild northern isles. But halfway across the Pentland Firth, the sea turned proper choppy, and I spent the next hour hugging the railings, turning a fetching shade of green while my mate Dave laughed his head off and filmed it for posterity. “Welcome to Scotland’s adventure playground,” he quipped, as we finally docked, me vowing never to eat haggis again.

Pulling up to our holiday home on South Walls in Longhope felt like stumbling into a postcard. It’s this cracking spot, tucked away in tranquil countryside with off-road parking and an enclosed garden that begged for a barbecue. The wrap-around decking gave us these jaw-dropping views over the water, and inside, the sleek kitchen had everything – even a dishwasher, which was a godsend after days of feasting. We were six of us, mates from uni, and it was perfect for unwinding around the dining table with a bottle of fizz, toasting the fact we’d survived the crossing.

But honestly, it was the locals who made the trip unforgettable – a right quirky bunch with stories that’d make you spit your tea. First morning, we wandered down to Longhope’s wee shop for supplies, and there was Jimmy, the chap behind the counter, who looked like he’d stepped out of a Vikings rerun with his beard and twinkly eyes. “Ach, you lot from the mainland?” he grinned, eyeing our accents. “Bet you think we’re all seals and sheep up here.” We got chatting about the Scapa Flow wrecks – he’d dived a few himself – and before we knew it, he’d pressed free scones on us, insisting we try his mum’s recipe. “None of that fancy Edinburgh rubbish,” he winked.

Then there was Maggie at the ferry pier café, a tiny firecracker in wellies who runs the place with her husband. We popped in for fish and chips one drizzly afternoon, and she regaled us with tales of the “grey ghost” – some elusive otter that haunts the bay. “Saw it meself last week, bold as brass,” she said, mimicking its waddle so vividly Dave nearly choked on his haddock. Her husband, Tam, chipped in about the old WWII watchtowers dotted around South Walls, pointing out one from our decking view. “Kept an eye on Jerry from there,” he muttered, then launched into a yarn about smuggling whisky back in the day. We were in stitches, promising to wave if we spotted the otter.

Even at the community hall’s ceilidh night – just a short stroll away – we met wee Hamish, the fiddler with fingers like lightning. He dragged me up for a dance, despite my two left feet, and whispered mid-reel, “Dinnae worry, lad, it’s not the steps that matter, it’s the craic.” I puffed and stumbled, reflecting later on the decking how I’m always the one holding back on trips like this, but Orkney’s warmth pulls you right in.

Those chats over tea, fish suppers, and fiddles – that’s the real magic of Longhope. We left buzzing, already plotting a return. If you’re after a rural retreat where the people outshine the views, this is your spot.