I’ll never forget the drive up to Aberfeldy – that winding Perthshire road from the A9, with the Tay winding alongside like it was showing off. We’d packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to last a siege, me and the wife dreaming of cosy nights by the fire. But typical us, about ten miles out, we hit a cheeky pothole that sent our picnic hamper flying. Sandwiches everywhere, and the dog, Bruce, thought it was Christmas, hoovering up ham like a furry vacuum. Laughing our heads off, we pulled over for a roadside tidy-up, already buzzing with that holiday anticipation. What a start!

Pulling into the drive, hearts lifted – off-road parking for days, which was a godsend with our ancient estate car and Bruce’s muddy paws. First impressions? Magic. Stepping inside this spacious detached place right in the heart of the village felt like being hugged by Scotland itself. The kitchen/diner hit us straight away – massive, gleaming, with every gadget you could wish for. We cracked open a bottle of fizz while unpacking, grinning like kids.

It was just the two of us this time, a rare couple’s escape from the daily grind, though the ten bedrooms (spread over three floors, plenty of en-suites) made us chuckle about future family invasions. We went for a king-size setup in our room, all plush and inviting. Downstairs, the dining room screamed feast-ready, and the sitting room with its big telly was perfect for curling up. But our favourite? That snug out back – board games stacked high, total bliss for a quiet read or a sneaky nap.

Days blurred into simple joys. Mornings, we’d wander to the Birks of Aberfeldy, just a stroll away, holding hands along those wooded paths Robert Burns banged on about. The falls tumbling down, mist in the air – pure poetry without the pretension. Back for lunch at the picnic bench on the gravelled side area, fresh scones from the village bakery, Bruce chasing his tail in delight.

Evenings were cottage chaos at its best. We’d fire up a stew in that epic kitchen, then pile into the games rooms – me hopeless at pool, her unbeatable at table football. Competitive? Us? Never! The real star, though, was the enclosed rear garden. That lawn begged for lounging, outdoor furniture scattered just so, but the hot tub? Blimey, sinking into bubbling warmth under Perthshire stars, Loch Tay views peeking in the distance, a glass of malt in hand. Forgot all about work emails.

One night, bubbles fizzing around us, I caught myself reflecting – life’s mad rush, innit? Here we were, mid-forties, rediscovering each other amid the gentle mayhem of spilled tea and dog hair on the sofa. No grand plans, just this: Perthshire’s quiet magic, a hot tub soak, and her laughter echoing. We didn’t need more. Packing up felt wrong, but we drove off promising a return, hampers secured this time. Pure holiday gold.