Ways to mark yourself out as a Londoner, part one: arrive in Scotland in the middle of November with a non-waterproof coat. Or that’s to say… the most waterproof one you own, it’s pretty thick actually and I’m sure it’ll be OK if the rain doesn’t get any heavier than this? Or, so you babble on to Edith, the charming owner of the Inverskilavulin Estate, where you’ve just arrived for an off-grid break. Edith’s kindly smile, and offer to lend me something more Highlands-appropriate, suggests I’m not the first clueless guest to have stayed here.

‘Here’ being Frances’ Sketch Pad, a tiny cabin on a hillside with views towards Ben Nevis, that comprises part of the Estate – essentially, a collection of four rental properties along with the owners’ family home – for which the words ‘small but perfectly formed’ were made. The tour of the cabin doesn’t take long – it’s an open plan studio – yet, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows that more or less comprise the entire length of the wall, the feeling is one not just of space, but of vast expanse; the view of ancient, mystical forests at the foothills of the mountains just the other side of the valley, tracing their way up the hillside towards the peaks, is one I can’t take my eyes off. Indeed, so starstruck am I that I have the overwhelming desire to open my eyes wider than is humanly possible, just to take the scale of it all in.

It seems, in fact, that all of this Scottish beauty and fresh air does have a most uncharacteristic effect on my physical self – whilst my eyes reluctantly remain at their usual capacity, I set off (newly kitted out in Edith’s coat) on a walk which, to my astonishment when I return back and review my route, has encompassed nearly six miles. Not an Olympian achievement, admittedly, but try telling the southern softie who’d arrived fresh off the Caledonian Sleeper just that morning that she’d cover the distance from the Heath to Mill Hill without giving it a second thought, and you’d have received a more-than-raised eyebrow in return. It also offered another moment of amusement for my indulgent host, when I expressed disappointment that I wouldn’t be able to follow a route I’d spotted on my drive in, due to it being gated with an “official-looking” Forestry and Land Scotland sign on it; clearly, off-bounds to the public. She gently explained that, with a very few exceptions, the land in Scotland is free to be roamed by whoever wishes to do so, gate or no gate; I have never felt so acutely English in my assumption of ‘knowing my place’, and gave a William Wallace-esque inward cry of “Freedom!” as I unbolted that gate. Upon my return, exhilarated, soaking and admittedly creaking somewhat, I was delighted to make long, languorous use of the hot tub, a piquant experience as my skin pinkened from the combination of hot water and freezing air.

I’d hired a car for my stay and took in some breathtaking scenery as I sped along from Glenloy to Glencoe the next day, a route made famous most recently in Skyfall but familiar to anyone as one of the Highlands’ most iconic. Lunch at the Clachaig Inn was superb and hearty – even this appetite couldn’t clear the plate – and the drive back took in a stop at the Ben Nevis Distillery, where I will admit to a purchase or two having been made. Back at base, with the wood burner roaring, I sat and savoured a glass or two of my spoils, gazing out across the hills that the water that had made it (and the peat that had flavoured it) had run through, and fell truly, profoundly in love with this beautiful country. Was it just the whisky? The return trip I am already planning will tell.