Robert Burns once famously professed his heart was in the Highlands. I may have just arrived in his beloved hinterland, but I’ve already decided mine might just be, too.
And I won’t be the last to be immediately enamoured by the striking silence that envelops this arcadian patch. Another bewitched by it is Jonny Gent, the owner of Boath House, my Highland home for the next few days. If you’re one of the many who have waited with bated breath as London’s Sessions Arts Club restaurant releases its bookings at 7am once a month, you’ll already know his name as an artist turned founder.
Gent’s inability to stay still has been a recurring theme throughout his career. Only after he’d spent 20 years moving between studios — one of which was an old tobacco factory in France; another, a repurposed café in Dubai — did he yearn to settle down. Much like it did for Rabbie Burns, the serene sprawl of the Highlands captured Gent’s attention, after working in a much-loved studio here. Now, he hopes to replicate the inspiration he found in the region’s solitude with an artists residency programme that sits at the heart of his hotel. Established and emerging creatives are invited to stay for three to five nights and spend time creating in whichever way they please: painting in the studios, making music and writing in the cabins or photographing the grounds. As I’m awed by the scenery and hit with my first dose of local hospitality — a beaming welcome smile from Boath’s host Ali — it really isn’t hard to see why the Highlands attracts artistic souls.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Ali asks me as I trundle my case into the living room. There’s no stuffy reception desk here, rooted from Jonny’s desire to keep things as informal as possible. And he’s achieved this: I already feel I’ve arrived at an artsy friend’s country house. As I’m counting my blessings just being here, a cup of tea magically appears, brewed to perfection (not too much milk), and beams of sunlight start to streak the sky after a twist of not-so-Scottish fate wills the rain away.
It turns out that my luck is only beginning. I’m led up to Room 5, one of seven set in the hotel’s main house, and splendidly grand, courtesy of the building’s Georgian roots. Originally built in 1827 by Aberdeen-based architect Archibald Simpson, the structure was initially the home of Royal Navy captain James Dunbar and his wife Helen. ‘The family were here until 1923, Sir Frederick was the last,’ Alan — head gardener and historian — later tells me before going on to explain that the house was used as a medical base during the war. It wasn’t until the turn of the century that hoteliers first discovered its potential, and it was another 21 years still before Jonny Gent would be walking the Moray coast — with Tilda Swinton, no less; the two sparked up a friendship after the actress bought one of Gent’s early artworks in the late 1990s — and find the all-but-forgotten estate.
As I’m busy ogling the meticulously detailed cornicing, sash windows and freestanding copper bath tub big enough for two, I realise the energy from my airport-bought Pret pot this morning has well and truly worn off. I head to Kimberley Inn for dinner, a small pub in the fishing village of Findhorn, along the eastern shores of its namesake bay, south of the Moray Firth.
The sun’s still splintering through clouds as my taxi driver takes me along the coast, past grazing sheep and up to the waterfront, glistening against the dusk light like the final flickers of a candle. The pub rests steps from the beach, and as I walk through its doors, the gentle lull of the shore is replaced with a comforting hum of chatter and sweet snores of sleepy pups. Ali had already suggested I go for the haddock and chips — and who am I to argue with a local? My pint has barely lost its head before my meal arrives, delicious as promised, locally caught and served beside a crackling fireplace. Unquestionably, Ali now has my trust.
The following morning, I realise just how much Boath House is guided by a love for the arts. There are watercolours, and gouache and oil paints you’re welcome to streak along canvases in whichever way you think fit. But the passion for creating that’s woven into Boath House’s daily tapestry is equally evident in its land as it is in the residence-created artwork that lines its walls. Alan appears like an apparition from the trees. ‘Everything is ordered by colour,’ he tells me. After a minute, I start to see it: impasto-esque pinks layering the apple orchards’ greens; corners shaded by sprays of burgundy Rex begonias; and Anabelle hydrangeas adding cream tones to the foreground.
Alan takes me under his wing for an hour or so, touring me around his leafy domain. I feel like Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden — and Alan’s likeness to Ben Weatherstaff isn’t lost on me, either. We walk around manicured lawns, by gently lapping streams, past three standalone studios (which you’re welcome to book, if you’d rather seclude yourself from others in true artistic style) and into the lovingly tended vegetable patch. A crop of heritage tomatoes expands on the gardener’s paint palette, all rich reds, greens and oranges. It’s under the greenhouse’s blanketing heat that Alan brings out his hand-scribbled list of what head chefs Katie Austin and Phillip Mcenaney have requested for dinner that evening. As he mutters ‘squash, courgette, baby carrots, cabbage, pumpkin, leeks…’, I realise Boath House’s ability to inspire isn’t just from the immersion in nature or steady flow of fresh air, but equally so from the dedication of its people.
After a restorative stint in the woodland-shrouded sauna, plus a few cold-water strokes in its connecting stream, I head down to the candlelit dining room for the evening. I haven’t even settled at my table before the music captures my attention — as the daughter of a songwriter, I like to think I’ve got a somewhat trained ear. As with everything here, playlists differ depending on the season, each curated by visiting musicians (rumour has it that Neil Young is on the cards). Menus are a joint composition between Alan and the chefs, and as Aretha Franklin and Jackson C. Frank set the mood, decadent bowls of flower-garnished seaweed broth, beef with charred cabbage in a black-garlic jus, meadowsweet-infused mousse and chamomile macarons keep diners happy — myself very much included.
The next day, as I’m roaming the gardens and attempting to remember 11-year-old me’s performance of Für Elise as I tinker on the piano in the studio, groups of guests appear around me — in no part due to my musical skills. Up to this point, my interactions with other guests have been limited to smiles at breakfast and shared looks of appreciation at dinner. But there’s a wedding in town this weekend, and — as much as I love alone time — it’s nice to catch a glimpse of this busier side to Boath House before I (unwillingly) head back to the airport.
All Gent asks of guests who stay here is that they leave something behind (not necessarily a painting, perhaps a planting or even some kind words). But, as Ali bids me a warm goodbye, I think instead of how this estate — with every characterful staff member, gloriously green acre and home-like corner — has instead left a creative spark behind in me, and an inherent understanding for Burns’s deep longing to return.
In search of another poetic getaway? Check out our collection of hotels in Scotland