Newhall Mains

Two words: Beechcraft Bonanza. Unless you’re avidly into aviation, it’s unlikely you’ll have heard of this tiny six-seater plane from the Forties. All you need to know is that they’re as fun as they sound – and there’s one in a secret hangar tucked within the 900-acre grounds of Scottish hideaway Newhall Mains. It’s been affectionately nicknamed Bessy by the estate’s 30-something owner and gung-ho pilot, Euan Ramsay. And we’d been given a taster of the airborne adventure that awaited us the previous evening, as we watched Euan and his charming co-pilot Venetia wing their way onto the private airstrip after casually picking some guests up from London. Rather than the zippy A-to-B form of transport on offer to tight-on-time travellers, our flight was purely for pleasure. Our mission? Castle-spotting from the sky, with our sights set on the stately Dunrobin Castle with its manicured gardens overlooking the Dornoch Firth; and the dusky-pink Balnagown Castle, topped by fairy-tale turrets (rescued from dereliction by Harrods’ Mohamed al-Fayed). Our castle-counting tally came to a premature end when the gusty conditions started to get the better of us, so we headed back to base before the large fish and chips I’d unwisely inhaled before take-off made a dramatic return. 

Fortunately, the hotel has several stomach-settling tonics in store for any Iceman who may have temporarily lost their cool (or the Maverick who’s looking to just kick back and relax). A ramble around the hay-bale-strewn fields for a blast of fresh Black Isle air does the trick, followed by a soak in your statement bath tub (mine a wood-panelled number painted in post-box red). Then it’s time to pile up the log-burner and settle in for a cosy evening by the fire, ordering negronis to sip over card games played across the ottoman – positioned as close as you can possibly get to those crackling flames. A true Iceman will appreciate the crystal-clear cubes in each cocktail, which have been personally flown in by Euan and stamped with the hotel’s specially crafted seal to bear the Y-shaped horns of the Jacob sheep. These local characters graze in the nearby paddocks and their piebald wool has been spun into the rugs and herringbone blankets you’ll find dotted around your cottage.

We took up residence in the two-bedroom, split-level hideaway dubbed Irene. It’s named after one of Euan’s sisters, with the other rooms – Catriona and Ruaridh – completing the roll-call of siblings who grew up on the estate, and an additional three-bedroom cottage claiming Newhall’s former coach house as a rather stonking standalone retreat. ‘I’m always a bit embarrassed when checking guests into the Euan cottage’, Euan sheepishly admits, and is even considering changing this category’s name to avoid any more stick from teasing visitors (like my sister and I, who also come from a large family and enjoy a good jest). 

Originally intended as long-term holiday lets, the so-called ‘cottages’ (really, they’re more like full-blown farmhouses) are the epitome of lived-in, home-from-home luxury. Each stone-clad dwelling has been individually decorated by a Norfolk-based interiors studio (coincidentally where my family usually staycations each summer – no wonder we felt so at home), creating an air of country-meets-coastal cool with a refreshingly restrained hint of tartan – a soft whisper of its Black Isle setting, without screaming ‘we’re in the Highlands’. 

Our bedrooms look out across the sprawling grounds towards the brooding slopes of Ben Wyvis, and are bedecked with Firmdale-esque patterned headboards, jazzy rugs, and rustic cabinetry. My hound Humphrey – who couldn’t believe his luck when presented with his own bed and bowl of treats – was delighted by the upstairs window seat, from which he could keep watch and dutifully protect us from the hotel’s robotic lawnmower, Ronnie. He also enjoyed looking longingly at the chef firing up the pizza oven and tossed freshly caught langoustines and locally reared lamb onto the charcoal Parilla grill in the central courtyard below. Sadly, my shellfish allergy prevented me from sampling the best part of the Black Isle’s bounty (no Cumbrae oysters or native lobsters for me – sad face); but my sister assured me with a buttery grin that the seared West Coast scallops were caramelised to perfection. The gravy lavishly poured over my rack of lamb was so blow-your-socks-off delicious that I almost asked for a takeaway flask, but opted for the politer table etiquette of mopping it up using chunky sourdough slices. 

I awoke at sunrise from my bread-induced slumber to a low growl from Humphrey, as he stalked Ronnie (on early patrol) from his protective perch. If you’re not travelling with a dog alarm-clock, you could easily lie-in very late. It’s blissfully silent here, with only the distant sounds of trundling tractors and occasional rumble of Bessy taking-off and landing to disturb the otherwise unbroken peace. I did, however, have an additional incentive to get my morning off to a – more grounded – flying start, with the promise of the hotel’s farmhouse breakfast. I pulled on wellies and made haste across the courtyard, lured by the homemade granola-and-honey pots, as well as estate-pressed apple juice made using fruit grown in Newhall’s orchards.

The feast was wonderfully unhurried, and I lingered to converse with Euan’s friendly crew while piling my plate higher and higher. I bonded with equally dog-mad Michelle, who came over to Scotland from South Africa with five canine companions, having rescued one from the Congo along the way. Then there’s the affable JD from Kansas, a self-proclaimed country bumpkin with a rock-star soul, who toured the Highlands as the bass player for the Rusty Miller band. These days, he performs with the more low-key Devil’s Lettuce outfit on local whisky nights, and is rumoured to be a regular on Inverness’ slam-poetry scene. He reeled off a list of local things to see and do in his Midland accent, which, miraculously, hasn’t faded after 20 years of Highland living. 

We enthusiastically followed his post-it note-scrawled trail, starting with a blustery beach stroll along the remarkably quiet Rosemarkie Bay (we almost had the shingle to ourselves, save a few other dog-walkers), which felt like a scene straight from Five Children and It. A sandy track led off into enchanting woodland known as Fairy Glen, where we followed a babbling brook towards two tumbling waterfalls. Spotting dolphins at Chanonry Point would have made the outing even more magical, but we contented ourselves with watching the waves roll across the Moray Firth from the comfort of our Jeep (AKA Hamish).
 
Our drive back to Edinburgh was broken up by yet more brilliant recommendations (this time, from Euan): stretching our legs in Culbin Forest, then rewarding ourselves with some proper pub grub at the Kimberley Inn from a sea-facing table, wrapped up in the quaint village charms of Findhorn. And, as much as we loved our stop-offs on the way down, we couldn’t help but think we’d have had time for a few more negronis by the Newhall fire had we buzzed back in Bessy…