Winter, 1995: Lost in Shetland. The descent to the landing strip, cut between ocean and cliff, was sharp and narrow. I had my eyes closed. Disembarking, the darkness was thick, the air frozen and salty, reverberating with the sound of waves. I had 48 hours to See Shetland.

Shetland, however, had other ideas. It is a blustery, glorious place, a cold-climate archipelago of islands. An hours northerly flight from mainland Scotland, adrift in the North Sea, it has no trees and a coastline so jagged you could cut ice with it. You may wander off footpath or off road, but never far from the coast. The land is green and empty. The light stuns. The horizon is wider than your visual field; the sand stretches opulent gold. The air tastes sharp, and the seagulls swoop, playing in the cliffs. It is invigorating, mind- unravelling. Walking over the tombola to St Ninian’s Isle, with a tide either side of me, I had that the rare, justified, Shetland pony eating kind of hunger.

Outside Lerwick, the island’s capital, settlements are sparse. I eventually found a house half-heartedly advertising itself as a hotel. I tentatively knocked the door. “Give us twenty minutes” they said, and I was shown inside. The road sign is missable, but then, I suspect there is not a great deal of passing trade from wanderers of the edge of Vaila Sound. Burrastow House is deliciously unexpected; immaculately furnished, with a fire burnishing the grate. Soup au pistou appeared with hot bread risen, followed by a melting hazelnut and chocolate torte. After second and thirds I left, planning to return.

Come cold weather, Scotland’s outer reaches are, to me, irresistible. The advice to carry a shovel and flasks in the car- in case of drifting snow- adds only to the adventure. Winter has advantages. No midges; empty landscapes; only the sound of waves arch lazily back through pebble beaches. Hotels remaining open welcome you secretly, quietly, warmly. With candle-lit dining de rigeur, winter is the most sensual of seasons. Don’t worry about sub-zero glamour; you can forget thermal knickers. Velvet, cashmere and alpaca are alluring and warming. Throw a five star dinner, a dark, early night and a roaring fire into the mix, and you have a sybarites dream date.

Ah, romance. Flora McDonald and Bonnie Prince Charlie sailed, but you can go over the bridge to Skye. The Three Chimneys, which sits on Skye’s north west coast, was named as one of the top 50 restaurants in the world in 2003. By my flickering choice of lighting, I dreamily concluded that their seared scallops are the best oral pleasure to be legally had in a public place. To create food that would be exceptional in a city is breathtaking when done on the edge of a loch three hours from Inverness airport. In the Three Chimneys ‘House-Over-By, there are six contemporary, comfortable rooms with very deep baths, inviting soaking after a hard day.

For you could have a hard, energetic, outdoor day. You could. Or you could contemplate why hedonism made the Roman Empire fall, and settle by the fireside with a book, a malt, and an expression of utter contentment.

The Scottish west coast also contains the Isle of Iona. Famous for St Columba founding the Abbey, the volume of day-tripping pilgrims in high summer can be overwhelming. The lush tranquility that oozes at the meeting of the turquoise sea and tiny, beachy isle is most palpable when the last ferry has left, off-season. Cherished by artists, including Peploe and Cadell, Iona is most beautiful when it’s hundred or so residents winter it out, and the island lies in quiet, cool stillness. Under ‘Special Events’ on the Argyll Hotel’s website, there is nothing except a long photomontage of sunrises and sunsets. Point taken. The Argyll is not in the traditional sense grand, but better, it is gentle, thoughtful and relaxed. It has an eccentric book collection to revel in. The food, if not landed in a net in the bay overlooking your bedroom, grows in the garden to the rear. The Argyll was serving organic food before the concept was a twinkle in Mr Sainsbury’s eye.

If Iona is a ferry too far and your children are of pre-school age, bite the bullet and take them to Tobermory in the Isle of Mull, the setting for the BBC’s ‘Balamory’. It is, however, pain free. The village is chocolate-box material- with a chocolate factory and whisky distillery to boot. Ten miles from Tobermory is Calgary Bay, a perfect white sand beach that curls up to Calgary Farmhouse Hotel. It welcomes children with bunk beds and ladders, and adults with a hydro-spa suite. The food is fresh, with an emphasis on shellfish; and the adjacent gallery and going on the ‘Art in Nature’ trail provides a good excuse for hot chocolate and home baking back at the hotel.

But wherever you are, take your post-prandial dram in hand, go outside, and observe the black, twinkling sky, shooting stars, space station, or northern lights. But note. Do not expect 4 am room service, and do make allowances for remoteness. I returned to Burrastow shortly after my first visit, and, after dinner, was asked to choose breakfast. I was surprised and, in truth, a little put off. Next morning, the mushrooms were very fresh. Not surprising, since they had been picked, solely for me, at 6 am. I could barely forgive myself. But they were so good, I did.