"We look like Noddy and Big Ears," says Tom as we set off in a tiny hire car, our means of escape from festive overload. Our destination is The Boathouse, a secluded cottage on an estate that thoughtfully embraces a sea loch and a shooting lodge which is now a hotel. Great for self-caterers such as Tom and I who like their wilderness (nearest Spar 20 miles) served up with a side order of civilisation (nearest bar, in the hotel).
By the time we think we're getting close, though, the car's low on petrol. It's late-afternoon, the light has gone, and we are on a single-track road with no visible signs of habitation. No visible anything in fact, beyond the headlights.
Just as we're beginning to sweat a little, we cross another cattle grid and spot the turning for the Torridon hotel. Phew.
We're not out of the woods yet, though. Having picked up the key to The Boathouse from hotel reception, we're faced with a winding track, thick with pine needles and hugged by rocks on one side and the blackness of water on the other. After three tries - and several nervous jokes about monsters - it becomes apparent that a sign on a bend saying "Private" should say "The Boathouse", and, hallelujah, we're here.
The hardest places to find, though, are usually the most rewarding.
The cottage is an illuminated cocoon in the enveloping darkness, in which to curl around mugs of tea on oversized suede sofas in the open-plan downstairs, as a state-of-the-art Stovax roars into life, consuming the logs we chuck in. Two generous bedrooms are up a spiral staircase, a bathroom beneath the eaves. Through a rough stone arch, a conservatory is clearly going to afford great views in daylight.
Back along the scary road to the red-stone-turreted Torridon, hotel staff have set a table for two in the oak-panelled cosiness of the library, as the restaurant is empty on this midwinter night.
Lucky old us. The evening begins in the bar, a retro snug of a room with 350 malt whiskies, and by the drawing room fire with drinks and canapes, and ends with port, homemade oatcakes and stunning Scottish cheeses in armchairs beside shelves of leather-bound books. In between, at our table dressed with evergreen foliage, thistles, berries and heather, before a crackling grate, we negotiate several courses - Loch Torridon lobster with gnocchi in a creamy chervil sauce, truffly glazed Highland beef fillet - each more delicious than the last. Nothing disappoints except that Edward Fox fails to appear wearing a deerstalker.
I set my alarm so I can watch dawn break propped up on pillows and peering through an arched bedroom window. First grey fingers of light appear in the sky, then the brooding forms of dark mountains topped with a sprinkling of snow emerge from the gloom, and as the morning mist lifts, Loch Torridon in all its swirling, eerie glory is revealed right outside the window, lapping the stone terrace below, where a dozen blue tits flit to and fro. Like excited kids we run outside to drink in the view and the air, and can't stop laughing at ourselves when we see how far away the water is from the "scary" track's edge.
· The Boathouse (01445 791242, thetorridon.com) sleeps four. A week costs from £650, low season. Limited three-night breaks also availabile in low season. Five-course dinner from £40pp excluding drinks. Further information from visitscotland.com.
