The Three Chimneys lies in one of the most isolated areas of Great Britain. Around the croft-like restaurant and hotel, the scree and heather fall away to the ocean; in the distance the sharp spires of the Cuillins threaten overhead. The sea laps like paint around the crevices in the cliffs and on this Sunday morning the water is a startling stained-glass blue.

Yesterday saw a long journey from the city through the moors and glens, passing over the thin bridge to the isles. Five hours in a car, sponging off scenery and stupid songs, is amusing payment for a birthday gift: a night in the world-renowned eatery and bedrooms.

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