Seven years ago, I visited the island for the first time with my wife Max. It was a last minute thing; we had planned to take the car south - over the Channel and into France, but decided we were too broke, so headed north instead. We camped, for two weeks, just north of Portree, the weather was generally fine and warm, the midges rarely bothered us and the island stole our soul.

I remember arriving after a twelve hour journey (we stopped frequently on the way up) unable to keep my eyes open and desperate for a place, any place to stop and sleep. I was running on ‘Pro-plus’, caffeine and the strong desire to stay on the road at all costs.

Skye has an atmosphere all of its own but, like all holiday destinations, it takes a while to sink into it. By the end of the first week, I was as relaxed as I had ever been, the air was fresher, the food tasted better, the water sweeter and the whisky was smoother than I had imagined possible. Now, after fifteen visits in all months (apart from February) it only takes a few yards into the island before I feel all my stresses drain away. Money worries disappear, work issues are forgotten, driving becomes a pleasure again - I’m on ‘Skye Time’.

What specifically is it about the island? That I can’t really say. It’s nothing that I can put a finger on, more a combination of everything that I love and hold dear.

Being by the ocean on a clear morning just after sunrise, the tide flooding over the mussel beds. Oyster catchers wheeling overhead with their incessant calls and half-hearted attempts at dive bombings; flashing black and white over the flat calm water.

Watching clouds build from the otherwise infinitely blue sky of September, racing up the scree slopes of Glamaig and collecting on its summit like a white fur hat, shifting and swaying, but never really going anywhere.

The view from the main road north of ‘The Sligachan’, whether bright and sunny or dull and rain lashed; Marsco appearing to fill the glen in her lop-sided way, Gillean standing out a mass of spikes and rocky pinnacles, the river rolling along in the mossy cradle of the glen bottom.

Watching the Western Isles as they appear to burn in a smouldering sea, smoking plumes of cloud drifting away on Atlantic blown breezes as the sun sets in August; the sky a blazing red canopy above rounded, dark smudges floating on the surface.

The simple pleasures of giving way to another road user and having them actually thank me for my trouble; a flash of the lights or a wave of the hand, more than a million words of gratitude.

Leaving the car unlocked. Not having to dash back when I remember the mobile phone’s still on the passenger seat. Going to the cinema and being able to watch it in peace, then being able to walk out without having to wade through drifts of empty pop-corn cartons and spilled drinks. Walking at night without fear of aggression. Sleeping at night without fear of burglary.

Many things; too many.

I could continue and write another book, forget the one I’ve just finished and crack on with extolling the virtues of what is the closest I’ve found to an ‘Island Paradise’.

During that first visit, seven years ago, I spoke to a man who had packed his belongings and moved from what he called "The armpit of the country" (London). I asked him "Why Skye?" (although I was beginning to grasp the reason by then anyway) and he looked at me with a scholarly air over gold rimmed spectacles. He fixed my gaze for what seemed like minutes and I thought his answer would be along the lines of "Are you stupid?" He shifted his gaze back to his book and spoke without a hint of self consciousness.

"To find civilisation."