Disconnecting in nature made me realise I love being on my own

you live on your own.” My friend looked baffled. “Why would you holiday alone, too?”

In my old life before Covid, my diary was packed. I crammed evenings with people – friends, dates, colleagues and family. Weekends were booked months in advance, group holidays even earlier. I’ve still never even been to a cinema alone.

Things changed postCovid. I spent the second and third lockdowns solo – and loved it. After work, I’d happily potter around my flat, baking cakes, making Spotify playlists. At weekends, I’d sit and finally write my second novel, which I’d long planned but never found time to do.

When restrictions lifted, I treasured seeing friends, and “staying at home” no longer seemed like a legitimate use of time, so my diary soon filled.

By September, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. On a whim, I booked a train ticket to Inverness and five nights at Moniack Mhor, a writing retreat deep in the Scottish Highlands. The friend of a colleague owned a field centre and wildlife refuge nearby and invited me to spend a few nights there beforehand, as it would be unoccupied. Finally, solitude! I’d switch my phone off, read, write, lap up nature – I wouldn’t even WhatsApp anyone... Only it didn’t go to plan.

Most of the train journey was spent hastily finishing a work assignment. I’d filed it by the time I reached Edinburgh, but I was still wired, and spent the rest of the journey filming the scenery, tinkering with soundtracks and Instagram filters, and posting videos on Stories. I couldn’t tell you what the landscape looked like without watching those videos. It would take two days to unwire.

The field centre, my first stop, was magical. I spent hours by an enormous lake. I have never heard silence like it. I wandered nature trails, past beaver-built dams, and found myself Googling “beaver facts” for hours. I tore myself away to sit in an animal hide and try to spot one, phone still glued to hand. “I’m sitting in a hide looking for beavers,” I texted my friend excitedly. “Aren’t you meant to be off-grid?” she replied. My phone pinged again, “Are you feeling OK?”

So, at Moniack Mhor, I switched off my phone and hid it in a drawer, and finally… calm. My bedroom was blissfully spartan – narrow single bed pushed up against a wall, small desk, wooden chair.

The next morning, I woke at sunrise, itching to explore the lochs, walk, write more. Weird, I thought: I’m usually cranky if my alarm goes off before 7.30am. I hadn’t even set one. But it was the same the next day. Most mornings, I was awake by 5.30am. I’d wrap myself in a big shawl, make toast and set off across the misty field to the small, thatched hobbit’s hut looking over the Highlands, where I’d light a fire (and a Jo Malone candle – I hadn’t gone entirely native) and write for hours. One morning, a herd of Highland cows surrounded the hut. It was the most action I’d seen since leaving London. If other “retreaters” wandered into the hobbit hut, they knew not to disturb you. There was one fellow writer I was happy to be interrupted by, though: Jan, who was in her 80s. Each morning, she’d wander slowly across the dew in bare feet, looking at the sky, thinking. One day, she told me about her fabulous hippie life. Mostly, though, we just sat in silence together, drinking tea, watching the countryside. I kicked my shoes off, too. Days later, I lugged my suitcase back to Inverness with looming dread. I wasn’t ready to re-engage.

And so I haven’t, entirely. Four months on, things are different: every Sunday, my diary is blocked out with a cross – Solo day. Mostly I write, sometimes I go to pilates or a farmer’s market or watch an old film. Perhaps it’s antisocial, maybe it’s some sort of social phobia triggered by too much lockdown solitude. But finally I treasure my solo time. It only took a global pandemic to find out.