We hadn't worried too much about clocks on Islay – we woke when we woke, and we slept when we were tired, which was most of our first 48 hours there.

There wasn't much to do that required clock-watching – the 50,000 geese, who had been spending the winter at the RSPB reserve just round the corner, were there whenever we rolled up to look at them. And while the staff at the excellent Ardbeg cafe may have given us a strange look when we wandered in for a 4pm lunch, they were still delighted to serve us.

Islay was a new addition to our holiday repertoire. Faithful to our 2008 resolution "to holiday where no Marr has ever holidayed before", we turned our backs on last year's success in Orkney, and took a chance on Blackpark Croft.

The nice lady in the tourist office in Bowmore had recommended it, and owner Angus had sounded lovely on the phone, so off went the deposit cheque, and I booked the ferry.

We weren't going in completely blind — with Morag's list of "must do" things we had more to cram in than we could possibly achieve in a week. We'd heard of the miles of white sandy beaches, the abundant wildlife and were already acquainted with the island's excellent single malts, but nothing had prepared us for the friendliness of the Islay folk, or the impression that they all know each other.

It took us a couple of days to realise that, yes; everyone on the island does wave when they pass in their cars. In every cafe, pub, shop or visitor centre, we were asked if Angus's cow had calved yet (a healthy baby girl, but she needed bottle-fed), and on a final trip to the local pub, we were greeted with the news that an old friend had been in asking for us.

But even now that we're home, the Islay hospitality continues, in a way that has softened the blow of the return to work. Yesterday, a parcel arrived – a bottle of malt.

We'd taken the distillery tour at Bunnahabhain and met David, a self-confessed whisky nut, who was spending a week volunteering at the distillery, giving tours, helping fill casks and making deliveries.

He does this a few times a year, apparently, escaping from his real job selling the stuff from his shop in Staffordshire.

We'd met up again on the ferry home, and he'd tracked me down via the MFR website.

All he will tell me about his own label, "Queen of the Moorlands Whisky", is that it's a 12-year-old Speyside Single Malt from the Grantown area. All I need to know beyond that is that it is delicious, and reminds me of a holiday well spent.

Highland hospitality – from Islay, to Inverness, via Staffordshire. That's my kind of holiday. And a great welcome home.

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