I drive straight past the Manse’s entrance, deliberately not looking at it; I’m feeling rather resentful this morning. Instead I force myself to concentrate on finding the hotel turning among the road’s twists and bends. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if I could possibly have missed it, a rather grand wooden sign proclaims Kingrossie Hotel, Equestrian Center in elegant black script on a forest green background. On my right, the drystone walls have become an impeccable high limestone barrier, and there are even pavements instead of grass verges bordering the road. A mini roundabout appears—surely excessive for such a quiet route—and I navigate it slowly, craning my neck to look between the huge limestone pillars that flank the entrance, but the road through them curves away to hide itself behind the limestone wall, and all I can see are pine trees.

Soon there’s another grand sign—Kingrossie Hotel, Main Entrance—and another roundabout, but this one isn’t mini, and the center is adorned with low flowering bushes and plants. I turn right and find myself on a road, at least five hundred meters long, that runs through perfectly manicured lawns seamlessly blending into a golf course in the distance. Despite this being without doubt the straightest, safest road I have driven this morning, I pass signs every fifty meters or so cautioning of a five miles per hour speed limit, and deer crossing.

At the far end of the road is the hotel, a grand building that somewhat resembles the Manse in style, but on a much larger scale. Newer wings have been added to both sides of the main building. Those slant toward me, giving the impression that the hotel is opening up its arms in invitation. The stone that gleams in the continued sunshine is the same gray as the Manse, and the roof looks to be the same slate, but this is a very different building. It welcomes.

Presumably one of the newer wings will house the leisure club? But I am curious to see the inside of the hotel, one of only two five-star hotels in Scotland, so I park in the well-marked visitors’ parking and head for the main entrance, where a smiling doorman holds the enormous oak wood door open and welcomes me. The lobby area is large, with a crackling fire in the huge fireplace that presides over one end of the room—clearly big enough to roast one of those deer I was repeatedly warned about speeding into—with sofas and armchairs grouped around it. Ahead of me is a large staircase with heavy oak banisters and a very muted green tartan carpet. I find myself thinking how magical this room would be at Christmastime.