I’ve never liked flying. Actually, scrub that. It’s probably more accurate to say I’ve never liked all the rigmarole that goes with taking a flight.

While railway stations still offer a whiff of retro romance (regular readers of this column will know that I am a closet trainspotter), I’ve always found airports to be the grimmest of places, specifically designed to squeeze every last drop of humanity out of the herds of unfortunates passing through. Think of standing in those hideously long queues to be treated like dirt as you walk through a metal detector, those vacuous chain restaurants selling £15 burgers, those grey plastic passenger lounges that almost make you want to end it all. You know what I’m talking about.

No matter how exotic the destination, airports are to be tholed because you have no choice but to use them, like A&E waiting rooms and job centres.

You can imagine my surprise, confusion and delight, then, at finding a genuinely enjoyable airport experience that combines friendly staff, efficiency, great catering and stunning views. Does this place really exist, I hear you ask, and if so, where is it? Those in the know will already be shouting the answer: Islay. In this case small really is beautiful.

On arrival for our flight back to Glasgow after a lovely weekend on the island, my mum and I were early. Check-in had taken less than a minute - to say there was no queue was an understatement – so we decided to get a cuppa. Rather than the usual over-priced airport slosh, we were served a lovely pot of leaf tea and some tasty home baking in cosy surroundings by a chatty Ileach who wanted to hear all about our trip.

And instead of staring dead-eyed into the middle distance, as is usual in the airport lounge, we enjoyed the outlook through the picture windows to the white sandy beach, over the shimmering bay, out towards the Atlantic beyond. It was, well, magical.

Local Celtic art and pictures painted by Islay schoolchildren grace the walls of this wee airport rather than posters selling over-priced designer bling, and as we made our way through security, the bags of the dozen or so passengers on our flight were checked for dodgy substances with respect and good humour.

When our flight was called (one of only two leaving from Islay that day) I felt a whole new airport-associated emotion: disappointment. I would have happily passed another hour here, enjoying a final smoky dram, raising a glass to the Queen of the Hebrides.

Maybe airports aren’t so bad after all. Next up, Barra.