There is a specific kind of silence that only exists in a lodge deep in the Scottish Highlands. It’s the whistle of wind traveling up the valley and the crackle of a log burner. Recently, I found myself in the heart of the Strathconon Estate in the Scottish Highlands, staying in an old lodge accessed via an unpaved track that continues on, up into the forest.

I went there for a reading retreat, but I returned with something more significant: a complete recalibration of my relationship with the digital world.

The Immediate Relief of the “Black Hole”

We often talk about digital detoxing as a chore or a challenge. For me, the disconnection was an almost immediate relief. Growing up in the 80s in a remote farmhouse, I was wired early on for physical books, chess, and the outdoors. Returning to a state of no internet felt less like a deprivation and more like tapping into a dormant part of my brain.

The most striking realization was the quiet. When the digital noise stops, you realize how much of your daily life is spent being reactive. We react to pings, notifications, and the perceived importance of staying connected. In the Highlands, that vanished. I realized that the majority of things I think are important simply aren’t.

By losing those connections, I gained the ability to be intentional. I wasn’t just consuming whatever the algorithm pushed my way; I was focusing on what I had deliberately chosen.

Reading in the Wild

Without the distraction of a smartphone, my concentration skyrocketed. I found myself finishing a new book almost every day. My roster included Jack Stewart’s Declared Hostile, Jeffrey Siger’s A Study In Secrets, and the first four books of Jack Carr’s James Reece series.

There is a unique resonance that happens when your physical environment mirrors your literary one. While hiking up the forestry tracks behind the lodge, I started the audiobook of The Terminal List. As James Reece hiked into the treeline seeking a sniping position, I was walking that same path—minus the sniper rifle and the vendetta. Reading (and listening to) outdoor scenes while physically immersed in the great outdoors made the prose hit with a visceral intensity that a city commute could never replicate.

The Irony of “Progress”

However, the retreat also highlighted the strange regressions of modern technology. I’m a chess player, and I had hoped to spend my evenings by the fire sharpening my game in addition to reading. To my frustration, I discovered that my chess app of choice—a pinnacle of modern software—doesn’t have an offline mode.

In the 90s, I had a pocket chess computer that worked anywhere on the planet. Something I faithfully carried with me all over, from the UK to France, Portugal, and even North Africa. Yet in 2026, I have what is comparably a supercomputer in my pocket that can’t play a simple game of logic without a handshake from a server. It was a stark reminder that our advancements often come with hidden tethers. Safe to say I will be looking for a chess app that will serve me well down the road in offline moments.

Lessons from the Strathconon Valley

Hiking along those tracks, looking back across the valley at my isolated lodge, I found a deep appreciation for the simple things: food, water, shelter, and a good book.

In the city, the sheer volume of people often leads to a social shutdown. We ignore the thousands around us to focus on likes from people we barely know. In the Highlands, the few people I met were incredibly friendly. In smaller communities, people realize the value of real connection because they understand their interconnectedness.

Bringing the Highlands Home

I’ve returned to my regular life, but I’m bringing a new set of rules with me. The goal isn’t to live in a permanent black hole, but to maintain the intentionality I found in Strathconon.

I will carry my phone less often. It doesn’t need to be in my pocket at all times.

I will flip my phone face down in “Do Not Disturb” mode as often as possible.

I will turn off as many notifications as much as I can, so I’m driving the engagement with my phone rather than the other way around.

The retreat taught me that focus is a choice. If we don’t regulate our connection, the world will happily regulate it for us, one ping at a time.

I’d rather be back at the lodge, listening to the wind and choosing my own path through the pages.