"It is impossible to imagine a prettier spot," said Queen Victoria, of her beloved Isle of Wight estate. Sauntering past the estate's lagoon, flanked by clumps of delicious samphire and haloed by wild flowers, agreement radiates through me. As the sun rises, the children dash to the quay, eager to see what treasures the tide has left. Today, its leathery mermaid's purses and enough peach-tinged cockles to feed a small army. They fill their salty pockets, much to dismay of the beady-eyed oystercatchers. The river is peaceful now, but on this diamond-shaped isle, still waters run deep, and the short stroll past the estate's helipad to the lake reveals a hive of birdlife, fleeing for the saltmarsh's incognito creeks. Rambling down ancient steps, carpeted in moss of every hue, we head towards the vineyard, inspecting the ordered vines before pausing a while by the resident shipwreck. This spot is like catnip to me; pulling me back at dawn, day and dusk, to wat