On a suitably gothic, stormy, rain-lashed night, the approach to Rosslyn Castle in an unfamiliar vehicle is tricky to say the least, even after you have located the entrance, hidden down an unlit muddy lane that runs between two graveyards.

This is because, like any stronghold worth the name, it used to have a drawbridge, which spanned the steep-sided wooded ravine that protected it from (mainly English) marauders.

The drawbridge has long rotted way, replaced by a stone causeway that is not only narrow, but has a devious kink in the middle of it that threatened to take the side off my hire car.

And there was me having recently ticked the box declining the additional insurance. One false move and that’s the £400 excess.

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Having crossed that bridge when you come to it, the visitor then discovers that it isn’t only the drawbridge that has disappeared. So, too, thanks to the Earl of Hertford (who torched it during the War of Rough Wooing) has much of the castle itself.

All that remain are fragments of the gatehouse and keep, and a restored part of the east range. It was in the latter we were to stay for the weekend.

Rosslyn, home of the Sinclairs (or St Clairs) since the 14th century, is now under the stewardship of the Landmark Trust and available for hire. Normally when a family abandons their historic seat, they take most of their belongings with them. Not the Earl and Countess of Rosslyn.

They still own the place and, understandably, use it for the odd break themselves. Which means they have left many of their family heirlooms in place. So, rather than a series of sterile rooms stripped of former glories, Rosslyn really does make you feel as though you are a guest in someone’s home. That someone being rich, venerable and titled. For that very reason, it is a fantastic place to stay.

One of the games we played over our weekend was trying to draw up a family tree from the portraits that adorned the downstairs walls. These ranged from men who looked like the arch-cads in Jane Austen novels — Mr Willoughby, perhaps — to a rather incongruous rendering of a young man in full (1960s) police uniform. The family has certainly occupied the entire spectrum of British life.

What is odd about Rosslyn as a building is that, although it is an imposing structure, soaring 60ft up the side of a ravine, only the top two floors are habitable, so it sleeps just seven. The three lower floors are actually hewn into the cliff face and form spectacular cellars, with vaulted ceilings, spooky windowless rooms and mysterious spiral staircases that appear to lead nowhere.

Not that the spaces are entirely devoid of life: by day, a falcon could be seen flying into one of the open windows, and at dusk, an owl could be heard, calling from a sill somewhere below the drawing room. Then there are the ghosts: a White Lady who prowls around, lamenting having accidentally set fire to the place and perished in the blaze, and the Hound of Rosslyn, which tends to howl on stormy nights (that won’t be the wind whistling down the ravine, then).

There is an all-pervading sense of history and drama to the castle, and something about its atmosphere lends itself to puzzles and games. It is perfect for hide-and-seek, and one of the previous visitors had devised a treasure hunt across all five floors, with clues that eventually led to a bottle of Rioja. Rosslyn is also associated with another piece of cryptography. Membership of the Masons was clearly a family tradition and framed aprons line the hallways of the castle — which leads us to the other structure the St Clairs built, Rosslyn Chapel, which stands a few hundred yards away.

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