I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday spot near Fort William – we’d packed the car with enough crisps and sausage rolls to see us through a siege, but halfway there, just past Glencoe, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a single-track road that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. After a tense ten minutes of reversing around hairpin bends with a farmer’s Land Rover bearing down on us, we finally emerged, laughing like loons, hearts racing with that proper Highland anticipation. As we crested the hill, there it was: this cracking little bungalow perched atop a sweeping croft that tumbled right down to Loch Linnhe’s shores. The views hit us like a dram of whisky – glassy water stretching to the Isle of Mull, with Ben Nevis brooding in the distance. Eight miles from Fort William’s buzz, it felt like our own private slice of paradise.

First impressions? Bloody brilliant, sorry, I mean absolutely spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of Irn-Bru to celebrate, gazing out those massive windows at the loch sparkling like it was showing off just for us. But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food – or rather, our grand plans to conquer Scottish nosh from the heart of this highland hideaway.

Day one, we pottered into Fort William’s centre, no more than a quick eight-mile hop, and hit the Onich Stores for supplies. It’s one of those proper local spots crammed with fresh tatties, venison from nearby estates, and crates of local mussels that smelled like they’d been plucked straight from the loch that morning. I grabbed some smoked salmon, a slab of mature cheddar, and a punnet of brambles for that authentic touch. Back at the bungalow, with the cooker gleaming and the sea views as our backdrop, I fancied myself a telly chef. Haggis-stuffed neeps and tatties? Aye, right. Mine turned out more like a lumpy landslide – my other half took one look and quipped, “Is that haggis or have you invented haggis rubble?” We scoffed it anyway, washed down with a cheeky bottle of Highland red, chuckling at my culinary cock-up. Lesson learned: sometimes the joy’s in the faff.

Evenings were for the pubs, and oh, what a treat. The nearest, just a stroll away in Onich, is a cosy wee number called the Onich Hotel – think roaring fire, sticky toffee pudding that could make you weep, and pints of Tennent’s pulled by locals who know every gossip from Ben Nevis to the loch. One night, we splashed out on their seafood platter: plump langoustines, oysters straight from Loch Linnhe, and chips so crisp they sang. Another evening, it was back to base for my redemption round – Cullen skink from a tin of smoked haddock jazzed up with cream and leeks from the market. It wobbled a bit, but by Jove, it hit the spot with some crusty bread from Fort William’s bakery.

There’s something gently reflective about cooking in a place like this. Sat there with the sun dipping behind the hills, stirring a pot while the loch mirrors the sky, you realise it’s not about Michelin stars – it’s the simple pleasure of faffing about with local grub, sharing daft stories over a full belly. We even nipped to the Fort William Woollen Mill shop for shortbread and whisky marmalade to take home. If you’re after a holiday where the eating’s as epic as the views, this is it. Proper fed, proper happy.