I’ll never forget the drive up to Glencoe – we’d piled into the car in Fort William with high hopes, but about ten miles out, I took a wrong turn onto some single-track road that had us inching past sheep like we were in a slow-motion comedy. The kids were chanting “are we there yet?” and I was sweating, but honestly, that little mishap just built the anticipation. By the time we crested the hill and spotted our beautiful historic house nestled in that peaceful pocket of Scotland, with views over Loch Leven that made my jaw drop, all was forgiven. First impressions? Magic. It screamed perfect family holiday home – cosy, welcoming, and right in the heart of those spectacular hills.

We’d planned this trip around eating well, you see. No fancy restaurants for us; it was all about local grub, markets, and me pretending I’m a half-decent cook. Unpacked in minutes, and straight into the kitchen – a proper big one, ideal for messing about. First night, I attempted a hearty Scotch broth with veg from the nearby Appin shop. I’d grabbed lamb bones, neeps, carrots, and barley there earlier, dodging the rain. It turned out gloopy – my stirring skills need work – but slathered with fresh soda bread from the village bakery, it hit the spot. The family demolished it while watching the mist roll off the loch, and I felt a proper smug glow.

Next morning, we hit the road (properly this time) to Oban, just a short hop away. The markets there are a dream – stalls piled with glistening fresh seafood, tatties the size of footballs, and cheeses that smell like they’ve been aged in a Highland bothy. Picked up mackerel, some smoked haddock, and a wedge of crowdie for pennies. Back home, lunch was my “gourmet” fishcakes: mashed tatties mixed with flaked haddock, fried up crispy. The kids rated them 11/10, though I suspect the sea views helped. Laughing now, but I nearly set off the smoke alarm – gentle reminder to this city lad that cooking’s an art, not a sprint.

Evenings were pub time. There’s a cracking local just down the road, all low ceilings and fires roaring, where we sank pints of proper ale and hoovered up platters of battered scampi and chips, with mushy peas on the side. One night, it was venison burgers – gamey, juicy, sourced from right here in Glencoe, washed down with Irn-Bru for the little ones. Another evening, I tried haggis, neeps, and tatties at the table, using a recipe scribbled from the barman. Mine was a tad lumpy (self-reflection: less faffing with the phone, more focus), but paired with a dram of peaty whisky, it felt authentically Scottish. The pubs in Fort William are easy to reach too – we wandered into one for Cullen skink, that creamy smoked haddock soup that warms your soul after a damp day.

Markets became our ritual: stocking up on cranachan ingredients for pud – oats, raspberries from local bushes, cream, and honey. Breakfasts were black pudding fry-ups, lunches seafood stews, dinners roast lamb with rosemary from the garden plot nearby. We even baked sconies one rainy afternoon, golden and crumbly with clotted cream. Food drove every moment here – fuelling walks along deserted beaches by Loch Linnhe, where we’d picnic on cheese rolls, or chill evenings spotting wildlife from the windows.

Reflecting now, amid all the scoffing and laughs, I realised it’s these simple, messy meals that knit a family tight. Glencoe’s not just views; it’s a feast for the senses. We’re already plotting a return – next time, I’m mastering that broth.