I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday spot near Glencoe – that twisty A82 hugging Loch Leven, with those brooding mountains looming like they were sizing us up. We’d left Fort William buzzing with excitement, picturing epic hikes and cosy evenings by the fire. But about halfway, disaster struck: a sudden downpour turned the road into a skating rink, and I aquaplaned right into a puddle the size of a small loch. Heart in my mouth, we pulled over, laughing nervously as the wipers battled the deluge. “Welcome to Scotland,” my mate quipped, and we pressed on, arriving soaked but buzzing with anticipation.

Pulling into the private off-road parking, the first impressions were pure magic. This single-storey detached home sat right on the banks of the Caledonian Canal, with jaw-dropping views across to Ben Nevis and Aonach Mor’s ski slopes. We dashed inside, kicked off our dripping boots, and brewed a proper cuppa in the conservatory, just staring out at the misty peaks. It felt like our own secret hideaway – four bedrooms (a mix of doubles and twins, one with a king-size and en-suite for lazy mornings), all comfy for our little group of mates. Unpacked in no time, and we were ready to tackle the outdoors.

First full day, the weather gods smiled: clear skies, crisp air. We headed out for the classic Devil’s Staircase hike from the top of the pass – that steep, relentless climb up from Altnafeadh, rewarding us with panoramic views over Glencoe’s lost valley. Legs burning, but the sense of achievement? Priceless. We picnicked at the summit, cheese rolls tasting like gourmet fare with Buachaille Etive Mor glowering below. Back at the house, we collapsed in the conservatory, feet up, canal lapping gently outside.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, low cloud rolled in like a sheepdog herding us indoors. Our planned trek to the Hidden Valley (that dramatic slot gorge with its Jacobite history) was scrapped; instead, we donned waterproofs for a soggy stomp along the canal path right from the door. Muddy ankles, but the roar of the Pap of Glencoe waterfall peeking through the mist made it worthwhile. Laughed our heads off slipping on wet rocks – me, the self-proclaimed hiker, ending up on my bum. Gentle reminder, that: sometimes the best adventures are the unplanned ones, teaching you to roll with the rain rather than rage against it.

By day three, a break in the clouds let us try the easier Signal Rock trail – short but steep, with views straight down into the glen where the MacDonalds met their fate in ’69. Chilly winds whipped up, but the drama of it all had us chatting history like pros. Evenings were for drying socks by the radiator, reflecting on how these hikes – glorious in sun, gritty in gloom – mirrored life a bit. You push on, adapt, and come back stronger.

Those few days of weather-whipped walks left us fitter, fonder of each other, and already plotting a return. Glencoe’s hikes don’t mess about, but neither does the joy of coming home to canal views and a hot toddy. If you fancy it, pack your boots – just don’t forget the waterproofs.