I’ll never forget the drive up to Glencoe – or rather, the bit just before, when my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow single-track road that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. We’d come from Fort William, only a short hop away, but with the height barrier on that quirky 20-metre tunnel, I was sweating bullets wondering if our estate car would squeeze through. It did, barely, and we emerged laughing into off-road parking right by this neat little holiday home tucked away in Banavie. From the first glimpse – rear garden with a lawn and chairs begging for a cuppa, and inside that inviting living-dining room with a woodburning stove – it felt like we’d stumbled on a proper hidden Highland hug.

The place was spot-on for us and the dog, pet-friendly and cosy, with a kitchen ready for me to bash out some pasta. But honestly, the real magic kicked off when we ditched the usual tourist trails and let ourselves get properly lost. That first afternoon, fancying a wander, we followed a faint path from the garden that snaked behind the house. No signs, no crowds – just us, the pup, and the mist rolling off the hills. It led to a wee burn tumbling over rocks, a secret spot where we picnicked on cheese rolls, watching dippers dart about like tiny feathered submarines. Who knew such a gem was literally a stone’s throw from the door?

Next day, we hopped in the car for what was meant to be a quick spin towards Glencoe’s famous passes, but a wrong turn down a gated farm track (sorry, farmer!) had us abandoning the motor and hiking up a heather-choked slope. Blimey, we were rewarded with a view over a hidden lochan, all glassy and ringed by ancient pines, not another soul in sight. I sat there, boots muddy, thinking how daft it is back home – always rushing, ticking boxes. Out here, getting lost forced me to slow down, breathe in that sharp pine air, and just be. Lightbulb moment, innit?

Evenings were for stoking the stove, dog sprawled by our feet, swapping tales of the day’s flukes. One jaunt took us pedalling (we’re fair-weather cyclists) along a disused rail path nearby – popular with the two-wheeled crowd, apparently – veering off onto a boggy trail that spat us out at an old bothy ruin, its walls whispering of long-gone shepherds. We brewed tea on a camp stove, the sun dipping behind Buachaille Etive Mòr, that classic pyramid peak looming close. Pure serendipity.

Our stay flew by in these accidental adventures – no Ben Nevis queues for us, just the quiet thrill of uncharted corners. If you’re after Glencoe’s soul, not the selfies, book something like this and embrace the detour. You might even find yourself, mud-splattered and grinning, along the way.