I’ll never forget the drive up to Inverness – we’d set off from Edinburgh full of beans, playlist blaring ceilidh tunes, only for the satnav to chuck a wobbly just past Aviemore. It rerouted us down some narrow B-road that had me white-knuckling the wheel through a sudden downpour, convinced we’d end up in a bog. But as the rain cleared, there it was: the pebbly shores of Milton of Culloden twinkling in the late sun. Heart lifted, we pulled up to this cracking little cottage right on the beach, all cosy and welcoming with its sea views. First impressions? Spot on – like it was waiting to hug us after that daft journey.

We’d stocked the boot with basics from an Inverness supermarket run en route, but the real fun kicked off unpacking and plotting our eats. Being so close to Inverness town (a quick 10-minute drive), we nipped in that first evening to the Eastgate Centre’s farmers’ market vibe – well, it’s more a cluster of stalls on a Saturday, but we grabbed fresh smoked salmon, tatties, and some Highland cheddar that smelled like heaven. Back at the cottage, I fancied myself a chef, firing up the kitchen for a salmon supper. Disaster struck when I overdid the mustard sauce – tasted like I’d bottled a wasp – but we laughed it off with mugs of tea, scraping it onto plates anyway. Self-reflection moment: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing in a holiday kitchen, even if it ends in gloopy regret.

Next day, stomachs rumbling, we wandered the pebble beach for a brekkie picnic of black pudding rolls from a local butcher we’d clocked near Culloden Visitor Centre. Proper hearty stuff, washed down with flasks of coffee while watching gulls squabble. Lunch was pub central at The Plockton Inn just up the road – no, wait, that’s miles off; I mean the jolly Clachnaharry Inn, a stone’s throw east with its roaring fire and fish and chips that could win awards. Crispy batter, fat chips, mushy peas – we demolished two portions each, chatting to locals about the River Ness salmon runs. “Best eaten fresh, lad,” one chap winked, recommending we try our hand at a wee catch.

Evenings were for experimenting: I nabbed trout from a nearby angler’s spot on the firth (permit sorted online, easy peasy), pan-fried it with wild garlic foraged on a stroll. Paired with crusty bread from Inverness’s Leakey’s Bakery – that bookshop-bakery hybrid is a gem – it was almost restaurant-worthy. We hit the Waterside Hotel’s bar one night for venison burgers and real ales; the Cullen skink soup there warmed us right through, creamy and packed with smoked haddock. Markets mid-week at the Victorian Market in town yielded haggis, neeps, and cranachan ingredients for a pud that wobbled gloriously (my one triumph).

By week’s end, bloated and blissful, I realised this stay wasn’t just about the views – though they’re belters – it was the food trail that hooked us. From botched home cooks to pub feasts, it’s the taste of the Highlands that lingers longest. If you’re partial to a plateful of adventure, get yourself here.