I’ll never forget the drive up to Inverness – a proper Scottish road trip with my mate Dave and his two lads, the car stuffed with crisps and enough tea bags to last a siege. We’d left Edinburgh early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, dreaming of Loch Ness monsters and whisky tastings. But about an hour in, disaster struck: the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a detour through some boggy back lane near Aviemore. We ended up knee-deep in mud, laughing hysterically as Dave tried to reverse out without coating the undercarriage in Highland peat. A local farmer towed us free with his tractor – hero of the day – and we rolled into Inverness an hour late, but grinning like idiots.

Pulling up to our ground-floor apartment near the River Ness was a relief. Roadside parking right outside? Result. It’s this cosy spot, perfect for a small crew like ours – inviting living-dining room with a telly for footie nights, a table that seats four no bother, and a kitchen kitted out with everything from pots to a decent toaster. We dumped the bags, cracked open a couple of tins, and felt instantly at home. First impressions? Spot on – clean, comfy, and just steps from the water’s gentle burble.

The real magic kicked off the next morning when we ditched the usual tourist traps. No queues at that castle on the hill for us; instead, we wandered aimlessly along the Ness, letting our feet lead. That’s when we stumbled on our first hidden gem: a tucked-away community garden behind some terraced houses, buzzing with locals tending allotments bursting with kale and tatties. We got chatting to an old chap who shared his rhubarb – baked it into a crumble that night. Pure luck, that one.

By day two, we’d embraced getting properly lost. Aiming for a vague riverside path, we veered off into Haugh’s Field, this wild, unmanaged meadow right in the city’s back garden. No signs, no crowds – just us, the dogs, and a family of otters slipping into the undergrowth. The boys went feral, building dens from driftwood while Dave and I supped thermos coffee, watching herons stalk the shallows. It was one of those moments that makes you reflect: why do we always chase the big sights when these quiet pockets feel like the heart of a place?

Our best find came wandering the backstreets off Tomnahurich Street. We accidentally gatecrashed a tiny artist’s co-op in a converted bothy – handmade pottery, watercolours of misty glens, and the potter herself pouring us nettle tea. Bought a wonky mug as a souvenir. Later, looping back via the canal towpath, we discovered a forgotten picnic spot under weeping willows, where swans begged for bread. No maps needed; just serendipity.

Evenings were for regrouping in the apartment, board games at the table, feet up after days of happy meandering. Inverness unfolded in its secret layers – not the postcard version, but the lived-in one. Getting lost there? Best decision we made. We left with muddy boots, full bellies, and stories that’ll outlast any Instagram post. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves all over again.