I’ll never forget the drive up to Inverness – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked off our holiday. We’d flown into the tiny airport just five minutes away, bags in tow, buzzing with that proper excitement of escaping the daily grind. I’d promised my partner a smooth start: hire car, quick scoot to our second-floor apartment in that crisp white-washed building near the coast, and straight into relaxation mode. Ha! Famous last words.

Picture this: it’s one of those drizzly Scottish afternoons where the sky can’t decide if it’s raining or just spitting in your general direction. We collect the car – a nippy little thing that smelled faintly of chips from the previous hirer – and I punch the postcode into the sat-nav. Off we go, windows down for that fresh Highland air, until the thing decides to have a midlife crisis. “Recalculating,” it chirps every two minutes, sending us looping around roundabouts that multiplied like rabbits. Then, the pièce de résistance: I miss the turning into the car park by a country mile, thanks to a cheeky cyclist who materialised from nowhere. Slam on the brakes, heart in mouth, and we end up doing an illegal U-turn that had a granny in a Volvo giving us the side-eye. “Smooth operator, aren’t you?” my other half quipped, stifling a laugh. I mumbled something about sat-nav sabotage and vowed to navigate by instinct next time – which, let’s be honest, would probably land us in the Moray Firth.

Finally, we pull up, still chuckling at the chaos, and lug our cases up the stairs to the second-floor door. That anticipation I’d built up all week? It exploded into something brilliant right there. Stepping inside was like a warm hug from a stylish mate – this contemporary apartment hit all the right notes. Open-plan living space with these inviting sofas that practically begged you to flop down, sleek kitchen counters gleaming under soft lighting, and massive windows framing peeks of the coastal horizon. It screamed “romantic retreat” without trying too hard, perfect for us two as a cosy getaway. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local gin we’d stashed, and just sank in, the stresses of the road melting away faster than snow in July.

Of course, that arrival farce got me reflecting a bit. Here I was, Mr Planner, undone by a wonky GPS and a phantom bike. But isn’t that the joy of these trips? The mishaps make the good bits shine brighter. We spent the evening plotting the next day – a gentle wander along the nearby shore, maybe a nose around Inverness’ wee centre just down the road for some fish suppers or a dram at a cosy pub. Culloden’s only five miles off if we fancied a history hit, but honestly, this nook had us content to stay put, feet up, watching the light fade over the water.

By bedtime, curled up with the sea whispering outside, I was already plotting a return. Proper gem of a spot – chaos and all.