I’ll never forget the drive up to Inverness – a proper Highland road trip that started so promisingly with bags of shortbread from the service station, but then we hit that cheeky bit of roadworks just past Aviemore. Sat there for half an hour, engine idling, me humming along to some dodgy ceilidh tunes on the radio while my other half dozed off. By the time we rolled into town, I was starving and buzzing with that holiday anticipation, dreaming of cracking open a tin of Irn-Bru and raiding a fridge full of local treats.

Pulling up to our spot – a cosy ground-floor studio apartment right in the heart of Inverness, near the River Ness – we were gobsmacked by the first impressions. It’s this romantic little open-plan haven with a kitchen, dining nook, lounge and bed all flowing together, bathed in light from massive windows that frame cheeky peeks of the castle’s red sandstone bulk rising up across the water. Proper magic, that Highland vibe without even stepping out. We dumped the bags and cracked on with unpacking our food haul: venison sausages from a butcher we’d spotted en route, some smoked salmon, and a bag of tatties that looked like they’d come straight from a crofter’s plot.

First order of business? Cooking up a storm in that slick little kitchen. I fancied myself a proper chef, attempting a venison stew with neeps and tatties – haggis on toast for starters, because why not? The hob heated up a treat, and with the castle winking at us through the window, it felt dead romantic. Mind you, my chopping skills were off – ended up with more of a venison mash than a posh ragu, but we laughed it off with a couple of pints of local ale later. Self-reflection moment: I’m no Jamie Oliver, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing about in a holiday kitchen, isn’t there? Makes you feel like you’re living the local life, not just passing through.

Next morning, we wandered out to the markets – Inverness has these cracking ones along the riverside, stalls groaning under fresh bread, cheese wheels, and piles of those fat, juicy strawberries that taste like summer. Grabbed some oatcakes, a wedge of crowdie (that creamy Highland cheese), and black pudding for brekkie. Back at the flat, I tried frying it all up – success this time, wolfed down at the wee dining table with coffee steaming and the Ness murmuring outside. Lunch was a picnic of smoked salmon and crusty rolls, scoffed on a bench by the river, watching folk amble past.

Evenings were pub heaven. Strolled five minutes to the old town inns – one with a roaring fire and platters of battered haddock and chips that were pure comfort, another dishing out cullen skink (smoky fish soup that warms your cockles) followed by sticky toffee pud. We holed up in a snug with live fiddle music one night, supping Tennent’s and swapping tall tales with locals about the best chippy in town. Another evening, I had a go at baking soda bread using market flour – it came out a bit like a doorstop, but slathered in butter and paired with that crowdie, it was bliss.

Honestly, staying put in that bright, castle-view gem turned our holiday into a proper feast fest. No need for grand adventures when the eats are this good – though I did ponder if I’d ever master the perfect tattie scone back home. What a cracking few days.