I’ll never forget the drive up to Loch Lomond – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past the services, my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a single-track road that was more puddle than path. We bumped along, me gripping the wheel, my other half muttering about “another fine mess”, until finally, the mist cleared and there it was: this cracking spacious house right in the Loch Lomond National Park, perfect for our group of eight mates and kids. Two floors of cosy chaos waiting for us, with walks and cycle paths literally from the door. First impressions? Magic. The views over the loch had us grinning like idiots before we’d even unpacked.

We’d barely cracked open the beers when we met Tam, the local farmer who wanders the paths with his collie, Jock. He popped by unannounced – “Saw the lights, thought I’d say hello” – carrying a basket of fresh eggs and tatties from his croft. Tam’s a wiry chap in his seventies, with a beard like a Highland cow and stories that could fill a book. Over tea in the kitchen, he regaled us with tales of the time a red deer stag wandered into the village pub during a lock-in. “Ach, the barmaid just gave it a pint and sent it on its way,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We were hooked. That evening, as the kids dashed out for a quick cycle round the nearby trails, Tam sketched a wonky map on a napkin: “Best spots for spotting otters, lads. Mind the midges though – they’ve got teeth like piranhas.”

Next day, strolling along the lochside paths, we bumped into Moira, who runs the tiniest tearoom you’ve ever seen, tucked a mile or so away near the water’s edge. She’s all tartan aprons and no-nonsense warmth, with a laugh that echoes off the hills. “You lot from down south?” she asked, clocking our accents over scones slathered in clotted cream. Turned out she’d lived in Manchester for a bit in the 80s, “but nothing beats this place for a proper cuppa and a blether.” We spent an hour chatting about her battle with the local council over parking for her tearoom – “They’re daft as brushes, but we’ll win” – and she slipped us her recipe for cranachan, insisting we try it that night. Proper character, Moira.

The real gem was big Rab, the fisherman we met on a wee boat hire from the shore. He’s built like a tattie shed, with hands like hams and a monologue about every fish that’s ever got away. “Loch Lomond’s full of monsters,” he boomed as we chugged out, rods in hand. “Last week, I hooked one that sang Auld Lang Syne!” Okay, maybe not, but his yarns about quirky locals – like the bloke who trains ferrets to catch trout – had us in stitches. We didn’t catch much beyond a cold splash or two, but Rab’s patter made it the highlight.

Staying there had me reflecting a bit, you know? Amid the laughs and these larger-than-life folk, I realised how rare it is to stumble into such genuine chats these days. No phones, just stories and that fresh Highland air. We left buzzing, already plotting a return. If you’re after a holiday where the people steal the show, this is it.