I’ll never forget the drive up to Loch Ness – rain lashing the windscreen like it was auditioning for a horror film, and then, just past Inverness, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a muddy track that had me convinced we’d end up in someone’s cow field. Heart in mouth, we reversed out laughing, and finally rolled up to this cracking first-floor apartment overlooking the River Ness. The moment we stepped in, those massive windows hit us with views that made the chaos fade – rippling water, misty hills, and a balcony screaming for a cuppa. It’s got that smart, comfy vibe inside: two bedrooms, a kitchen you could actually cook in, and a lounge perfect for flopping down with a film. Proper Highland welcome.

But honestly, the real magic was the characters we bumped into – it’s like the place is a magnet for proper eccentrics. First off, there was Moira, the landlady, who greeted us at the door with a tray of shortbread and stories that tumbled out like she’d been saving them up. “Ach, you’re here for the monster, eh?” she winked, her brogue thick as porridge. Turned out she’s a Nessie obsessive, with tales of blurry photos from her uncle’s fishing boat back in ’73. We ended up on the balcony with her, her pointing out exactly where “something big” surfaced last summer, while I nodded along, half-believing, half-wondering if it was the whisky talking.

Next day, we wandered down to the river path – it’s right there, minutes from the door – and fell into chat with Tam, this wiry old fisherman in wellies, casting his line like he owned the water. “Tourists always ask about the beastie,” he grumbled good-naturedly, reeling in a tiddler. “But it’s the salmon you want – sneakier than any monster.” He regaled us with how he once hooked a fish so big it towed him halfway to Urquhart Castle, exaggerating with wild gestures that had us in stitches. We swapped emails; he promised to text if Nessie showed up on his sonar.

Then there was wee Fergus, the baker from the nearby café – you know the one, with the fly bannocks that could fuel a hike up the hills. He’s got this mad twinkle, claiming his gran was a selkie who swapped fins for feet right here on the Ness. Over coffee and his legendary cranachan flapjacks, he quizzed us on London life (“All concrete and no soul, eh?”) and shared how the locals still toast the loch at midnight on Hogmanay. I found myself proper reflecting there, munching away – back home I’m always rushing, but chatting with Fergus felt like time had slowed, reminding me why we escape to places like this.

Even the evening dog-walker, Isla, with her sopping spaniel, stopped for a natter about the best spots for a sunset pint at the riverside pub – just a stroll away. “Mind the midges, but they’re naughtier than the locals,” she laughed. By the end of the week, it wasn’t just the views or the cosy nights in that stuck; it was these quirky souls who made Loch Ness feel like a mate’s backyard. If you’re after a holiday that’s more yarns than selfies, get yourself up here. Pure gold.