I’ll never forget the drive up to Fort William – a proper Scottish road trip, me belting out some dodgy karaoke to the Proclaimers while the rain lashed the windscreen like it had a personal grudge. About ten miles out, disaster struck: I’d packed my fancy coffee thermos, but in a moment of pure daftness, I knocked it over at a layby near the Commando Memorial. Coffee everywhere, staining my jeans like abstract art. “Brilliant start,” I muttered, wiping up with a Maccie D’s napkin from the glovebox. Still, it was nothing a quick stop at the Nevis Range café couldn’t fix – black coffee in a paper cup, strong enough to wake the dead.

Pulling up to Coll just as the clouds parted for a cheeky glimpse of Ben Nevis, I felt that proper holiday buzz. This cosy stone cottage on the edge of Fort William, with its turf-roofed charm and views over Loch Linnhe, looked like it’d been plucked from a postcard. I’d booked it for a three-day jaunt, craving that Highland escape, and from the off, it was the locals who turned it into pure gold. First up was Moira, the cheery landlady who met me at the door with a tray of shortbread and a grin wider than the Caledonian Canal.

“Och, you’re the London lad, then? Hope you brought wellies – we’ve had more rain than a selkie’s tears!” she chuckled, her accent thick as porridge. Moira’s a Fort William fixture, born a stone’s throw from here, and over tea in her kitchen (she insisted, none of that formal handover nonsense), she regaled me with tales of the Great Glen. “See that hill yonder? That’s where old Tam the poacher swore he saw the Loch Ness Monster on a bender.” I laughed, spilling crumbs, and she winked, “Dinnae tell the tourists – it’s our best-kept secret.” Her quirky wisdom set the tone: this wasn’t just a stay, it was a crash course in Highland banter.

Wandering into town for supplies – a quick five-minute stroll to the high street – I bumped into wee Jimmy at the butcher’s on High Street. He’s the sort of character who looks like he stepped out of a Bill Forsyth film: tweed cap, pipe in mouth (unlit, mind), and stories for days. “New to Coll, eh? You’ll fit right in once the midges find ye!” he guffawed, slapping a couple of venison steaks into my bag for half price. Jimmy’s lived here 60 years, seen the Jacobites come and go (well, their ghosts anyway), and over his counter, he launched into a yarn about the time a stag wandered into the Co-op. “Big beast, horns like coat hooks! The lass on tills screamed, ‘It’s away wi’ ma haggis!’” I was in stitches, forgetting my coffee mishap entirely. He even slipped me a recipe for tattie scones, insisting, “None of your fancy quinoa – real men eat neeps!”

That evening, as I settled into Coll’s snug living room – peat fire crackling, courtesy of Moira’s starter kit – I nipped to the Parade for a pint. There, propping up the bar, was Big Rab, the fisherman with hands like hams and a laugh that rattled the windows. “Heard you’re at Coll? Good choice, lad – best kip in the parish. Mind the ghost piper at night; he only plays for the pure of heart!” Rab’s a salty dog, trawling Loch Linnhe daily, and his tales of dodging seals and spotting otters had the whole pub in hysterics. “One time, a dolphin jumped right into me boat – thought it was auditioning for SeaWorld!” We clinked glasses, and he bought my round, declaring all Sassenachs honorary locals after one dram.

Chatting with these folk – Moira’s warmth, Jimmy’s mischief, Rab’s roaring yarns – made my first hours at Coll feel like coming home to a family I never knew I had. Sat there later, whisky in hand, gazing at the loch’s glassy calm, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life in the smoke can be a grind, all rush and screens, but here, these quirky souls reminded me how a daft chat and a shared laugh can reset your soul. Fort William’s characters? They’re the real magic. Can’t wait for day two.