I’ll never forget the drive up to Duncairin Cabins, snaking along those narrow Highland roads with Loch Ness glittering on my right like a moody silver ribbon. It was a crisp autumn morning, and I’d set off from Inverness full of beans, playlist blasting some trad fiddle tunes to get me in the mood. But about five miles in, disaster struck – or rather, a sheep struck. The woolly bugger darted out from nowhere, and I braked so hard my thermos of tea flew off the passenger seat, soaking my lap in lukewarm Earl Grey. “Brilliant,” I muttered, dabbing at my trousers with a service station napkin. A classic daft start to a Scottish jaunt, but hey, at least it wasn’t Nessie herself.

Pulling into Duncairin’s gravel drive around noon, I was already charmed. These cabins sit tucked away in a wee wooded spot overlooking the loch’s edge, just a stone’s throw from the water’s glassy calm. Mine was a cosy wooden number called – wait for it – Nessie’s Nook, with a veranda perfect for a cuppa and monster-spotting. But it was the locals who turned my three-day stay into pure gold from the off. First up was Moira, the no-nonsense landlady who greeted me with a handshake like a vice and a tray of fresh scones. “Ye’ll no be needin’ binoculars for the beastie here, lad,” she winked, her Inverness lilt thick as porridge. “She’s shy, but I’ve heard her splashin’ aboot at dusk.” Moira’s been running these cabins for donkey’s years, she told me over tea, regaling me with tales of American tourists who’d swear blind they saw a fin. “One fella from Texas left his flip-flops as a tribute,” she chuckled, eyes twinkling. Her humour was dry as a tattie crisp, and she slipped me a dog-eared map of “secret” loch viewpoints within a couple of miles – all scribbled with her own cheeky notes like “Binoculars essential, patience optional.”

No sooner had I unpacked than Hamish wandered over from the neighbouring cabin, a retired fisherman with a beard like a bird’s nest and a flat cap perched at a jaunty angle. He was fiddling with his rod, prepping for an afternoon cast off the pebbly shore just down the path. “New here, eh? Mind the midges, they’ve got teeth like piranhas,” he warned, before launching into his best yarn. Hamish swore he’d hooked Nessie back in ’82 – “Felt it tuggin’ like a submarine!” – but it turned out to be a sunken log. We spent the next hour on my veranda, him nursing a flask of something peaty (whisky, naturally), me with a steaming mug. He’s a proper character, full of that Highland mischief, dissecting every blurry photo I’d seen online. “Ach, it’s just otters playin’ tricks,” he grinned, but his eyes darted to the water as if expecting a flipper. His stories had me in stitches – like the time a coachload of Japanese visitors mistook his collie for the monster and tried to take selfies with it.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, I met wee Jamie, the lad from the farm up the track who delivers eggs to the cabins. No more than ten, with freckles and a gap-toothed grin, he pedalled up on his bike, basket brimming. “Mum says take two dozen – and watch for the beastie eggs!” he piped up, plonking them down. Jamie’s obsessed, you see; he’s built a “Nessie trap” from driftwood and string down by the water’s edge, complete with a bait of stale bread. We chatted about his grandad’s sightings (more tall tales, no doubt), and he quizzed me on London life – “Do ye have monsters in the Thames?” Cheeky wee scamp. His enthusiasm was infectious, reminding me how kids see magic where us grown-ups see mist.

Chatting with Moira, Hamish, and Jamie on that first day, as the loch whispered secrets below, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Life back home’s a whirlwind of emails and deadlines, but here, amid the quirky souls who call this patch home, everything slowed. No grand adventures needed – just good crack, a splash of humour, and the thrill of what might be lurking. Duncairin’s first impressions? Bloody perfect.