I finally rolled into Oban after a bit of a faff on the A85, my little hatchback sputtering like it had a grudge against Scottish hills. I'd taken a wrong turn near Connel – nothing major, just ended up looping back past the same sheep three times, honking apologetically as the farmer waved me on with a bemused grin. By the time I pulled up to Mull, this cosy stone cottage perched on the edge of town with views over the bay, I was knackered but buzzing. It was my three-day jaunt to Oban, and from the off, it was the locals who stole the show – a parade of quirky characters who turned first impressions into proper yarns.

The owner, Tam, met me at the door, a wiry chap in his seventies with a beard like tumbleweed and eyes twinkling like he'd just heard the punchline to life's big joke. "Ach, ye made it then," he chuckled, handing over the keys while eyeing my mud-splattered tyres. "That road's a bugger, innit? Lost meself on it once – ended up in a field with a cow staring me down like I owed it money." We bonded instantly over tea in his van parked outside, him regaling me with tales of Oban's smuggling heyday. "Back in the day, folk hid whisky barrels under the pier – still reckon there's a few sunk out there, waiting for low tide." Tam's the sort who treats every guest like a long-lost cousin, pointing out the best chippy (two minutes' walk) and warning me about the seagulls. "They're wee gangsters, those birds. One nicked me sandwich last week – bold as brass!"

Settling into Mull felt like slipping into a favourite jumper – all exposed beams, a peat fire crackling in the hearth, and windows framing the ferry chugging out to Mull proper. But it was wandering down to the harbour that first evening where the real magic kicked off. There was Moira at the seafood shack, a plump firecracker in wellies and a tabard, hawking oysters fresh from Loch Etive. "Fresh as yer granny's scones, love!" she bellowed, shucking one with theatrical flair. I got chatting as she piled my plate high – turned out she's Oban's unofficial historian, with stories of the Jacobites hiding in the caves nearby. "One lad swore he saw a ghost piper at dusk – probably just the wind, but keeps the tourists coming." Her laugh was infectious, and she slipped me an extra crab claw "for the road," insisting I try her secret sauce recipe scribbled on a napkin. Pure gold.

Next morning, over a full Scottish brekkie I'd rustled up with local tattie scones from the Co-op, I ambled to McCaig's Tower – that mad folly up the hill, all Corinthian columns like a mini Colosseum with a sea view. En route, I bumped into Big Rab, the ice cream man with a van that looked older than the hills. He's a giant of a bloke, tattoos from his navy days peeking out, scooping 99s with hands like shovels. "First time in Oban?" he asked, clocking my English plates. We ended up yakking for half an hour about his sub adventures – "Saw dolphins off Kerrera that'd make yer eyes water" – and how the town's changed since the oil boom. "Used to be all herring girls and drunks; now it's influencers snapping selfies. Mind, keeps the tills ringing." He comped my cone, naturally, with a wink: "Tell Tam I said g'day – owes me a pint."

These encounters had me reflecting gently that holidays aren't about ticking boxes, but the unexpected chats that stick. In Oban, everyone's got a story, delivered with that warm West Coast wit – no pretence, just proper connection. By day two's end, back at Mull nursing a dram by the window, watching the sun dip behind the isles, I felt like I'd known these folk forever. Tam popped by with scones "for the road home," and as I waved him off, I thought: what a cracking start. Can't wait to spin more yarns here someday.