WHY can't she read the map right?" Those were the unspoken words I imagined The Boyfriend to be thinking as I navigated us into yet another wrong turn.

This time, we were meant to be heading for Shieldaig town and upon seeing a sign for Shieldaig Lodge, I promptly and authoritatively said, "Right at the next turn."

I mean, Shieldaig Lodge had to be in Shieldaig, right? Little did I know that right would lead to something that looked like a deer track and a beautiful mansion facing a bay, miles away from the town we were meant to be at.

It was fast becoming dark and we decided that the best course would be to stay the night at Shieldaig Lodge.

Shieldaig Lodge, previously a home, is a hotel that provides game hunting in summer.

A little sheepishly, I offered to pay for the night's accommodation as it was my oversight that had led us there.

Luckily for us, it was still open in off-season October - a week later, it would have been closed for the season (luckier for me, that this also meant the rack rate was somewhat reduced*).

In summer, the place is a retreat for hunters as it has massive grounds and game which can be shot outside and cooked inside.

So, three times lucky, I was ending up here late in October as I did not fancy being woken up by booming their rifles or shotguns or whatever it is people point at partridges or deer or whatever else they call game.

The warm and welcoming lodge is run like a home away from home. Such was the relaxed style that we ended up watching television in the TV room with our feet up, keeping company with the owner, Mr Bernardi, a lovely Italian who has lived in Scotland so long that he has that distinctive burr to his Italian-accented speech, his son and their attention-seeking Jack Russell.

A young French girl on work experience had served deliciously warm meals which were finished with malt whisky (not surprisingly, whisky tasted much better in Scotland, gently seducing the palate, just like Guinness is yummier in Ireland) and a platter with delicate slivers of gooey blue, hard Italian reggiano and crumbly cheeses.

I was relieved to hear her lilting accent, thankful that I, with my decidedly low-attention span, would not have to concentrate to understand what she was saying.

Scottish speech takes a while to get used to, even if English is your first tongue. The further north you head, the thicker and more undecipherable it becomes. But, really, all you need to do is stop panicking, nod occasionally, take deep breaths and pay close attention.

In a few minutes all will become clear. After two or three such babelfish moments, I found that I was rolling my R's right along.

Incidentally, no one says "wee" or "bonnie" these days, and if you are spending several days in Glasgow, watch Trainspotting on loop, as Glaswegian, while seemingly made up of English words, is a world away from English.

The local folk are helpful but tire quickly of having to repeat themselves so it's really a good idea to train your ears to hear Scottish.

Soaking in a massive tub en route to a huge, warm bed, it was the perfect end to a three-days-short-of-a-week holiday in the Highlands.

To get to Glasgow, we had driven through the woods to the lowland town of Callendar. From there, we passed Crianlarich, Pitlochry (home to a well-signposted, tucked away crumbling clan hall, which had a torture pit with iron rings and shackles that looked no worse for wear despite being centuries old) and Blair Atholl (the lovely whitewashed Blair Castle museum and grounds is worth the entry fee).

The manicured grounds of Blair Castle feature 100-year-old trees and peacocks, swans, mallards and other birds.

Tiring of winding little roads flanked by crags and legends at every corner, crumbling Celtic clan halls and castles (like most tourists, we stopped for the first three but soon began to wonder how many clans, lords and vassals had there been in ancient times), we switched to the characterless highway to Ullapool.

We were heading there on the advice of a German couple we had met along the way, who had described this seaport town as "totally romantic." Only when there did we realise that the word "romantic" is rather relative.

Not once would I have put waves crashing into the seawall 2m away from the shops and homes, howling winds and biting cold in the category of things invoking romance. Still, Ullapool is not without charm.

Founded as a herring port in 1788, it is a telling testament to man's determination. Only the most resolute would have chosen to make this outpost on the east shore of Loch Broom (one hour north of the more famous Loch Ness), surrounded on all sides by craggy rocks/majestic mountains (phrase choice depending on the degree of romantic-ness) their home.

Most weekends, the ferry brings over visitors from another far-away remote land - the Outer Hebrides, a former Viking outpost.

For a tiny town, Ullapool is chock-a-block with pubs (and the odd Polish worker). In fact, we were lucky to get a room as we had arrived on one of its most active weekends, when the town played host to guitarists of all ilk (traditional, country, rock, acoustic, and whatever else genre there is) for the "Ullapool Guitar Festival."

Despite the village feel, this was no small-time kampung song-and-dance fest as it featured a fascinating line-up of very talented performers, all of whom I had never heard of.

Walking uphill appears to be the national pastime for highland folk and, weaned on the dogmatic "when in Rome...", that's what we did.

Despite the protestations of legs too long unused to exercise and tummies rumbling for bread and butter pudding.

Loping away from the waters, we poked about "hidden" glens (probably found a million times by intrepid and dogged tourists) and bogs, and squished our way over tiny mountain streams onwards and upwards to take in a panoramic view of this quaint little town.

The smoked herring and haddock which I treated myself to at breakfast in the pubstay (pub/hotel) was one of the best I had tasted. It's true that the best seafood is to be found at fishing harbours. Fancy eats are non-existent in this town that chomps down on simple, stomach-filling pub fare.

The local chippie is recommended for tasty, fresh and crunchy fish and thick chips with lashings of salt and vinegar. Thankfully, haggis and fried Mars bars (a notoriously calorific Scottish chippie creation) were not on the menu.

From Ullapool, it was time to make haste back to Glasgow. This was done by heading back on yet another bland highway (the A832), via Invergarry and Glencoe (infamous for the bloody massacre of 1692, when to punish the clan chief for coming late to sign an oath of allegiance to King William III, a group of 128 soldiers stayed with the MacDonnells in the clan house for 12 days and then rewarded their hospitality by ruthlessly slaughtering 38 members of the host family).

Legends, mayhem and mystery combined with a quiet landscape that, despite its dark, rough-hewn facade, offers peace and tranquillity. That's the enduring appeal of the Scottish highlands - "the birthplace of valour, the country of worth".