1. Day One – The Chill of Arrival and Comfort at Morning Grind (Expanded)
When I stepped out onto the streets of Inverness for the first time, the sky was that particular shade of bluish grey you only see in early Highland mornings. The rooftops were still slick with dew, and each breath formed a puff of mist in the air. Despite the cold, there was something invigorating about being up before most of the city. The traffic was light, and I heard more footsteps than engines.
It was instinct more than planning that brought me to Morning Grind, a quiet café with a fogged-up front window and a hanging sign that swayed gently in the breeze. I hadn’t researched it; it was just there, with a warm yellow glow spilling out onto the pavement, and that was enough.
Inside, it smelled of toasted bread, coffee grounds, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place at first. The staff didn’t rush me. I sat near a radiator, still in my coat, and watched two locals at the next table slowly wake up over a crossword and two mugs of tea. My “Highland Stack” arrived hot, with steam rising from the eggs. The yolks spilled like golden rivers across the haggis when I cut in. That one bite—peppery meat, tangy hollandaise, crisp sourdough—was the moment I knew I’d remember this trip for a long time.
After eating, I stayed longer than I planned, writing in my journal and watching the city come to life through the condensation-streaked window. I didn’t have to do anything, didn’t have anywhere to be. That kind of morning is rare.
2. Day Two – A Walk by the River and Slow Breakfast at Café Artysans
The next morning, I left the hotel just after dawn. The River Ness shimmered with the first hints of light, its surface gently disturbed by a pair of swans gliding in silence. I paused on one of the pedestrian bridges, leaning on the cold metal rail, and watched as the cathedral spires slowly emerged from the mist.
I took my time getting to Café Artysans. It’s tucked into a side street, just a few blocks from the heart of town. Inside, the warmth hit me like a blanket. The walls were filled with local art, and the counter displayed pastries that looked too good to ignore.
I ordered their house breakfast and a pot of tea. The potato scone was crisp on the outside, tender inside, and perfect with a swipe of butter. I noticed the staff knew many customers by name, chatting easily while topping up teacups or clearing plates. A young woman in an apron walked by and offered me extra jam—homemade, blackberry. It reminded me of childhood summers, of foraging for berries in places far from here.
The tea was strong and malty, exactly the kind that needs to be poured into a thick ceramic mug. No rush, no music louder than conversation. Just warm food and a slow morning. I stayed until almost ten, listening to the quiet rhythm of the café.
3. Day Three – Rainy Detour to Velocity Café
It rained steadily that third morning. Not heavy, just a misting kind of rain that soaks you slowly and silently. I was already damp by the time I stumbled into Velocity Café, a place I hadn’t planned to visit but was glad I did.
There was a bike workshop in the back, and people came in wheeling their bicycles, shaking off the rain. The woman behind the counter greeted each customer with a smile and didn’t seem fazed by the wet floor. I ordered the shakshuka, something warm and filling, and found a corner seat near a radiator.
When the plate arrived, the tomato sauce was bubbling, the eggs nestled in the middle like jewels. Feta and parsley added brightness. It came with thick slices of bread that were perfect for scooping. I watched a group of students at the next table comparing notes over coffee, their voices low and fast. Someone opened the door and a cold gust blew through, carrying the smell of wet leaves and pavement.
There was a comfort in the way this café moved—quiet, communal, unpretentious. I didn’t feel like a tourist there. I felt like someone who lived down the street.
4. Day Four – Classic Comfort at The Rendezvous Café
Sometimes, you just want the classics. No reinventions, no experiments. Just something solid, hot, and served with a smile. That’s what I found at The Rendezvous Café.
I got there early—before 8:00—and they were already open, already serving. A woman in a blue apron wiped down a table as I entered, and someone behind the counter flipped through a well-worn recipe book.
I ordered the full Scottish breakfast, no hesitation. I didn’t expect presentation. What I got was a steaming plate filled edge-to-edge: eggs, beans, sausage, bacon, haggis, tomatoes, toast. It smelled like a proper morning should. I spooned beans onto toast and let the runny yolk mix into everything.
An older couple sat nearby, splitting a pot of tea. They spoke softly in what sounded like Doric, a dialect I couldn’t follow but found soothing anyway. I didn’t look at my phone once. I didn’t need to.
5. Day Five – Off the Beaten Path at V8 Café
It took me nearly 40 minutes to walk to V8 Café, through the quieter parts of Inverness, where houses had tidy gardens and the roads narrowed to one lane in places. The place looked like a service garage at first glance. But inside, it was part diner, part shrine to vintage cars.
The breakfast roll I ordered came wrapped like a gift—warm, heavy, fragrant. Inside was a miracle of textures: crisp bacon, soft egg, peppery haggis, and melty cheddar. I stood at the counter for a while chatting with a man named Alastair, who told me he’d been coming there since 1997. He pointed out a framed photo on the wall—himself with a Mini Cooper at some rally in the ’80s.
There’s something deeply local about a place like that. No social media presence, no clever marketing—just regulars, stories, and good food. I walked back slower, full and content.
6. Day Six – Sophisticated Simplicity at So Coco
The morning at So Coco felt like a different trip altogether. Everything about the café was elegant—polished, careful. I chose a table in the corner near a small fireplace. The hum of conversation was low, the music was classical, and the scent of butter and chocolate filled the room.
The avocado toast I ordered came with smoked salmon folded like ribbon, small dots of lemon crème, and microgreens. It looked too pretty to eat. But the taste was even better—smoky, tangy, fresh. I paired it with a long black and a pain au chocolat, the layers flaking onto my plate with every bite.
A man near me was reading Camus in French, and a group of women beside him were laughing over clotted cream and scones. The whole morning had a softness to it—refined, calm, unrushed.
