exploring

This was day four of a budget, week-long Scotland adventure for the two of us, and we were spending the day in Drumnadrochit, on the shores of the country’s most famous body of water, looking for the fabled monster.

It wasn’t the first time that reality and wishful thinking had seemingly combined on this holiday. When I told people I was going to take my son on a week-long trip across Scotland and my budget was £500, they were sceptical – especially as we were travelling in the school holidays. But as a woman who likes a challenge, I was up for proving them all wrong.

We’d begun our adventure in Glasgow, having travelled by train (£30), then picked up a cheap hire car for the five-hour drive to the Isle of Skye. Accommodation on Skye is pricey, but I had a secret weapon – my tent.

The car journey was punctuated by stops at lochs so enchanting they could have been lifted from the pages of a children’s book. We finally reached the island and checked in at Camping Skye, a community-owned campsite by the sea in Broadford. For the £16 cost of a pitch, we spent the evening playing beneath the flanks of Beinn na Caillich, eating chips and mushy peas from the local shop, and roasting marshmallows on a firepit.

The next morning, primed for a mini-expedition and stocked up with supplies, we drove to the southern enclave of Elgol. The crowds who flock to the island for the Fairy Pools and spectacular Quiraing rock forms melted away as we went deeper into the countryside. We pulled over at a nondescript parking area and I explained the plan to my son. We were going to walk about 2.5 miles (4km) to our accommodation – and no, mummy couldn’t carry him as I would be carrying all our supplies. Excited by the carrot on a stick in the form of a bag of Percy Pigs, we set off, me with a full backpack, him clad in waterproofs, clutching a walking pole.

“I can do this. It’s going to be hard, but it’s going to be worth it,” I heard him muttering to himself as the ascent kicked in. Along the way I pointed out the purple petals of the devil’s-bit scabious flower – mythology claims the devil was so enraged by the plant’s healing properties that he chewed its roots, leaving them short and jagged. My son loved how stories such as this and the landscape combined, and it distracted him from the climb. When we reached the highest point, we could see down to Camasunary Bay, and the thought of playing on the beach made our descent fly by.

Our accommodation was a free (unbookable) bothy and, being first to arrive, we picked the top bunk of the sleeping platform, and I laid out our things. As more people came, my boy confidently greeted the guests as though welcoming them into his own home, proudly telling them this was his first bothy.

That evening was spent running around on the near-black sand beach just outside the door, making trenches, cooking pesto pasta on my camping stove and laughing at the “loo with a view” that sits above the bothy on the hillside.

Having stayed in many bothies over the past 15 years, I had wondered how taking a child would pan out. But his presence brought everyone together in an amazing way, and by 9pm all 12 residents were fast asleep, likely lulled by the white noise I was playing for him on my phone.

Next morning, my son’s determination to reach the car was only eclipsed by his desire to have ice-cream for breakfast, which I had promised as an incentive to climb up the hill. He was beaming with pride when he told the owner of The Creel pop-up cafe by Elgol harbour that he’d walked more than 5 miles “all by myself” and made friends in a bothy.

From there, it was back to the mainland and a two-hour drive on to Drumnadrochit for a stay in a private room at Loch Ness Backpackers Lodge (£60), with an afternoon spent in the nearby Loch Ness Centre, learning all about Nessie. After the novelty of sharing a bunk bed (me on top, him below), the next day was reserved for paddling in the shallows of the loch, running around the aforementioned Urquhart Castle and getting visitors’ hopes up with proclaimed sightings of the legendary plesiosaur.

That afternoon we journeyed to our final stop – the Cairngorms national park. At the reindeer centre in Glenmore Forest, we met the UK’s only free-ranging herd (which had been brought here to be checked over by a vet) and joined a scavenger hunt designed to teach children about these creatures. We ended the day at Loch Morlich, building sandcastles with children my son befriended in that easy way kids seem to do. I pointed up to the summit of Cairn Gorm – the sixth highest mountain in Britain. “That,” I told him, “is where we go tomorrow.”

After a night in a camping pod at the Speyside Trust’s Badaguish outdoor centre (£75), we braved the mountain during rain squalls on a guided hike (£35) which involved taking the mountain railway to Ptarmigan top station at 1,097m, then an hour’s walk to the summit. As we stood on the misty peak, our guide told us we were at 1,245m. I’ve never seen such a proud look on my son’s face.

The UK’s highest restaurant, the Ptarmigan, sits at the railway’s top station, and we indulged in hot chocolate before exploring the learning zone’s exhibition, with its panoramic film showcasing the landscapes around us in much better weather than we experienced. There are also interactive sandboxes where children can create their own natural environments. We rounded off the day by taking the train back down and going tubing (£15pp), laughing gleefully as we slid down the purpose-built dry slope in giant rubber rings.

Determined to make the journey home part of the adventure, I had booked the sleeper train back to London – our biggest indulgence at £170 for a cabin with a private loo and shower. Dusk hit as we boarded in Inverness, and the sky began to turn black outside the picture windows while we ate macaroni cheese in the dining car and my son told incredulous strangers about our adventures.

The truth is that kids love holidays – but they love spending time with their parents most of all. And by taking my son on my kind of adventure, I had bonded with him in a way I never thought possible. Children see magic in even the smallest of adventures – and their enthusiasm is utterly infectious. Our total spend after six days away was just under £500 which, when I think of the memories we have made, and the stories my son continues to tell, seems to me the best buy ever – even more fantastical than a magic monster that lives in Scotland’s largest loch.

Phoebe Smith is the author of Wayfarer: Love, Loss and Life on Britain’s Pilgrim Paths (Harper North). To buy a copy for £9.89, go to guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply

Over the next two hours, with the help of perfumery expert Manon Zamoun, I blend my own perfume that I name “Mimosa trail”. The scents (natural essences or synthetic aromas), are set out on three shelves, the top shelf for the high notes, the bottom for base notes, with the heart notes in between. I sniff, blend and decant; it’s the most rewarding chemistry lesson of my life.

The bottles’ labels are turned away from me so my choices are led by my nose not my brain. I’m surprised to find I liked parma violets and patchouli, while rose d’orient and fleurs de lilas don’t make the cut.

Galimard is Grasse’s oldest perfume house, established in 1747. The trade grew out of the town’s leather tanning industry; with scents created to cover the pong, it became the “perfume capital of the world”. Its other two famous perfume houses, Molinard and Fragonard, opened in 1849 and 1926 respectively, later joined by big names such as Dior, Guérlain and Chanel.

But beyond perfume, Grasse is a delight to wander – a maze of yellow-hued streets, overlooked by towering palm trees and, today at least, a welcome blue sky, though there’s still a little chill in the air. I take comfort in the fact it’s 10 degrees warmer than it is back home because I’m here to fast-forward spring with a short road trip between the lesser-known villages and towns of the Côte d’Azur.

En route to Grasse, I’d stopped at Tourrettes-sur-Loup for another of the region’s flowers: violets. When seen from the south, the village is a jumble of terracotta-roofed houses clinging to a clifftop. It’s known for its tradition of growing the small, purple blooms, and has supplied the perfume industry since Queen Victoria visited in the late 19th century while wintering in Nice, 18 miles (30km) south west of here. The queen gave her name to the variety that was, in her day, cultivated by 40 families in Tourrettes and, thanks to its long stalk, was traditionally given in small posies between Christmas and Valentine’s Day.

At La Bastide aux Violettes, a small museum on the outskirts of the village, I discover more about the flower and its history, and inhale its sweet, delicate scent in the greenhouse, where they grow in vertical columns. There are now only three producers, including Jérôme Coche and his family, who turn the petals into products such as crystalised violet sweets. The village still celebrates the end of the season with La Fête des Violettes in late February/early March, which attracts about 12,000 people (some on coach trips from Italy) with carnival floats, dancing, music and a flower and produce market.

Out of season the village is quieter, awaiting the summer crowds. Wine bar-restaurant La Cave de Tourrettes is buzzing with life though, even on a wet Wednesday evening, and my two-course meal is a superb beef tartare with grana padano, caper berries and cornichons, followed by pork filet mignon and orange-scented sweet potato with braised leeks (mains from €25.50). The next morning, the sky is a blaze of blue and I eat breakfast on the balcony of my townhouse apartment, with a lovely view of the valley towards the Mediterranean.

The sun is also shining in Mandelieu-la-Napoule, on the coast, my last stop. Mimosas were just starting to come into bloom on the dramatic route between Tourrettes and the village of Gourdon, which winds through the Gorge du Loup, with its waterfalls, tunnels and steep cliffs – but down on the coast, spring has really sprung.

La Route du Mimosa is a trail through the most impressive blooms, covering 80 miles from Bormes-les-Mimosas to Grasse. Around the town of Mandelieu-la-Napoule – which hosts the Fête du Mimosa, a weekend of celebrations to mark the start of the season in February – there are group hikes into the hills organised by the tourist office, as well as farms to visit and shops where producers have turned its delicate flavour into jams and cordials, and its scent into candles and soaps.

For a thrilling ride and to gain some local knowledge I’ve booked a three-hour tour with La Grande Vadrouille (€160 for one or two). Local guide Daniel Saffioti welcomes me to ride in the side-car of his Chang Jiang Pekin Express motorbike. Daniel knows all the best routes from Mandelieu to Tanneron, a town farther inland where you find mimosas in abundance. After donning my helmet and sunglasses, we set off along the coast road, La Corniche d’Or.

This sinuous route southward to the Cap d’Esterel offers astonishing views of Cannes and its backdrop, the snow-capped Mercantour mountains of the Alpes-Maritimes. Along the road, mimosas burst between palm trees and over the garden walls of luxurious villasWe double back toward Mandelieu, and then motor on into the hills, stopping for a rest just outside Tanneron, where the landscape is a tapestry of olive groves, eucalyptus trees and lavender fields awaiting their summer blooms. A closer inspection of a mimosa tree allows me to breath in its delicate scent and see its fern-like leaves and tiny flowers up close – like little yellow pompoms electrified by the sunshine. Daniel tells me how they were introduced by the British, having been brought from Australia (they are a kind of acacia) and how council workers work hard to keep them from taking over the landscape and roadsides, such is their propensity to thrive in the Provençal climate.

Our tour finishes in Mandelieu and after bidding Daniel farewell, I sit on the terrace of the Biskota cafe for lunch and a mimosa-infused lemonade. In the evening is the opening of the Fête du Mimosa. Gingham-clothed tables and benches are laid out for locals to sit and drink wine and street performers, some on stilts, dance through the crowds. Tomorrow there will be floats adorned with flowers, but tonight a firework display shoots up over the crenellated walls of the waterside chateau. I breath in the sulphurous tang that hangs in the air; it may not be the floral scent of spring, but it doesn’t matter – I’ve got a bottle of that in my bag.

The trip was provided by Côte d’Azur Tourism and Mandelieu-La-Napoule Tourism. La Borgarda in Tourrettes-sur-Loup has a one-bedroom apartment from €195 a night and a three-bedroom townhouse from €330 a night. The Pullman hotel has doubles from £130. Perfume blending at Galimard’ Studio des Fragrances is €99pp

Carolyn Boyd is the author of Amuse Bouche: How to Eat Your Way Around France (Profile, £10.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com