It had been on my list for years. Something about Scotland always called to me — maybe the landscapes that looked like they belonged in fantasy novels, maybe the way the culture blended ancient and modern. In late May, I finally packed my gear, cleared my calendar, and hopped on a flight to Edinburgh.
I didn’t have a strict itinerary. That’s not my style. Instead, I rented a modest van and turned it into a makeshift camper. From the capital, I headed north — following instinct, recommendations from strangers, and Google Maps pins that simply said “worth it.”
First stop: Glencoe.
The road wound through towering mountains blanketed in moody clouds. It was surreal — like driving straight into a postcard. I hiked the Lost Valley trail alone, passing crumbling ruins and icy brooks. Not a single bar of cell signal. I hadn’t felt that clear-headed in months.
Next came Isle of Skye.
The ferry ride was peaceful, even as the sea tossed us around. I spent three nights on the island, camping near the Quiraing. Every morning, the landscape looked different. Mist came and went like theatre curtains, revealing ridges and peaks that made me feel very, very small.
Wildlife moment of the trip?
A red stag walked within ten meters of my camp one evening. We stared at each other for a while. I offered him part of my granola bar. He declined. Respect.
Last leg: Speyside.
No way I was skipping whisky country. I visited Glenlivet and Aberlour, walked through oak barrels and inhaled the scent of sweet fermentation. I don’t drink much, but sipping a dram where it’s born? That’s ritual.
On the flight back, I looked out the window and knew I’d be returning. Not just to Scotland — to that feeling of being deeply alive, off the grid, letting the weather decide my schedule. Sometimes the best configurations aren’t in server logs, but on forgotten footpaths in places that make you whisper, “Whoa.”
Next up? Iceland. Probably. Or maybe just a weekend in Banff with good boots and bad reception.