The Train to Scotia (Scotland 2009)

I was standing on the brink of what could only be described as a marathon of a weekend. First, there was the birthday party for my soon-to-be three-year-old son, Liam. Pulling that off alone already had my nerves doing cartwheels. Add to that a Kings of Leon concert on October 3rd and, oh yes, a flight across the pond the very next morning. The plan? Stay up all night and trick my body into UK time. The reality? Sitting in the airport terminal, diary in hand, running on fumes and Braum’s breakfast, waiting for a plane that was late, while my eyelids staged a mutiny.

We first flew to Minnesota for our layover. I practiced a bit of sleep under a bench until our flight to Amsterdam was ready to depart. I was so completely spaced out. After our long, sleepy flight to Amsterdam, we landed and got to our terminal to Manchester. We decided to exchange our currency for Pounds. Then, we were off to England. Eventually, we stumbled into a café by the train station, where the automatic door had a personal vendetta against my sanity—sliding open every fifteen seconds with a squeak that sounded like a caffeinated hamster. I briefly considered sleeping there, but I value my mental health too much. I tried to get some sleep When we finally made it onto the train to Scotland, it felt like salvation on steel wheels. So, as the song goes, we’ll take the high road, ye’ll take the low, and we’ll be in Scotland before ye!

Still, the scenery made every turn and squeaky door worth it. Sal and I couldn’t decide what was better—the landscape or the accents we were hearing around us. I swear, life feels a little richer once you’ve heard someone casually ask for a biscuit in Yorkshire. Rolling green fields stretched forever, stone villages popped up like storybook illustrations, and purple heather spilled down the hillsides in waves of wild color. By the time we hit Edinburgh, the air was colder, sharper, almost ceremonial. We hailed a cab and gave the driver our hostel address: Cockburn Street. The driver chuckled and corrected us in thick Scottish brogue, “Ah, you mean Co-burn?” Sal, ever the literalist, replied, “Well, it’s spelled Cock-burn.” “Aye, we know that…” the driver said with a smirk. Welcome to Scotland.

Our Hostel

The hostel was no five-star hotel, but it had beds, and at that point, beds were better than oxygen. After dropping our bags, I threw on a leather jacket and scarf and hit the cobbled streets with Sal and my dad. We first decided to get something to eat. We found a place right around the corner and we ordered a Guinness. I ordered the Haggis with Gravy. It was the best Haggis I have ever tasted. It was delicious—rich, savory, and hearty enough to warm me against the night.

We wandered the city after dinner, ducking into pubs and shops, when we ended up at a place packed with college students and football (soccer) on the telly. After the match, a few of the students grabbed instruments and broke into a traditional Céilidh tune. The whole pub vibrated with energy. I looked around, expecting everyone to be enchanted, but most of the locals barely noticed—like it was as normal as checking your phone. Meanwhile, I was practically clapping like an overexcited tourist.

Sleep that night was as elusive as the Loch Ness monster. I woke with a pounding headache and lingered too long in the hostel showers, trying to steam the exhaustion out of me. The next morning, however, Edinburgh was alive—businessmen in coats, shopkeepers setting up, the smell of coffee and cold air mixing in the streets. We ducked into a café for a full Scottish breakfast: eggs, toast, sausage, haggis, hash, and proper bacon, the kind that makes American bacon look like a crispy afterthought. Oh, Aye… Paired with a delicious Americano coffee.

That day we walked for hours. Statues, graveyards, and a hunt for a second hand shop where Sal would purchase a jacket. Finally, we got to a statue of Greyfriar’s Bobby, the legendary little dog who spent years guarding his master’s grave. I’d seen the Disney movie, but standing there among the stones made it real—and hauntingly beautiful.


We followed an arrow pointing off the sidewalk to a little café under the sidewal. We sipped leek and potato soup and tea at the tiny café, browsed a peace bookstore where I bought a small thistle-emblazoned pendant, and wandered into a cathedral with a massive stone hand out front, pierced in the palm. It felt like every corner of Edinburgh was whispering its own story. We went on back to the hostel, and on the way, we came across a bagpiper playing in the streets….IN SCOTLAND….

We visited the castle, which turned out to be less a fortress and more a village with cannons, chapels, cafés, and museums. After we had seen it all, we got some tea and scones at the café and then walked down The Royal Mile. Dad got measured for a kilt, which was equal parts fascinating and hilarious. I got to see how a kilt was made and the progression of the kilt through the ages. By the end of the day, we climbed Calton Hill, gazed out over the city, and laughed ourselves silly when Sal backed over a boulder trying to take a picture of my dad at the Scottish National Monument. If you’re going to fall flat on your back, at least do it in Scotland.

That night we barely managed half a pint at Captain’s Pub before surrendering to exhaustion. As we trudged back to the hostel, I realized I was finally syncing with the time zone. Tomorrow would bring London, Stonehenge, and more adventures—but that night, I slept.