by a guy who thought a Fiat 500 could take on the Highlands, still shouts “FREEDOM!” at strangers, and has no business near bagpipes
September 2023. Scotland. Again. Because why wouldn’t you? It’s one of those places that feels like it was designed specifically to make you question why you live anywhere else. Towering mountains, winding roads, castles on every other hill, and people who could out-drink a Viking ale festival.
Now, I’ve been here before, but Scotland, much like a good whisky or a bad decision, never really gets old. Every time you visit, it feels like stepping into a place that was built for the sole purpose of looking cinematic. And this time, I wasn’t alone. My girlfriend was with me, which meant that instead of an itinerary consisting entirely of “drive until the road stops and eat whatever the locals are eating,” I had to engage in something called structured tourism.
I love the Scots, especially the northern ones, the ones that are called Highlanders. Their history is rich, their culture is alive, and their accent—well, it’s difficult, but decipherable. And by decipherable, I mean you might understand every third word if you concentrate really, really hard. But what they lack in comprehensible speech, they more than make up for in character. These are people who will wrestle a cow into submission for fun and then tell you about it in a way that makes you question whether they were actually wrestling the cow, or it was wrestling them.
We started in Edinburgh, a city so old that if you dig anywhere, you’ll probably find something significant. Walk around for a bit, and you start to realize that every brick, every cobblestone, and probably even the air itself is steeped in history. And by history, I mean stories of people charging at each other with swords over reasons that, to this day, no one really understands.
Naturally, we ended up at the castle, because if you visit Edinburgh and don’t go to the castle, someone will probably arrest you for cultural negligence. The whole place is stunning, of course, but the moment we arrived, we were greeted by the sound of bagpipes. Now, bagpipes are an interesting instrument. In the wrong hands, they sound like a goat being tortured inside a metal trash can. But in the right hands, in the right setting, they awaken something primal inside you—like the sudden urge to fight the English or drink something distilled in a barn.
Then, just as we were soaking in the atmosphere, we saw him.
A man. But not just any man. A Pict. Full battle dress. Blue face paint. Wild, unkempt hair. Sword, shield, the works. He looked like he had just stepped out of a time machine and was about to start a war. Turns out, he was a historian, standing there in the name of education, telling stories about how the Picts used to fight off invaders long before the Scots had even invented whisky. He also had a rather brilliant side hustle: for a small donation, you could take a picture with him.
And of course, I couldn’t resist.
I grabbed a sword, struck a pose, and, with my lungs full of crisp Scottish air, bellowed, “FREEDOM!”
At which point, the Pict sighed, looked at me with the dead eyes of a man who had seen this happen far too many times, and said, “Wait, wait, wait. I’m not William Wallace.”
Laughter erupted. But I wasn’t done. On the next take, I went for something different.
“MURICA!”
The Pict threw up his hands. “Bloody Yank,” he muttered, which immediately got the crowd going. A mix of tourists, now energized by the sheer ridiculousness of the moment, started chanting “USA! USA!” because, as history has shown, Americans will chant that at anything.
From Edinburgh, we pointed ourselves north toward Glencoe, a place that looks like it was designed specifically to be the desktop wallpaper on every new laptop. You can’t describe the scenery properly because it doesn’t seem real. It’s the kind of place where, if you saw it in a movie, you’d think, Nah, that’s CGI.
And this is where we made our first mistake.
We were driving a Fiat 500.
Now, don’t get me wrong. The Fiat 500 is a great little car—if you’re in Rome, or Milan, or somewhere with tiny roads and an abundance of espresso bars. But in the Scottish Highlands, where the wind alone could push you into the next county, it felt like trying to navigate the ocean in a bathtub.
My girlfriend, not particularly used to the Scottish country road experience, provided live commentary throughout the drive.
Braking too hard? “Oops, oops, oops!”
Sharp right turn? “Wooooshhhh!”
Sharp left turn? “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”
Sudden dip in the road? “AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!”
All of this, while I was clinging to the steering wheel, trying to keep our Fiat-shaped roller skate from being blown into a loch.
At one point, we pulled over at a scenic viewpoint, and there we met an elderly couple who looked as though they had lived in the Highlands for centuries. You know the type—weathered faces, clothes designed more for practicality than fashion, and an air of wisdom that made you feel like they knew the exact moment you were going to die.
They struck up a conversation with us about the land, the history, and—most interestingly—the wildlife. The old man, with a twinkle in his eye, pointed to the sky and told us that if we were patient, we might see an eagle.
Now, spotting a golden eagle is one of those things that sounds fantastic in theory. But in practice, it means standing in the cold, staring at the sky, and hoping that the speck you’re looking at isn’t just an ambitious seagull. Still, we waited. And waited. And just as we were about to give up, the old woman nudged me and whispered, “There.”
And sure enough, there it was. A massive bird, wings spread wide, soaring across the valley like it owned the place.
It lasted all of ten seconds. And then it was gone.
The old man chuckled and said, “Aye, that’s Scotland for ye. Ye wait all day for a bit of magic, and when it finally happens, it’s over before ye can blink.”
Which, in hindsight, was also the perfect metaphor for what happened next.
We arrived at Glenfinnan Viaduct, famous for being that bridge from Harry Potter. The place was packed with tourists who, like us, had come to see the Jacobite Steam Train—better known to the uninitiated as the Hogwarts Express. We waited. And waited. And then we waited some more. Because that’s how these things work.
And then—finally—the train appeared. Steam billowing, wheels turning, an absolute spectacle. And in less than sixty seconds, it was gone. Two hours of waiting for a moment that lasted less time than it takes to microwave a frozen burrito.
Classic Scotland. Hours of waiting, seconds of spectacle.
The rest of the trip was a blur of castles, ancient churches, and every Outlander filming location my girlfriend could find. And then, before we knew it, it was time to head south. Back to England. Then on to Wales.
But that’s a story for another day.
Scotland. It’s wild, it’s unpredictable, it’s absurd, and I love it.
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A Kings 
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