by Emily Monaco.
I’m the planning type in most situations, but especially when I travel; I usually have a color-coded folder of documents, from hotel reservations to plane tickets to important phone numbers… so I was more surprised than anyone when, on a whim, I decided to accompany a friend of mine on a whirlwind trip through Scotland. The only plans we had were our arrival and departure dates – out of Edinburgh – and a two-day pause in Stirling for a conference she was speaking at, the “point” of our travels. Other than that, we had booked a rental car online a few days before takeoff. We didn’t even have a map.
So began one of the most eye-opening trips of my travel career – and it’s been a varied one –, exploring the rural highlands of Scotland, getting to know cities like Stirling, Edinburgh and Perth, and learning that sometimes, planning gets you nowhere at all, and not planning anything leads you somewhere extraordinary.
The canal running next to the famous Falkirk Wheel was much more impressive, at least to us, than the marvel of man's construction.
Our plane tickets were booked in this very spirit, or at least, mine was. Amber messaged me in June about a conference she was due to speak at at the University of Stirling. “Want to come?” she asked. I don’t think she expected me to say yes, but then again, neither did I. What matters is that I did, and so late one evening at the end of August, we met at Charles de Gaulle airport for our Easyjet flight to Edinburgh, and the beginning of our adventures. We spent one night in Edinburgh and two in Stirling for the conference, and as soon as Amber had taken off her “French scholar” hat, we climbed into our rental car, which we affectionately named Douglas MacDougall, and began driving south because, quite honestly, why not.
This was the theme of our trip – split-second decisions that neither of us had the time or the inclination to justify. Until, that is, we began to get hungry.
Not entirely certain of where we were, we pulled off the highway into the town of Falkirk, where we quickly located a gas station and walked in to pick up some snacks, jovially discussing how amazing it was to have absolutely no idea where we were. What we neglected to consider was that, having left France, where people generally keep to themselves, especially when one’s neighbor speaks loudly and boisterously in English (as we Americans are wont to do – I won’t deny it), in Scotland, people are generally friendly and helpful… such boisterousness is taken as a demand for assistance. The clerk behind the desk at this gas station was one such person, and he kindly pointed us towards what was, apparently, one of the wonders of the modern world.
The climb up the Braes of Balquhidder isn't easy, especially not after a heavy Scottish breakfast, but the views over the valley below make it worth it.
“An American lady was in here last week… she came all the way from America to see it!” he told us, waiting for us to look impressed.
Amber and I glanced at one another, unsure of whether to be embarrassed at our ignorance or glad for the tip. We managed to be both, as we climbed back into Douglas and drove towards the Falkirk Wheel… an apparent engineering marvel that had us, quite frankly, stumped at its popularity. But while this might have irked other travelers, it set the tone for the rest of our trip and, more importantly, pointed us towards the next signpost on the odd scavenger hunt we’d unknowingly set off upon: as we laughed heartily and loudly – once again – about the oddness of traveling far and wide to see what was essentially a ferris wheel for ferry boats, a gentleman came up behind us and asked us where we were from. In my native city of New York or my adopted city of Paris, this is a good reason to be wary, but this man, in the company of his elderly but still quite sprightly parents, decided to point us in the right direction for what we wanted to see: “green things.”
After laying a roadmap on the hood of their car and bickering amongst themselves, the three of them decided to send us towards the western coast of Loch Lomond, and armed with vague directions – “drive towards Glasgow… then keep driving” – we set off in search of the promised green the national park had to offer… and something more substantial to eat.
It wasn’t until 4:00 PM, well past lunchtime, and after facing midday traffic outside of Glasgow, that we started to get a bit cabin-feverish… which is the only real explanation behind our next stop.
Balloch.
Really, how can one not stop in a town called Balloch? The first signpost towards it sent us both into fits of giggles, albeit fits partially fueled by our hunger and fatigue. We called its name out over and over in our best Scottish accents as we approached it, finally pulling off into, what we later learned, is one of the major sightseeing towns on the southern tip of the lake.
But first, we had to eat.
We pulled into the first pub we saw, where we met our third kind Scotsman of the day, a toothless man whose name I didn’t understand when he spat it through his gummy smile, with an assortment of half-empty glasses in front of him. We chatted as we waited for our meals – an impossibly good deal consisting of a pint and a burger or fish and chips for 5 pounds – and told him the strange story of our fortuitous day… a story that wasn’t quite over yet.
The fog lifts over the hills on our morning drive around Loch Lomond.
“You should take the boat ride,” he told us, confidently, as though we already knew about it.
We glanced at one another, then back at our new friend. “What boat ride?”
Ten minutes later, we were wandering down to the shore, where we boarded a large ferryboat just as it left for the last tour of Loch Lomond before the end of the day. We could do nothing but laugh at our good fortune, once again, as we took in our first signs of the green banks of the lake during the hour-long leisurely ride, arriving back on the mainland with every intention of finding a place to stay the night in Balloch.
If it weren’t my story, I wouldn’t believe it, but it is, so I do: we ducked into the Balloch Tourism Office just as it was closing to ask for a cheap place to stay the night, and we were sent to the Norwood Guest House, where for 22 pounds a night, we got a small and simple room with twin beds, a television, our own bathroom, and a full Scottish breakfast when we woke up to continue north with Douglas MacDougall.
It was here that our “split-second decisions” mindset truly kicked in, the perfect way to travel, providing you’re traveling with the right person. Amber and I both knew we wanted to see beautiful scenery and not spend much money; I knew that she would be fine with it if I needed to stop driving for a few moments over the course of a long day behind the wheel.
Armed with this information and a laid-back attitude about what the day might bring, we began pulling off the scenic route along the western coast of Loch Lomond at random intervals and with little to no notice, giggling gleefully every time we encountered something we liked: beautiful views over the lake from a small hill at the road’s edge, the Falls of Dochart, a tiny, ancient burial ground, the Braes of Balquhidder from a song I’ve always loved. The more we drove, the more tiny towns and impossibly green landscapes we saw, patchworks of varieties of emerald and moss, the gray lake our constant companion as we made the tour of its western coast.
There were setbacks along the way, as we grew tired and didn’t get quite as lucky as we had with Balloch in finding a town in which to spend the night, but we finally settled on Perth – a city 45 minutes from Edinburgh – and managed to make the most of it. Because when it comes to a vacation without plans, everything is a discovery, and when you find yourself, after hours on a road straight out of a rural horror movie, driving into a town where all of the hotels are full because of a random street fair, the only thing you can realistically do is laugh.