My Wee Backpack o’ Stories from Travelling

Estonia served up medieval magic wi’ a side of bafflin’ quirks. Tallinn’s Old Town had me half-expecting a knight to stroll past, while Stroomi Rand’s beach barbecues proved Estonians grill like Vikings (dill-crusted everything, naturally). Between pints of a le Coq and Saku (brewery names that raised my eyebrows higher than their stacked winter snow walls), I developed new hobbies: 1) giggling like a teen when locals said ‘twelve months’ (google it and try it), and 2) surviving cheese soup so thick it could double as mortar. And let’s no’ forget those endless summer days, strollin’ home at midnight in broad daylight, wonderin’ if time had actually stopped. Tech hub by day, dill-covered wonderland by night, Estonia, you glorious oddball.

Och, Innsbruck, how I miss ye! Those heart-stopping Alpine views, the seasons that actually behaved themselves, and folk who thawed from frosty tae friendly once they sussed ye weren’t a total numpty. The winter markets were pure magic: glühwein spiked wi’ rum, Wiener Würstel buried under curry sauce and chips (aye, really), and wheat beer that put all others tae shame. Craziest bit? In 14 years o’ global gallivantin’, I’ve yet tae find pizza tae rival Pizza Crocodiles, that place was chefs kiss, rain or shine. From hiking peaks (nearly whistled Sound of Music till mountain goats judged me) tae the Alpine Zoo (just up the road!), every memory’s a gem. Only gripe? Sundays, Might as well have been the apocalypse nae shops, nae excitement, just you and yer regrets.

Och, Malta, I might’ve given ye a hard time, but let’s be honest: ye were pure magic when ye weren’t doing yer best Chronicles of Riddick impersonation. That heat? Brutal. opening the door in the morning, it felt like l was opening the Ark on Indiana Jones, face melting. But the Cisk beer? Malta’s answer to Tennent’s (same colours and all) canny argue wi’ that. The food? Top-tier. Waterside eateries, fresh catches, and oh man the strawberry daiquiris. Happy hour meant two fishbowl-sized drinks for the price of one, and aye, I absolutely looked like a legend sippin’ them. Pro tip: drink fast before they turn to soup. Malta felt like stepping into a time machine set to 1985, random daytime fireworks (were they real? Still no’ convinced), coastal roads made for postcards, and sights like the Azure Window (RIP), Popeye Village (surreal but brilliant), and that unreal Blue Lagoon. Only regret? Never tried the national dish. Rabbit. Because I never saw a single one. Plenty o’ cats, though coincidence? Dodged that culinary bullet, lads. Still, Malta ye were a riot. Even Knife City (cough Hamrun cough) couldn’t scare me off. Miss ye, ya mad wee island.

Spain, ye were a sun-soaked dream wi’ just enough chaos tae keep things spicy. Living at the Gibraltar border (La Línea, if we’re bein’ fancy) felt like a Mediterranean Port Glasgow…but wi’ better weather and significantly fewer seagulls. Aye, the towns were sleepy, the beaches bonnie, and the jamon? Pure heaven on a plate. I’d sell my left foot for another slice o’ that salty perfection. The best place for a good grill is hands doon ‘La Chacra Tapas Grill’, still no’ found a place in Europe to rival this place, Japan is an exception and no in Europe. Mornings meant café de leche and porra de rueda (fried dough sticks, because why not start the day in a carb coma?), and I gulped fresh orange juice like citrus crazed vampire. The rhythm of life here? Magic. Shops closin’ for siesta, reopenin’ at 7pm, and suddenly the streets were alive till midnight, a constant fiesta, just wi’ more tapas and fewer hangovers (well, sometimes). Spain, ye taught me tae slow down, eat well, and nap harder. Miss ye, ya glorious, sun-drenched rascal.  

Norway served up fjords so bonnie they’d make a grown Scot weep, when I wasn’t too busy freezing my kilt off, that is. Between hiking Kjerag (cramps midway, because of course my ego told me “it’s just a casual hike” reality 5 kilometres of terrain l still have nightmares about it. Probably a route used to train hardened soldiers.), white knuckling winter roads, and gawping at coastal vistas, I learned two things: 1) Norwegians treat rakfisk and pinnekjøtt like Christmas religion, and 2) their adult parties run on a diet of pizza, hotdogs, and burgers. Fair play, but my first invite had me double-checkin’ if I’d wandered into a 12-year-old’s birthday. Still, when the scenery’s this staggering, who’s complainin’ about the carb-loaded hospitality?

Japan might be the Land of the Rising Sun, but for this Scotsman, it was more like the Land of ‘Whit’s That?!’ A glorious chaos of neon streets, tranquil temples, and me, perpetually one bow behind in etiquette. Between unwillingly eating chicken butt and getting stuck on the train by missing my stop three times due to too much whisky, I discovered a country that’s equal parts futuristic and timeless (That would explain the fax machines). Turns out, when you wear a kilt in Ginza, you’re basically a walking tourist attraction. Arigato for the memories, and the patient locals who tolerated my ‘sumimasen’-filled existence!