Always on Tyne.

Not New Church.

Newcastle, England – I hopscotch, trying to not step onto tombstones.

Several set into the Newcastle Cathedral floor date back to the 15th and 16th centuries – 400 or so years after the church was founded. 

Their carvings have been softened by countless people literally stepping through history. 

Today, several people are tucked into sleeping bags in the corners, stained glass painting them in blinks of colour. It’s the only cathedral in England whose patron saint is St. Nicholas, who, in addition to bringing presents to children, apparently protects sailors and boats.

A list of every church organist since 1508 hangs from one of the pillars, which is astounding. The place is a virtual history book hewn from stone, marble and glass.

And yet, it’s a bit of an anachronism.

Soft light flickers from a large multimedia display that provides history lessons about the town's rogues through the ages.

And an inflatable dragon stands, grinning, in the middle of the floor.

Kept.

The new view.

Newcastle, England – The train doors open with a shiver of damp, grey chill.

Somehow, 12 degrees here is far cooler than the eight we enjoyed under the Arctic sun.

Rain caught up to us as we climbed the steep, smoothed stairs of the city’s namesake new castle, which was nearly demolished in the 1840s to make way for trains. Instead, the tracks carved through the walls, between the Black Gate and the keep. I’m glad they kept it.

Despite the monochrome day, views from the top were well worth the ascent.

But, we need to warm up.

Stepping into Grainger Market is like entering a time capsule. When it opened in 1835, it was the largest covered market in Europe.

Cut to the chase.

It’s still home to the world’s smallest Marks and Spencer's – the last remaining Penny Bazaar – whose burgundy and gold storefront has been painstakingly maintained since the store opened in 1895. Many of the newer shops share a similar aesthetic, sporting hand-painted lettering over curved glass.

A wok sizzles. We're greeted by shifting aromas of curry, flowers, shaving cream and fish. Vintage clothing shops take you back....all the way to the 1990s.

The market is a simple joy to walk through.

Its warmth is about far more than temperature.

Close Call.

Trust me, I'm not a church.

Edinburgh, Scotland – A Gothic spire rises from the heart of the Royal Mile like a singed needle.

Striking red shutters hang from it like jewels, which seems incongruous for an old church.

Except it’s neither particularly old, nor a church.

Built in the mid-19th century, the Hub is now a public arts and events space cloaked as a house of worship. It was constructed as a meeting hall for the Church of Scotland, and has hosted congregations over the years, but was never actually consecrated.

It still feels weird to sip beer in the courtyard.

Advocate's Close.

Initially unable to find tickets to Edinburgh Castle, we wandered the length of the mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the official residence of the British monarch in Scotland. Naturally, it’s closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 

Back uphill.

With each creaky step, centuries of history whisper to me through the many closes that branch off like fish bones. But I also feel – far too closely – the present. Crowds jostle past in the heat as they inch up the cobblestone road, which is stitched with countless tourist shops offering scotch, colourful wools and tweeds.

It’s a different version of close.

Mid-way, some good news. A bus tour provider sells us tickets to the castle, which looms above, perched on the edge of an extinct volcano – people have lived on this rock for at least 3,000 years. It’s a steep walk up to the iconic structure, which is braced by multiple layers of defences.

Top of the rock.

I can’t imagine making the trek in armour, let alone with arrows and cannon firing around me. And at me.

We’re rushed through a thick safe door and past the Scottish Crown Jewels, then to a small room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to her son, James, who would eventually unite the British and Scottish crowns, in 1603. 

Forlorn school groups mope in queue.

In the prison, we find graffiti scratched onto the walls and doors. Some of it dates back to the 1700s, including one of the earliest depictions of the American flag. Some things never change.

At 4 p.m., our first rain of the entire trip. 

Stone gargoyles become fountains, spitting on us from overhead. Time to pop into the Ensign Ewart for a dram and a pint.

After all, there has been a pub here since 1680.

Kilty Pleasures.

Scotch on the rocks.

Kirkwall, Scotland – Fog rolls in fast, like an early cinema reel.

For an hour, history fades into nature, only to be re-illuminated by yet another day of sun. This isn’t the Scotland I’ve heard so much about.

Having similarly faded into history, the Bishop’s and Earl’s Palaces stand as hollow sheaves of their former grandeur. The former was built in the 1100s – no wonder its ruins are dark, cold and empty. Long open to the elements, only whispers of ornate stonework remain around the fireplaces in the grand hall.

Stone ribs are all that remain of the two buildings.

Across the street, a massive, red sandstone structure looms over the city. It's far more intact.

A little dead out this morning.

Dating back to the same time, St Magnus Cathedral is both the oldest cathedral in Scotland and the northernmost in the United Kingdom. Now a parish church of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, it’s technically no longer a cathedral. 

Semantics.

Following tiny Medieval roads that spread out like spider webs, we're greeted by the golden aroma of fry grease. A chippie is a must.

Leaning against a stone wall in the alley, we tuck into into a tray of glistening fish and chips from the Happy Haddock. A fried ball of haggis comes in a paper bag. 

It's my first, and gummier and more seasoned than I had imagined.

A Dark Island Reserve from Orkney Brewery washes it down.

Haggis and a scotch barrel-aged beer – Scottish enough for you?

Where's my kilt?

No Words.

Rolling, rolling Shetland.

 

Huffin' and Puffin.

Pony, Pony.

Shetland, Scotland – Stepping to the fence, we’re greeted by a small snort.

More of a sniffle, really.

While much shorter, Shetland ponies are a little like Fabio: extremely strong, with long, flowing manes. No, they're not what Shetland sweaters are made of.

Single-lane roads carry us through stretches of peat, rock and the brightest greens I've ever seen. The landscape is a Tic-Tac-Toe board of crumbling foundations and lines of stone pressed into endless fences.

They could have been built at any point in history.

Neolithic. Bronze Age. Iron Age. Picts. Vikings. Romans. Or pretty much any other age you casually flip past in a history book – it's all here. At Jalshof, you can walk through 4,000 years of human settlement. An archaeologist's dream.

The island is history, wrapped in endless, rolling pastures.

Much of it has been scattered to the sheep.

Much ado about Puffin.

The hills are salt-and-peppered with thousands of them. Wool is strewn across the grass like dandelion fluff, providing pillows for countless dozing lambs, legs akimbo.

Heading south, the morning's shifting, moody greys give way to blue. A dozen Grey and Harbour seals take full advantage, sunning on the beach, seemingly pumped full of air.

We narrowly miss the gate closing for an incoming plane as we cross the Sumburgh Airport runway, which stretches across the road.

Arriving at the 200-year-old Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, we're greeted by a distinctive stench. It makes being out of breath from the hike up that much more unpleasant. 

Built atop 300-foot cliffs, the lighthouse is home to a nature reserve, where thousands of seabirds nest in the craggy rock. Guillemots whistle. Kittiwakes and Fulmars flip about, trying to get our attention.

But everyone's focused on the Puffins.

Ensnared.

Drumming up business.

Bodø, Norway – Church bells chime, their tinkles and dings giving rise to a five-minute song.

With a rumble, rows of women in bowler hats and black wool overcoats drum along. A clash of cymbals welcomes the Arctic sun.

We’ve followed 35 members of the Bodø Paradekorps from the city centre with unexpected excitement. Who had "parade" on their bingo cards?

I hadn't had high hopes for Bodø, which is nestled right above the Arctic circle and is far more modern than most Norwegian towns we've visited. It's not particularly beautiful, but large pieces of street art add splashes of colour.

A stark clock tower stands beside the concrete cathedral, as does the detached tower of town hall, which is linked only by a small bridge. It's like the crane never showed up. 

A spray of colour amidst the concrete.

At the harbour, young men teeter into a floating sauna. Another sells fresh shrimp from his boat.

Two large mesh fish greet us, mouths agape, as we stumble upon a pop-up art exhibition. A DJ blips and bloops. We clap politely during introductions, not understanding a word. We blend in like watercolours.

I’ve tucked my expectations of the town back into my pocket.

Bodø is, apparently, a European capital of culture for 2024 — the northernmost one ever. It seems there has been a “northernmost” of everything on this trip.

Add in a landscape hemmed in by towering mountains, and a sky that melts into a darker blue sea, and it has been a fantastic day.

Travel is so often about these unexpected moments and unforeseen experiences.

It's a reminder to keep an open mind, and to be willing to explore.

Thank you, Bodø.