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.