It began, as these things often do, with an innocent invitation. A birthday party, they said. A sixtieth. Family, cake, whisky, haggis—the usual. But I’ve been around long enough to know that no sane human drives twenty hours over three days into the damp, desolate void of the Highlands just for a slice of sponge and a polite round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” No. This was something else.
And so, with mild dread and a car full of snacks, we began the long drive north—up through the spine, spleen, and assorted organs of Scotland—where the sheep vastly outnumber the people, the people are starting to resemble the sheep, and the wind howls through the glens in ancient Gaelic, shrieking, “You’re not even halfway, pal.”
Crossing from South Yorkshire into Scotland didn’t take long. The border came and went. No fanfare. No bagpipes. Blink and you miss it. Then suddenly—BAM—the landscape detonated in cinematic glory. The mountains of Glencoe thrust themselves dramatically skyward, lochs glittered, and suspiciously photogenic deer frolicked with carefree entitlement. It was so idyllic it made you want to put on a robe and believe in druids again.
Then, without warning, the scene curdled. Out of the mist—like a jump scare straight from the BBC archives—appeared the infamous ruins of Jimmy Savile’s old house: a crumbling, graffiti-splattered monument to bad karma, lurking above the valley like a hangover that wouldn’t leave. It radiated an evil, toxic energy. So, we didn’t stop. We didn’t even blink. We just accelerated, hyper aware that to even look for too long might invoke a curse or a Channel 4 documentary. I couldn’t help but think, how something so grotesque could decay so cheerfully in the middle of paradise.
Daylight was retreating fast, probably to somewhere safer. And by the time we rolled into Fort William, we were being flanked by guzzling dirt bikes piloted by either local youth or a lost tribe of feral Highlanders. Hard to say. Just ahead, Ben Nevis loomed—Scotland’s biggest mountain, half-shrouded in anticipation. And beyond that, finally, our destination: Glenelg.
A tiny village clinging to the edge of the map, staring across the water at the Isle of Skye like an old friend it secretly resents.
And yet, somehow, people live there. Human beings. On purpose. The locals are merely the latest in a long line of brave or delusional settlers—following in the footsteps of Iron Age settlers who, two millennia ago, built the nearby brochs of Dun Telve and Dun Troddan —massive cylindrical stone towers—and said, in their infinite prehistoric wisdom, “Yes, this windswept rock in the middle of nowhere seems perfect. Let’s stay here. Forever.”
The further we climbed, the more the road began to lose confidence in itself. It started wide and proud, then narrowed, wobbled, and eventually crumbled into shortbread. Tourists disappeared. Hikers evaporated. Even the sheep seemed to have gone elsewhere. All that remained was what was left of the road—a thin grey line, curling through raw isolation.
Perhaps this explains why Glenelg is twinned with a remote outpost on Mars. NASA named the Martian Glenelg after this one on Earth, partly because it’s a palindrome, and partly because their rover, Curiosity, was scheduled to visit it twice: once coming, once going. A round trip to nowhere. I found that deeply relatable.
In October 2012, the villagers, in true Scottish fashion, even held a ceremony to celebrate their new interplanetary friendship, complete with a live link to NASA. It was, without question, the first and last time bagpipes have been broadcast into the void of space. Somewhere on Mars, a small, confused robot probably still twitches at the faint memory of “Flower of Scotland.”
Eventually, we screeched to a halt outside a cottage flirting with the edge of a beach, where waves lapped gently against the shore, pretending everything was perfectly normal. The setting sun poured red light over everything, tinting the world in tartan undertones.
From inside came the faint sound of someone practising a flute—the universal sign of either tranquillity or imminent nervous breakdown. Upon entering, I was instantly absorbed into a vortex of family members, passed around like a particularly bewildered parcel or a novelty relic from down south.
Each greeted me with the same warmth, the same whisky-scented hospitality, and the same oddly apologetic assurances:
“It’s not usually like this here, you know.”
“You’re really lucky.”
“Oh aye, most of the time it’s horizontal rain and the midges eat you alive.”
I nodded, smiling, wondering whether they were comforting me or themselves.
Apparently, Glenelg in winter is less a village and more a form of punishment—an annual endurance trial with frostbite and despair—only marginally more forgiving than the surface of the actual Glenelg on Mars. But right now? It was glorious. No bloodthirsty bugs, no rain, no immediate danger of hypothermia—just coastal serenity and the lingering sound of a flute still being played somewhere downstairs.
Before I could even set down my bag, someone thrust a steaming, golden slab of shepherd’s pie into my hands. A pint of locally brewed IPA materialised moments later. “And a wee dram if you like,” someone added, already pouring whisky into glasses—because in Scotland, the question is rhetorical and the glass inevitable.
By the following morning, however, the alcohol supply was under review. The situation had taken a dark turn. Some kind of cyber-attack—a phrase which sounded absurdly futuristic in a place with more cattle than routers—had crippled the entire supply chain of the already-shaky Co-op supermarket monopoly this far north. This meant the region’s alcohol reserves were in mortal danger. Quite rightly, panic ensued. A Scottish party without alcohol is, after all, an event so unthinkable it’s likely illegal under local law.
Two of us were swiftly dispatched on a heroic mission to secure backup booze, just in case the futile 70-pint keg for tonight’s party succumbed to its fate. The village shop—a structure that seemed equal parts shop, shrine, and subtle cry for help—turned out to be humming with salvation. Inside its fridge, chilled and glowing, were dozens of cans of obscure, small-batch Scottish ale. Four pounds a can. Naturally, we did the only reasonable thing. We bought fifty. Cleaned the place out completely.
The shopkeeper looked on in horror as we raided her supply like mildly apologetic Vikings, armed not with axes but with contactless payment. When we explained it was for the uncle’s birthday party, her expression softened into the serene, knowing look of someone who’s just narrowly avoided calling the authorities. Her eyes said it all: Ah. Say no more. That explains everything.
When we finally staggered back to base, the dining table was groaning under the impossible weight of a full Scottish breakfast. Not content with the English fry-up, the Scots have taken it as a starting point and said, “Aye, but what if there was more?” They take the already-lethal mix of bacon, eggs, and beans and supercharge it with haggis, Lorne sausage, tattie scones, and a faint sense of doom.
In the middle of all this came the banging. From the woods. Opposite the house. Sharp, percussive, and borderline manic. It was deeply concerning.
The uncle, who had disappeared earlier with the vague air of a man on a mission, was now out there alone in the trees—wielding power tools and apparently constructing some sort of mystery birthday contraption. I could only assume it was either a trebuchet or a death ray.
“Should we… help him?” I asked, cautiously.
“Nah,” said someone, not even glancing up from their eggs. “He loves it.”
Right. Of course.
I mean, really—what could possibly be a more sensible way to celebrate your sixtieth birthday than by marching off into the forest with an alarming quantity of industrial-grade power tools to construct something ominous that almost certainly violates several safety regulations? I tried not to dwell on it—I didn’t want to appear judgmental—but I couldn’t help quietly hoping it wasn’t the sort of “project” that ends with the villagers singing in ceremonial robes, and someone being set gently on fire for the good of the harvest.
Once we’d consumed enough greasy protein, the collective consensus was that a walk was needed—partly for digestion, partly for survival. We trudged down to the beach, where a single seal lounged on a jagged offshore rock, looking far too pleased with itself—as if it, too, were enjoying the rare spell of decent weather.
On the way, we passed several enormous wooden structures that were described to me as “sheds.” I was informed that, in Scotland, you can build a shed without planning permission. What no one mentioned was that the local definition of shed appears to include “fortified compound” and “hangar for midlife crises.” These things were super-sheds—fortresses built by men who’d clearly gone too long without sunlight, conversation, or supervision.
Beyond them, across the water, lay the Isle of Skye: spectacular, probably mythical, and faintly menacing. A little closer, the ruins of Bernera Barracks were slumping into the landscape—an 18th-century relic the British had kindly left behind after the Jacobite Uprising to “pacify the locals.” That, of course, is Empire-speak for, “We’ve beaten you into submission, and as a token of our affection, we’re leaving this ugly building here so you never, ever forget it.”
Our ultimate destination was the ferry café—a snug little establishment overlooking the MV Glenachulish, proudly advertised as “the last hand-operated steel turntable ferry in the world.” I’m sure that’s meaningful to someone, somewhere—probably a very lonely engineer. Personally, I hadn’t the faintest clue what it meant. Still, watching the ferry in motion was unexpectedly moving—if only because it looked so very surprised to be moving at all. It shuddered, groaned, and clanked across the water with all the grace of a confused mechanical crab.
When we staggered back to the house, a grand, culinary feast was unfolding. Pots bubbled, spices filled the air, and through it all, the distant hammering continued. The uncle was still out there, doing God-knows-what with planks, nails, and alarming enthusiasm. He was clearly in too deep to save now. I decided the only sensible course of action was to stop asking questions and relocate to the nearest and only pub.
Its beer garden, thankfully, was an open-air cathedral to drinking—perfectly situated between the mountains, the sea, and the kind of sunlight that feels like it’s apologising for decades of rain.
Guinness appeared. We lost two hours to its consumption. The locals raised their pints and nodded toward the rare Highland sunshine.
“Only like this today,” one of them warned, squinting suspiciously at the sun. “Never like this usually…”
They were right, of course. The sunshine felt temporary—like sitting inside a postcard that would self-destruct by morning, leaving only mist, midges, and regret. But for that one glorious moment, we were untouchable. The world was gold. The beer was cold. And for reasons I couldn’t entirely explain, I was deeply, stupidly happy to be alive in a place that felt like the edge of the Earth.
By the time we returned, the house had mutated into a full-blown birthday black hole. Time, space, and sobriety were all being sucked helplessly toward the dining room. Reality itself seemed to bend slightly at the edges. A cake shaped like a train came rolling triumphantly into the dining room, draught beer sloshed dangerously, and corks were being launched into low orbit. Three or four locals had turned up, so half the village.
The birthday meal was next.
Not one curry. Not two. Three. A holy trinity of spice, each one hotter, richer, and more suspiciously addictive than the last. These dishes were flanked by battalions of poppadoms, platoons of chutneys, and naan bread specifically engineered to soak up IPA, mop up shame, and any stray sauce that wandered too far from the plate.
I went back three times. Not because I was hungry — purely for diplomatic reasons. You don’t want to insult the host with access to industrial power tools.
Outside, the sun bled its last heroic streaks across the highlands. Inside, the table had been reduced to wreckage—plates licked clean, glasses precariously balanced, general chaos reigning supreme. And just as I thought the night had reached its natural, whisky-marinated crescendo, someone—with all the quiet gravity of a nuclear countdown—said, “It’s time.”
Ah yes. Those two words. They carried the distinct weight of impending peculiarity.
“Time for what?” I asked.
No one explained.
Without protest, I joined the family procession as it snaked single file up a grassy mound toward the woods. Toward the hammering. Toward whatever the uncle had been hammering into existence all day.
That’s when the engines started.
Growling from the shadows.
VROOOOOOOOOOOM.
The air erupted with rolling thunder—the sound of snarling engines filling the Highland dusk with a mechanical chorus of revving and grumbling. For one brief, horrifying moment, I thought Glenelg was under siege by a roving Mad Max death cult on ATVs, roaring toward us in tartan war paint with flaming bagpipes.
But no. This was something stranger.
This was cinema. Highland edition.
At the top of the hill, gleaming like an alien monolith, stood a colossal makeshift screen strapped to a towering metal rig—a kind of DIY Stonehenge of steel and questionable wiring—which looked like it had been salvaged from a Cold War radar station.
An industrial-strength projector the size of a washing machine was blasting light onto it, accompanied by a sound system powerful enough to be heard from the Isle of Skye.
On-screen: American Graffiti—blaring triumphantly across the village and, by the sound of it, possibly several more beyond that. A film about roaring engines, teenage rebellion, and warm California nights—which, given our current coordinates, seemed an odd choice.
The entire family had somehow relocated uphill—along with chairs, benches, stools, and possibly a stolen church pew—all miraculously arranged. Drinks in hand, eyes glued to the screen. Front and centre sat the uncle—architect, visionary, and possibly a madman—lost in some petrol-fuelled trance.
“That’s a 1958 Chevrolet Impala,” he murmured, pointing at the flickering screen.
We all nodded gravely, the way humans do when they’re not entirely sure what’s going on but suspect it’s terribly important.
“And that,” he continued, voice trembling, “is a 1956 Ford Thunderbird.”
The man was clearly having a transcendental experience. The rest of us hovered somewhere between admiration and the early stages of hypothermia. It was at this point that I began to wonder if the entire demonstration was less about automobiles and actually a secret religion devoted to vintage muscle cars.
As the night deepened, the roar of engines gave way to the deafening moans of Young Frankenstein, echoing through the valley and terrifying livestock for miles.
I could only pray that the legendary 96-year-old woman—the one who still swims in the freezing sea every morning and gets her post delivered by boat—didn’t hear the sounds of shrieking monsters and decide that the apocalypse had finally, and inevitably, come for Glenelg—in glorious technicolour and surround sound.
Later, the party dissolved indoors and evolved—if that’s the right word—into something resembling a Highland afterparty, or possibly a small, well-intentioned riot: music blasting, IPAs flowing, and dram after dram of whisky disappearing at a fabulous velocity.
I tried, valiantly, to keep up the pace with these people. But the cans we’d looted that morning were treacherous—disguised as cheerful friendly ales, but in truth they were strong as hell and brewed with something called bog myrtle. An ancient pagan shrub apparently worshipped by druids, feared by warlocks, and occasionally mistaken for salad by confused foragers. Someone assured me, with a knowing nod, that in large enough quantities it could be hallucinogenic. I only started to believe them after my sixth pint.
I was having the kind of deliriously good time that only comes when bog myrtle, IPA, and family-sized doses of warmth collide. I had not yet considered the horror show awaiting me tomorrow: a ten-hour, dehydrated, hungover, stomach-churning drive back to Sheffield, surrounded by the debris of snacks, sanity, and poor life choices. But that’s how Glenelg gets you.
It welcomes you in with folklore and family, feeds you with charm, curry, and motorised nostalgia, and then—while you’re laughing, sipping, and nodding politely at somebody’s aunt—slips something ancient and unexplainable into your bloodstream. Something older than hangovers or crumbling shortbread highways. Something that informed me I was not leaving here unchanged.
It was never just a party. It was a ceremony. A rite of passage disguised as a weekend away. I departed with a full belly, a fried brain, and the eerie sense that I may have passed some secret initiation test I didn’t even know I was taking. And Glenelg waved me off with a metaphorical dram and a wink, as if to say:
“You’ll be back. You just don’t know it yet.”