Scrabster

Tucked away on the rugged northern coast of Scotland-so far north you'll half-expect to spot vikings cruising past-sits the Castle of Mey, a delightfully eccentric fortress once home to none other than Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother. Think Downton Abbey meets Braveheart, with a dash of eccentric royal aunt charm. This windswept stone estate is steeped in history, refurbished by the Queen Mother herself after she purchased it in 1952-apparently charmed by its scruffy stubbornness, or possibly just because it was blissfully far from Buckingham Palace intrigues. Plan your visit between late spring and early autumn, when the hardy roses in the walled garden are bravely defying the biting Scottish breeze and the distant Orkney Islands hover atmospherically on the horizon. Booking a day or two in advance isn't crucial but strongly advised if you wish to avoid rogue busloads of tartan-clad retirees. Bring a warm jacket, sturdy shoes, and about £15-£20 per person for entry-and maybe a little extra for tea and scones, because royal history just tastes better with jam. Even if castles aren't your thing, a pilgrimage to Mey promises witty guides, scandalous whispers of royal eccentricities, and postcard-perfect seaside melancholy. Besides, how often can you casually drop into dinner conversations that you once sauntered around a Scottish castle fit for the Queen Mother herself?

At the windswept northern edge of Scotland in Wick, where seabirds outnumber humans and the air tastes suspiciously of salt and adventure, you'll find the Old Pulteney Distillery-a scrappy maritime outpost determined to bottle the wild Atlantic. Stepping inside feels a bit like stumbling onto the stage set of an 18th-century rum-running operation, minus the scurvy. Go mid-morning when your palate can still decipher subtleties, and your guide isn't yet exhausted from correcting tourists' pronunciation of "Pulteney." Book ahead at least a week, especially in summer, and bring around £20-£25-plus extra cash if you inevitably succumb to purchasing that irresistibly obscure "Distillery Exclusive" bottling. Keep a warm jacket handy (remember, this is northern Scotland-sunny optimism won't keep the chill away) and perhaps a notebook to jot down tasting notes you'll probably never reread (but will smugly reference at dinner parties). Even if you don't leave with a newfound expertise in malted barley or a bottle that tastes suspiciously like sea spray and driftwood, you'll gain bragging rights-because honestly, how many of your friends have tasted whisky brewed practically within splashing distance of the North Sea?

Surfing at Thurso East isn't your typical hang-ten-and-tan-in-the-sun kind of scene. Perched precariously at the northern tip of Scotland, where the Atlantic's icy fingers slap sharply against Europe's edge, Thurso East has long drawn a ragtag tribe of wetsuited warriors chasing some of the continent's most coveted waves. Legend has it that in the '70s, pioneering surfers braved hypothermia and skeptical locals alike-think grizzled fishermen shaking their weathered heads at wetsuit-clad adventurers-to stake their claim in these waters. Today, rookies and pros mingle amicably, bound by mutual bravado, thick neoprene, and the irrefutable insanity it takes to dive into North Sea surf before breakfast. Aim for early morning, when the sun just nudges above the horizon, turning the frigid waves into a blissful, shimmering playground-provided you bring boots, gloves, and enough thermal protection to convince your limbs they're actually surfing in Morocco. Book your surf gear and lessons a few days ahead, budgeting around £40-£80 for rentals and instruction. Sure, your extremities might go temporarily numb and your dignity might get stripped bare by a wave or three-but surfing Thurso East is worth every shiver-filled second. After all, catching a wave at the top of the world is something you can casually drop into conversations for decades: "Did I ever tell you about the time I willingly threw myself into Arctic waters just for fun...?"

At the windswept tip of Scotland's northern edge, where the restless waves crash angrily against crumbling sandstone cliffs, you'll find Holburn Head Lighthouse-a stubbornly cheerful beacon amid this gloriously moody Scottish drama. To call this a mere hike undersells the vaguely life-threatening thrill of edging around vertigo-inducing cliffs, gusts of wind gleefully trying to snatch your hat, dignity, or entire person away. Go early morning or early evening-when the sun hangs low, painting cliffs in gold and softening seabird screams into ambient soundtrack rather than Hitchcockian menace. Plan loosely, a day or two ahead-this isn't a Disney attraction; nobody's fighting you for tickets. Budget? Practically nothing besides decent shoes, snacks, and a sturdy jacket; though perhaps factor in enough afterwards for a stiff whisky or two at a Scrabster pub to steady your nerves. And if you happen to spot seals lounging aloofly on rocky outcrops, eyeing you with casual judgment, remember: no adventure worth recounting ever came without a skeptical audience.

Venturing up to the remote Orkney Islands overnight feels like stumbling onto Scotland's unruly, fresh-faced cousin-not quite Nordic, not entirely Scottish, but a ruggedly charming fusion that insists on marching to its own fiddle tune. Picture yourself boarding a ferry at dusk from the Scottish mainland (book weeks ahead, trust me; last-minute spontaneity is rarely rewarded here), as the lingering twilight bathes stone circles and Neolithic tombs in soft shades of whisky amber and heather purple. With sheep outnumbering humans and pubs outnumbering churches, Orkney's quirky vibe wraps around you like a woolen jumper knitted by a slightly tipsy aunt. Aim to arrive in the early evening to catch an impromptu ceilidh, fueled by local Highland Park whisky, then rise early enough to dodge the midday coach tour hordes at Skara Brae-an astonishingly intact prehistoric village older than the Egyptian pyramids, rubbing your nose in humanity's fleeting insignificance. Pack a warm coat (even summer's wind bites), expect to spend around £150-£200 for a stress-free overnight stay including meals, bed, and a dram or two, and above all, bring a sense of humor-Orcadians appreciate laughter as much as they do endurance of their famously fickle weather. Even if you return bleary-eyed and windswept, your liver a bit malt-seasoned and mind slightly boggled by millennia-old mysteries, you'll show up at home with one hell of a story-it's not every weekend you swap pints with a sheep farmer whose ancestors were pillaging Vikings.