The stars poked out between the clouds as the little Fiat full of North Americans puttered its way into the town of Ullapool. Jack, David, Chelsea and I had recently spent an exorbitant amount of time arguing over the pronunciation of Ullapool. I was pushing North Carolina phonetics, insisting that it had to be something like Oo-lip-ool, but Jack was certain it was closer to Uh-lah-poo. But David and Chelsea’s pronunciation eventually won out, mostly only because they chanted it at volume until Jack and I couldn’t help but join in. Drawing the long vowels at the beginning and end of the word out, much in the manner of a 3rd grade class Oooo-ing at their teacher for swearing, Üüü-leh-püül became the collective battle cry of our claustrophobically enclosed confederacy. As it would turn out though, Jack’s pronunciation was closest to the mark as locals actually pronounce the town name like Allah-poohl.

I’m not really sure why Ullapool was our destination. For the last couple days, Chelsea and I had been at the mercy of Jack and David’s pre-planned itinerary and whimsical travel whims in the Scottish Highlands. The trip had been a riotous adventure so far, but we now faced a major roadblock—lodging for the night. Despite the large bold print Ullapool is written in on the map, there is really not much to the little seaside town, especially during the off-season. We cruised up and down the streets in the little Fiat, pushing Caveman Dave out at every hotel, hostel, and Bed & Breakfast sign we came across to inquire about rooms for the night. After more than a few let downs, it occurred to me that sending David in to scout the accommodations might not have been the best idea. I can only imagine what went through those receptionist’s heads as big Caveman Dave came sauntering up to their desk in the middle of the night in shorts and a bowling shirt, tossing his long, damp, black hair out behind him like a plus-sized supermodel, and asking if he and his three friends could shack up in a cheap room for the night. After an hour of this, it seemed as though we had exhausted our options and we circled around to a small grocery store that was still open for an improvised dinner.

Surprisingly, the grocery store had free wifi, which let my phone quickly ping the nearest advertised accommodation a few towns over. There was a phone number listed with the hotel and I took it over to the grocery store’s customer service desk with a sympathetic look on my face and a request for a landline. The woman behind the desk was incredibly friendly, if not a wee bit difficult to understand. She seemed adamant that Ullapool could accommodate my friends and I on short notice. She called two more women over the grocery store intercom to assist us. The three of them talked excitedly amongst themselves, steadily increasing their rate of speech and turning the Scottish accent up to eleven as they did. Finally, one of them bounced on her feet and turned to me beaming and said in slightly less rapid Scottish, “Sa bituva longshot but ya can tryn give me mam’s friend’s sister’s neighbor a ring—ifn acourse she’s upn about this time ‘o night, and ifn acourse she’s keen on takin guests at the mo—and ifn acourse she’s even still livin—she’s an ulder lady see, bit of a shut in…”

But as it turns out, that older lady alive, awake, and quite keen on having guests in her B&B during the slow season. We got her address from the grocery store employees, whom we thanked profusely for going above and beyond their call of duty to help us. When we rolled up to the quaint little Scottish home, a little old lady guided our Fiat into a side lot with a flashlight the size of a baseball bat. She was warm and friendly despite the late hour and gave us a tour of the bed and breakfast. She showed us to our rooms; Chelsea and I would share the downstairs suite while Jack and David bunked in a room with two twin size beds on the second floor. The old woman said goodnight and left us with the crucial information that there was probably not much hot water left in the tank and that we might wait until morning for hot showers. There was a Mexican standoff of sorts in the hallway as Jack, David, Chelsea and I stood staring at each other in silence, waiting for imaginary tumbleweeds to clear. The four of us had spent the day hiking in the rain and were now sticky with dried sweat, blood, and tears—all of us in desperate need of bathing. The land lady’s door clicked shut behind us, and there in the hallway, all hell broke loose. Everyone scrambled over each other in a hilarious brawl to make it to their respective bathrooms first to use up the remaining hot water. I heard Jack and David turn on shower and bathtub simultaneously upstairs as I clambered into the shower with my socks still on. The handle inside was so outrageously foreign and complicated that by the time I figured it out, only freezing cold water was left.

The next morning got to a slow start. After sleeping in, Chelsea and I took full advantage of the refilled hot water tank before finding our way to the breakfast nook. Our host was noticeably upset about us being so late to breakfast—it was scheduled for 8am and we arrived at 8:30. She had given our eggs away to Jack and David, and she seemed personally offended when Chelsea waved off the black pudding and sausages, asking instead about vegetarian options.

The setting was quaint and homey, but the atmosphere was feeling decidedly uncomfortable as the woman closely watched us eat without a word from the kitchen. I wondered if all the commotion last night and avaricious use of her hot water had put her off. I felt a little guilty since she had been so warm and welcoming last night. We paid the bill and went about exploring Ullapool.

Our first stop was a Laundromat where we paid 11 pounds to have all of our wet and dirty clothes—basically everything the four of us owned—loaded into an industrial washing machine. We were told to return in a couple hours to collect everything, dried and ironed. Our next stop was an outdoor shop where David and I both bought new pairs of boots to replace the sorry, soggy veterans currently laced to our feet. I bought a pair of marked down Karrimors, British-made trail runners that would hopefully prove to be more waterproof than the Honda boots I kindly asked the cashier to throw away in the store. With my wonderful new pair of dry, comfortable boots strapped to my feet, we moved on to the post office to mail some accumulated postcards. While standing in the post office queue (that’s a line for you Americans), I made some small talk with a Santa- Clause-looking man in a checkered shirt the size of a picnic blanket. He turned out to be the editor and chief of the local newspaper who, upon learning that I had studied journalism, promptly offered me a job. “Does it pay okay?” I asked him in all seriousness. “Ooh no, laddy I’m afraid it doesn’t pay much at all,” he responded with a solemn shake of his head. I smiled and accepted his card anyway, considering for a moment how novel living as a humble newspaperman in Ullapool, Scotland would be.

Chelsea and I split away from Jack and David to explore the harbor-side shopping street on our own. We walked hand in hand, the cool sea wind at our backs and the warm November sun on our faces. We ducked in and out of a variety of places, from bookshops and candle emporiums, to soap boutiques and kilt fitters. Ullapool was a culture-packed wonder to walk through. We hopped a half-hearted barricade at the docks and strode along the waters edge as fishermen and ferrymen hurried around us with coils of rope and wheelbarrows full of ice. Nobody bothered us. The Atlantic-fed bay spread out before us, sapphire blue water swirling like blown glass around the dock posts. We sat and admired how the wake of each passing boat distorted reflections of puffy white clouds. Time wrapped itself around a perfect moment. It was a beautiful morning.

We reunited with Jack and David by the Fiat and left Ullapool in our rearview. The next destination on the guys’ itinerary was an offshore cave somewhere further north in the highlands. The drive was longer than they expected though, and as Chelsea and I dozed in the backseat, they bickered between themselves whether the address in the GPS was accurate or not. It wasn’t. When I woke up from my long nap, we were parked in the middle of a grassy meadow with nothing but a farmhouse on the horizon. The GPS proudly proclaimed “You have reached your destination!” So after some discussion, we rerouted back south toward Inverness. At the doorstep of the Inverness backpacker’s hostel, where our band of four amigos had met just a few days earlier, Chelsea and I said goodbye to Jack and David with heavy hearts. As we watched the Fiat putter it’s way toward a sign marked Glasgow, we felt the full weight of the packs on our backs for the first time in days.

The Inverness Backpacker’s hostel was booked solid for the next couple nights, but the friendly Polish receptionist called around and found us a private room at another hostel across town, cleverly named for copywrite reasons I’m sure, the Inverness BAZpacker’s hostel. Chelsea and I were delighted by this development. We checked in and immediately liked the ambiance of the Bazpacker’s hostel. It was an old building with a lot of stonework. There was a roaring fire in the middle of a cozy common room decorated by a small fortune in international currencies. Our room was on the second floor and had an amazing view of the Inverness Castle, which was lit up like a beacon under the night sky. Cue fireworks.

An otherwise unassuming date to your average American and Canadian, the 5th of November marks an important celebration in Great Britain of Guye Fawkes’ failed attempt to bomb parliament. Chelsea and I enjoyed front row seats to the impressive fireworks display over the castle from our hostel window. The fireworks went on for ages, with a fake finale before the real finale. Even after the display was over, people in the streets continued to fire off all manner of ordinance. I for one, will not be forgetting the 5th of November anytime soon.