Scotland: The Invitation

Chapter 1

Hello! This is The Accidental Birder, an illustrated memoir where travel, birds, and love converge into illustrated essays. If you missed the previous chapter, go here.

I arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland, searching the crowded terminal for a man I’d only seen in photos. The sliding doors behind me closed with a soft hiss as lively swirls of airport chatter and joyous cries of reuniting loved ones filled the air. My eyes swept across the room, and I prayed I hadn’t made a mistake.

I’d connected with this man through an online dating site and had been exchanging emails and chats over the past six weeks. A week ago, I had offhandedly mentioned that I quit my job and was starting another after a short break.

“Why don’t you come here?” he said.

The invitation intrigued me, so I booked a flight to Edinburgh. My 40th birthday was approaching, and my years had taught me to tread carefully, balancing curiosity with caution. I needed to see him in person because keeping the relationship online made it too easy for someone to hide secrets.

He hurried in from the back of the crowd, flowers clutched tightly in his hand. A wave of relief washed over me as I realized he looked exactly like his photo. He was six feet tall with brown wavy hair and wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt and tan chinos. His eyes darted, searching for me, perhaps wondering if I resembled the picture I’d sent. He navigated around grandparents embracing little ones, lovers locked in kisses, and chauffeurs holding signs.

He finally saw me, paused and smiled. In an instant he stood in front of me.

“Steve?” I asked, just to make sure.

“Lisa?” he asked as he nodded.

He leaned in for a kiss, but I turned my head, offering a hug instead. Regret hit instantly as I silently berated myself for the awkwardness. After our brief embrace he smiled, warm and reassuring. It seemed I was forgiven for dodging his kiss.

“Thank you for the flowers!” I said. At the same time, he asked, “How was your flight?” My chest tightened, a tangle of nerves and excitement coursing through me. My heart raced. Our responses, “Great!” and “Of course!” overlapped in an unintentional duet. He grabbed the long handle of my wheeled suitcase, and I followed him as we escaped the buzzing commotion of airport chatter.

On the 90-minute drive to Dundee, Steve outlined an itinerary for the week. His assuring baritone voice created a sense of coziness as I looked out the window, eyes fixed on the conveyer belt of hills that passed by me, one after another. Emerald, olive, verdant, lime. Words felt inadequate to capture the endless hues of Scotland’s green.

Because 40 loomed before me, I had been determined to end a decade-long dry spell. My dating sabbatical began the day we buried my father, as I watched grief suffocate my mother. She broke down, gasping between cries, “I have lost my best friend.” In that moment, I vowed never to experience that kind of grief. Ever.

That vow shaped my life in ways I hadn't anticipated. I built walls to keep love out, mastering aloofness and keeping men only as friends in my life. It was safer to shield against the pain I had promised myself I would never feel. But now I was abandoning all of that. In the green folds of Scotland’s hills, I felt my heart begin to open—cautious and guarded, yet willing to let the possibility of something new take root.

This new-to-me country and the man beside me were landscapes I had yet to navigate, each full of promise but shadowed by doubt. I had formed an impression of him during our email exchanges, but meeting face-to-face brought everything into sharper focus, along with the weight of unanswered questions. I held my guard firmly in place.

Scotland, too, was unfamiliar territory. I could point to it on a map, but I didn’t know much more about it. When Steve invited me to visit, I spent my days obsessing over outfits and my hair rather than researching the country. I didn’t even watch Braveheart. My focus was simple: looking fantastic.

We arrived in Dundee, and as I opened the car door, church bells filled the air, their clanging resonant and exuberant, like a Bach fugue. I had completely forgotten it was Easter Sunday. As I breathed in the crisp, fresh air I couldn’t help but feel the bells were ushering in not just Easter, but my own quiet resurrection.

His 2-bedroom flat was spare, the living room reduced to a futon as a couch with no pictures or paintings on the walls. Textures and colors were a study in beige. He cooked baked chicken and salad—simple, unpretentious. We talked like old friends, our knees brushing at the tiny table as we ate, shared stories, and laughed. A wave of ease settled over me. I felt light, weightless, as if floating after a day at the spa.

He scribbled on the back of a paper napkin the week’s plans he had mentioned on the car ride. I thought, this is exactly the sort of thing I would do. Handsome, smart, funny—and organized, a note keeper. He listed villages we would visit on a road trip to the Scottish Highlands. We’d go to lighthouses and stay in B&Bs. It all sounded endlessly romantic.

The next day, Steve had to take care of some business, and suggested I take the train to explore Edinburgh on my own. I rested my head against the window, feeling the weight of the past 24 hours. The morning mist wrapped the grassy hills like a quiet veil. For a decade I kept love at arm’s length, mastering aloofness and denying vulnerability. Yet now, I could feel the walls I’d built slowly giving way. Still fighting jet lag, I closed my eyes, floating in uncertainty, like the shifting fog that drifted across the hills. Soft and impossible to hold.

It felt surreal to be here now, given where I’d been just months earlier. I had awoken enveloped in a fog of loneliness, so thick it had seemed inescapable. The shift had been sudden. The day before I hadn’t felt that way, but on that morning it was profound. My mother’s grief had left a mark on me all those years ago—not as a source of strength, but as a weight that sank deeper with time.

That morning’s desperation had nudged me to upload a photo and profile to an online dating site. I cast the net far and wide, not limiting my requirements to someone local. With a trembling click of “Submit,” I whispered to myself, “Find me.”

Steve found me all the way from Scotland, though he was Canadian, which felt equally enchanting and dashing to me. He was there, taking a break from corporate life and working on an advance degree. Emails flew back and forth over the Atlantic Ocean, culminating in his invitation for me to visit.

The train reached Edinburgh, and as I stepped into the thrumming station, the bright sun pierced through, a sharp contrast to the shrouded doubts I carried with me. The warmth sparked hope. Tentative, but enough to take my next step. Honey and gray sandstone buildings rose around me, their weathered bricks stacked like loaves of bread. A kilt-clad man played Scotland the Brave on bagpipes at the corner. I joined a stream of tourists heading to Castle Rock and the majestic Edinburgh Castle, once a military base and royal residence.

I wandered through buildings, explored rooms, and examined the big cannons stretching over the stone wall above Edinburgh. I rested on a bench in the small St. Margaret’s Chapel. Sunlight poured through stained glass, bathing the altar in warmth, as though offering a path forward. Yet my mother’s grief still hung over me. This week could be a path to disappointment, I thought.

“Don't worry about it,” a woman said behind me.

I gasped.

“Seriously, don't worry about it,” she said again. I turned around and saw two women on the bench behind me. She was not talking to me, but to her mother, who was rummaging through a purse.

I turned my attention again to the altar, awash in light. It’s where promises are made, sacred covenants sealed. Sitting there, I couldn’t ignore the weight of what I’d spent a decade avoiding: commitment. The kind that binds and breaks, the kind I feared I might never be ready to make—or survive losing.

I walked the cobblestone Royal Mile, descending to the Palace of Holyrood. With fewer tourists than Edinburgh Castle, the palace offered breathing room, inviting me to stroll unhurried through its gardens. Within the palace grounds, the roofless ruins of Holyrood Abbey came into view. The Abbey stood as a silent testament to resilience, its weathered stones a reminder that even the remnants of pain can shape the beauty of what comes next.

I boarded the train back to Dundee where Steve was waiting for me. In the station we embraced. Two strangers who had dared to take a chance, standing together at the edge of possibility.

The following morning, we drove to the Highlands under a cloudless sky. The sun stretched across the rolling hills brushed with endless shades of green. Steve held the steering wheel with one hand and my hand with the other as he turned onto a road marked “Wildlife Reserve.”

Why were we going here? I wondered. This detour wasn’t on the napkin.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Steve said. “This is Balgavies Loch. I’ve wanted to visit here.” He parked and popped opened the trunk. From the back, he took out binoculars and a spotting scope on a tripod. Slinging both on his shoulders like a seasoned explorer, he said, “This way,” and led me down a dirt path toward a small lake.

I was confused. I sifted through my memory of our correspondence and couldn’t remember if he had brought up anything that would require this type of equipment. Through our emails, we had shared about our work, our travels, and our love of classical music. He liked running. I liked indoor cycling. We both enjoyed cooking and both hated sushi. It seemed he had a hidden side.

“Where are we going?” I asked. My heart began to race a little bit. The footwear I curated for this trip was not ideal for hiking trails. Could I run away fast in these shoes? I thought.

“To see some birds,” he said grinning.

Birds? Why birds? I thought.

“You clearly do this a lot,” I said, gesturing to the equipment. “I don’t recall you mentioning this.”

“It’s not exactly the kind of thing that attracts women,” he answered.

He had been keeping a secret after all.

The trail ended at a weather-worn shack Steve called a “blind,” its creaking slats barely holding together. Inside, we sat on a bench and peered through openings in the boards to watch for birds. He raised his binoculars up to his eyes, his voice raising with excitement. “Eurasian Widgeon,” He paused. “Pink-footed Geese, some Mallards. Oh! A Tufted Duck!”

To me, they were simply ducks and geese, albeit with fancy names.

“Here, you can use these.” He handed me his binoculars and pointed toward the edge of the lake. “Can you see them?”

I’d never used binoculars before and they made me dizzy, the unfamiliar view wobbling between black nothingness and blurry outlines.

“Oh yeah! I see them,” I lied.

The next few days carried us through Scotland’s spellbinding landscapes, one marvel after another. At Dunnottar Castle, a medieval fortress perched on cliffs above the sea, Steve kissed me. I felt my own fortress begin to crumble, the sea air carrying away the last of my defenses.

In Ulapool, we stayed in a quaint bed and breakfast overlooking a pond framed by flowering trees and an English garden. Each evening we walked around the pond, holding hands as the soft hues of twilight settled over the sky. We visited Stoer Head lighthouse, designed by David and Thomas Stevenson, uncles of the author Robert Louis Stevenson. History felt alive there. Then, a sudden rain shower caught us off guard. We dashed back to the car, rain streaming down our faces, laughing as soaked clothes clung to us.

Steve drove through the rugged terrain of the Highlands, taking roads barely wide enough to fit his compact car. “The geology of Scotland is very complex,” he said, gesturing to the hills. “Continental drift, over eons of time grafted land masses onto the Highlands.” A geologist, he used scientific explanations to flirt with me, turning me into a school girl with a crush on her teacher.

As we walked beside the famous Loch Ness, he spoke about the rift valley system, unraveling mysteries that reshaped my view of the world. Through his words, I began to grasp how the earth's struggles mirrored those of life—both capable of yielding breathtaking beauty. Scotland became more than just a destination; it was a place that gently nudged me toward opening my heart to love, even at the risk of being hurt.

Our final morning, I wiped tears during the drive to the airport. I made small talk because thinking of “goodbye” hurt my heart. After I checked in with the airline, Steve held me for what felt like forever and not long enough. We finally broke apart, and I went through the sliding doors to my gate.

When the plane ascended into the skies, I gazed out the window. I thought I had come here to just rendezvous with a man, but I came away with more. Scotland's beauty unfolded everywhere. In its ancient castles and palette of greens. It lived in the rugged hills, the valleys, and the deep reflective lochs. They all witnessed the struggles, ruins, and cyclical laws of nature that make life extraordinary. Tears streaked my cheeks, carrying a weight that felt unfamiliar. It was happiness, not loss.

My vision stretched forward into an unclouded future, filled with possibility. It was like looking through that bird blind and discovering something new. I didn’t know what I was looking at exactly, but I’d heard it was exciting. What else might I dare to open?

The original version of this story, titled Scotland Rendezvous, won a 2020 Solas Award Best Travel Writing Bronze for essay/memoir category. It also won 2nd place as Best Travel Essay at the 2019 Book Passage Travel Writing and Photography Conference.