Two separate events have had me thinking about Scotland in the winter lately. The first was looking at the snowy Pasadena peaks last week while driving in to work. It reminded me of my first trip to the Highlands: it was a cold morning in late February, my old co-worker David OG and I were fast asleep, and we heard a banging on our hotel room doors. It was the inn owner, letting us know that we had better get on the road north fast as there was a storm coming to the Cairngorms. We heeded his advice and no sooner were we on the road, headed over the mountain pass, when we heard on BBC radio that a truck had jackknifed due to the snow, closing off the entire road north. We had just made it.

The other event was a recent conversation with a friend about post-COVID dreams. She wanted to go to Paris in the summer of 2021 and I told her: 1) that’s probably not going to happen, and 2) she should think about going in the winter, when she could have the city to herself. Having been many times, my wife and I have come to appreciate the solitude, the access and the ease of January in Europe (not to mention the price). All you need is a down jacket and you’re fine. You wear the same black jeans every day, throw on that North Face coat with real feathers inside it, and you get to see the Mona Lisa whenever you want—no one standing in your way. The same goes for Scotland. The northern United Kingdom is beautiful in the spring, glorious in the summer, bucolic in the fall, and absolutely underrated in the winter.

Scotland is breathtaking on a beautiful spring morning. That being said, I’ve never enjoyed drinking Scotch whisky more than on a cold, rugged, grey-skied day along the Scottish seaside; the wind whipping off the waves and the smell of sea salt strong in my nostrils. Scotland’s whisky tourism is not what it was ten years ago, when you could waltz into a distillery on a whim and get a personalized tour from the master distiller. Today, single malt tourism is big business and—during the spring/summer months—you’re often lucky if you can squeeze your way into the general group exhibitions (but who can say what it’s going to be like now). I was talking with friends who had gone to Islay in the fall of 2019, and they were complaining about the lack of customer service. I read between the lines. What they really meant was: the entire island was packed, there was nowhere to stay, and having come all the way from California we didn’t get any special treatment whatsoever.

Go to Islay in winter, however, and you’ll get treated like royalty. Make your appointments in advance, book your lodging from wherever you want, and you can expect every distillery to roll out the red carpet because you’ll likely be the only visitor they get that day. The same goes for just about everywhere else in the country. I remember visiting Glenmorangie in the dead of winter, a parka hood sealed tightly around my ears, as we took a morning stroll along the North Sea coast. It was freezing, but it was also utterly beautiful. It felt like we were the only people on Earth, allowed private access to an iconic distillery and its sweeping guesthouse grounds. Ditto for our trip that year to Glenfarclas. There was snow everywhere, the wind was howling through the dunnage warehouses, and we were pulling cask samples with our fingers half frozen. But that was half the fun! Looking back, it was one of the best days of my career.

A drive to Campbeltown from Glasgow is majestic on a crisp spring morning, but it’s just as romantic on a dreary winter’s day. The contrast of grey and green along the maritime setting and the low lighting from the cloud bank can make for something out of an old Gothic novel. Get yourself in the right mindset and you can pretend you’re in your own swashbuckling adventure, taking the long and winding road through the elements before warming up with a wee dram at the local seaside pub. Try and do that in the spring and you’ll find yourself smashed in alongside a dozen Swedes, ten Germans, and a couples retreat from Denmark. But make the trip in January, and you’ll be telling jokes with the locals, getting the lowdown from the pub owner himself.

Digging through some old photos this morning, I’m feeling very nostalgic; but I’m not longing for a cold beer in a packed inn on a sunny Scottish day. I’m longing for a dram of Bowmore on a freezing Islay evening with the warm glow of the Lochside Hotel around me. I’m thinking of a foggy hike in the morning through the nearest peat bog, or a rainy drive through Glasgow as we dive into a spot in Finnieston for haggis and mashed potatoes. Traveling in the winter months isn’t for everyone, but it’s becoming more of an ideal for me personally. Like I told my friend, I’d rather be cold in an empty Paris than be hot, humid, and stuck with a miserable tour group at every turn.

-David Driscoll