It’s the most pathetic reason ever for taking an overseas trip! I need one more flight to earn enough airmiles to retain my Premier 1K status with United for 2026. Such things are important when you travel as much as I do for business. And, to be honest, I’ve gotten used to the level of service you receive when you reach “God” status.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Nicol. My name is Judy; I’m the chief purser on your flight today. How would you like me to refer to you?”
“Oh… just James.”
(You can see the surprise—and a hint of inverse snobbery—in her eyes. I’m sure some passengers demand far more deference, such as “your high-pooh-bah.”)
“Well, don’t hesitate to let me know if I can do anything for you.”

Shallow, I know. But I’m beginning to understand how billionaires get used to that kind of treatment. Leaning in (as they say) to that shallowness, I thought: well, if I have to make a trip, let’s make a trip.

Where to, then? Mentally running through my bucket list, I stopped at “see an Old Firm game.” Yeah, okay—that sounds good. It’s been three years since I was last home! I could practically smell the Scottish air in my nostrils just at the thought. And it would be good to finally meet my grand-nephew, Jax, already 18 months old.

And with that rationalization lodged firmly in my head, what started as a simple trip to earn some airmiles turned into a week-long football adventure. Sadly, the timing didn’t work out for an Old Firm game, but none the less, I’ll make a pilgrimage to Ibrox to see the Rangers. And then on to see both Uniteds: the one in Manchester, whom I’ve obsessed over for years, and my first true love, Ayr. That it’s completely the wrong time of year to visit Scotland—cold, damp, and with the sun barely above the horizon for eight hours a day—matters not.

Following the success of our Chilean adventure earlier in the year, I thought: why not bring Andrew along for the ride? (Elaine was a firm no… all that way, at this time of year, with Christmas just around the corner!) Andrew, as it turned out, was an easier sell. It was the prospect of the food: (proper) bacon rolls, full Scottish breakfast, (proper) fish and chips, Scotch pies, Quavers, and Irn-Bru. Yes—I think that’s the precise order in which he listed them. Memories of many happy visits with Nanny and Pappa as a wee boy. He didn’t even hesitate.

To add insult to the audacity of the original idea, I used some of our Premier 1K status to upgrade us to business class for the trip. At the time, I was appalled at myself for such an unnecessary extravagance. But the look on his lordship’s face—“lording” it up in the big, comfy seats at the pointy end of the plane—made it entirely worthwhile. The cat that got the cream!

As it turned out, we would come to truly appreciate the business-class treatment when our connecting flight from Washington Dulles to Edinburgh was delayed three hours by a technical fault. The airline handled the situation perfectly, but the frustration was far easier to endure with that first-class comfort smoothing the way.

Except, that is, for one flight attendant. She was very pleasant and very efficient, but it’s been a while since I’ve heard someone refer to Andrew in the third person. “Can I get you something to drink James? And what would he like?”

The glib response would have been, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” But over the years I’ve learned that a subtler approach works just as well. So each time she did it, I simply turned to Andrew, relayed the question, and let him answer for himself.

By the time we landed, she’d figured it out, and the two of them were getting along like a house on fire. I suppose a Down’s man in business class isn’t something she encounters every day, so it turned into a bit of a teaching moment!

The delay aside, the journey itself was unremarkable, and just six hours and forty-five minutes later—barely enough time for a nap—we broke through the clouds and Scotland appeared. Even after all these years away, that first glimpse still chokes me up. To be honest, from that altitude, the view isn’t particularly striking. Under the grey clouds, the country can seem rather drab, even featureless. But it’s that particular shade of green, the geometry of the landscape, the contours of the rolling hills, the silhouette of the Pentlands on the horizon, and perhaps most of all the fingerprint of those little communities below that define it for me—home. There’s simply nowhere else like it.

Although I’m not so sure about the proliferation of renewable energy in the hills approaching Edinburgh—evidence of a more modern, progressive Scotland—I can’t help but marvel at it. I get the wind farms perched on the tops to catch the incessant breeze, but I have to admire the optimism of whoever installed acres of solar panels!

Edinburgh is the gateway to Scotland nowadays, and it’s always good to get home. But the airport itself offers a rather poor first impression. I doubt it’s been much updated in the last fifty years, with its aging décor and poorly maintained walkways. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and, of course, Scotland’s beauty truly shines once you leave the airport. But having passed through countless airports around the world, EDI just leaves me feeling a bit sad. First impressions count, and in my opinion, we could do better!

If the structure left much to be desired, I immediately knew I was home thanks to the characters who work there. The accents, the way of being, the inherent “niceness” of the staff—it all shines through and instantly reminds me of who I truly am. It was the wee woman at the currency exchange desk who really brought me home. Everywhere else in the world, currency staff are hidden behind glass, very transactional: they give you dollars, euros, yen, pesos, whatever. But this wee lady could have been my mum. Just sitting behind the desk, smiling: “How was the flight? Where do you live? Oh, you’re just here for a visit? Is this your boy?”

The transaction may have taken a few more minutes than elsewhere, but by the time I left with my £££, I already had a new best pal—and I’d only been back in the country five minutes.

While I was conducting my business, Andrew was working on his own transaction. Beside the currency exchange was a Sainsbury’s Local—a convenience store stocked with everything a prodigal son needs to feel at home again: Irn-Bru and Quavers. First two items checked off his culinary to-do list! (I had a Wispa—the UK has an entirely unreasonable number of chocolate bars!)

Frankly, I don’t remember much about the hour-long Uber ride to the hotel. The road passed through those pretty Pentland hills—so prominent from the sky—but I was far too tired to appreciate them. Andrew slept. I dozed.

It wasn’t until we reached the outskirts of Glasgow that I perked up, the familiar streets coming back to me even after all these years. I was amused, though, that it took another twenty minutes to get to the hotel thanks to the labyrinth of one-way streets. I’m sure it wasn’t like that back in the day. As the driver wended his way through endless rat-runs and alleyways, it honestly felt at times as though you couldn’t get there from here.

But eventually we arrived, and after another nice wee chat, this time with the young woman on reception, we tumbled into our room and briefly argued over who deserved the much-needed shower first. Oh to feel human again after that long journey.

And a nice cup of tea and a wee biscuit. I’ve travelled the world and there’s no place other than the UK that provides a wee biscuit to have with the tean and coffee in your room. And in this case, a uniquely Scottish Tunnocks’ wafer, one of my favorites, to make me feel really at home!

The hardest part of international travel is resisting the temptation to lie down for “just a quick nap.” That well-intentioned 30 minutes can so easily turn into two or three hours, killing any chance of a quick adjustment to jet lag. So after a shower and a brief rest—just as my willpower began to crumble and my eyes started to flutter—I forced myself upright and implored Andrew to do the same. No easy feat, as my young compatriot was practically dead on his feet. But I insisted, and after bundling ourselves up against the cold, we set off into the city which, with the sun setting so early at these northern latitudes, was already shrouded in darkness. (Fun fact: Scotland sits as far north as Hudson Bay and Siberia. Were it not for the warming influence of the Gulf Stream, the place would be frozen tundra most of the year.)

It’s been over forty years since I last routinely patrolled these streets on a Saturday evening. I tried desperately to summon the memories without the filter of rose-coloured spectacles, but it’s difficult to reconcile those happy images with the tired streets of today. The street names I remember well, and behind the façade of modern commerce the 19th-century architecture—the pride of the city’s heyday—still shows through.

Maybe that’s the problem: the juxtaposition of TokyoToys selling discount manga and anime collectibles beside a building with a plaque declaring it was opened by Queen Victoria in 1888 is simply too great a dichotomy to swallow. It leaves the streets looking… well, confused at best; tacky, if I’m being honest.

And speaking of swallowing, there really ought to be a law requiring gum chewers to do exactly that. The pavement—pockmarked, polka-dotted with discarded Wrigley—is almost a work of art. Mostly, though, it’s just disgusting. You’d be fined for such an offence in Singapore.

If the streets and buildings showed their age and hinted at decline, the people and the nightlife were anything but. We tried to get a table at two or three restaurants, only to find them all booked out—buzzing with lively, energetic, and apparently quite affluent Glaswegians, all in fine good humour. Very nice indeed.

When we finally were seated, it was in a crowded bar-cum-restaurant filled, we suspected, with office Christmas “dos.” An excellent piano player entertained the crowd, adding to the exuberance of the room. One glance at the menu and we knew we’d struck Scottish culinary gold. I seriously considered ordering one of everything on the appetizer list—each dish packed with nostalgia from my childhood.

In the end, we settled on just one: a creation boldly proclaiming itself “the Best Bacon Sandwich in Scotland.” Now, trust me, I know bacon. A bacon roll is one of the first things I look for when I come home, largely because bacon is one of those things that—despite what they believe—Americans just don’t realise how wrong they are about (bless them).

So I was fully prepared to challenge this restaurant’s claim—especially when the roll arrived. In my opinion, the only thing a bacon roll needs, apart from bacon and a roll, is… even more bacon. This one, however, came described as: “Freedom Bakery milk bun, bacon jam, confit pork belly, smoked bacon.” Unnecessarily complicated, if you ask me. But while I still maintain that all you really need is bacon, a roll, and a side of bacon, I must admit: it was very, very good. A testament to Scotland’s newfound culinary creativity.

And, not quite satisfied with that “appetizer,” we decided to order a haggis and hash-brown pizza for good measure. Only partway through day one, and I’m already worried about my weight-loss programme. It’s going to be a long week.

My nephew David Tierney was arriving soon from Cardiff—he’d kindly managed to get hold of some tickets for Glasgow Rangers tomorrow—so we headed back to the hotel. We walked along the very trendy Buchanan Street, one part of the city that really has succeeded in blending the modern with the vintage. The street was alive with Christmas decorations, street musicians, and beautifully dressed shop windows. At the south end, St Enoch Square was dominated by a huge Ferris wheel and a Bavarian winter fest.

As we rounded a corner, three young men suddenly sprinted past us at great speed, laughing as they went. I was genuinely impressed by their pace and agility—until, moments later, three police officers appeared in hot pursuit, shouting into their walkie-talkies for backup. I’ve no idea what those young men had done, but they were clearly in serious trouble. And I must admit, I rather wished I’d assessed the situation a moment sooner; it would have been all too easy to stick out a foot, trip at least one of them, and do my part for law and order.

Finally back at the hotel, we quickly found David. He took one look at my heavy winter coat and said, “I hope you have a different coat for the game tomorrow.” Instantly, I recognised the problem. My coat is green. Not a bright Celtic green—more of a dull, Lincoln green—but green nonetheless. What was I thinking? I know better than to bring anything even hinting at green to Ibrox, the place where, legend has it, they once tried to genetically engineer blue grass just to avoid the indignity of anything resembling their cross-city rivals.

Not to put too fine a point on it, my only thought was… “Oh shit.” Followed immediately by, “Do I have enough layers in my bag to survive the frigid Scottish winter without that coat?”

It was a dilemma that would have to wait until morning. I always say jet lag is never a problem on the day you arrive in a new time zone—the second night is the killer. On day one, you’re so tired you could sleep through a hurricane. And so it was: I tumbled into bed at a very respectable 10 p.m.—well done, me, for staying awake that long—and fell instantly, blissfully asleep.