The flight has left without me and in the office, I track its departure on the mobile app. I send an email to Visit Scotland and reassure them that I will be across the Irish Sea the next morning.

With my small bag, I take the bus to Busaras and transfer to the light rail tram across the Dublin Docklands to the Point. It is a lovely and cold early April evening. The bare trees of winter are slowly coming to life and the evenings, shortly after the country changes for daylight saving time, are fresh and shiny at eight in the evening.
From Dublin Port, the Ulysses exhales fumes across the blue sky and with the effort, shifts around the still waters of Dublin Bay in ripples of white foam in between small vessels.

Sailing into the night, the Irish Sea becomes dauntingly dark and as both shores disappear in the mist, the stale beer-smelling vessel becomes isolated from the world.
It takes nearly two hours to see the lights of Wales ahead. Closer, the port of Holyhead rests in the late night, refusing to be awoken by the two vessels docking at the same time.
The vessels nowadays are awkwardly timed with the trains and a four-hour wait in the small dingy terminal is a must. I play cards with fellow travellers while we sit on window ledges over small heaters and sip on the last of the beer purchased at WH Smith. I leave the building for a leg stretch and over a curvy steel bridge, I reach a desolated town centre of stores that climb up a hill across a cobblestoned street.

When the train finally pulls in, I find comfort in the heat coming from the air vents in the coach. I fall asleep as soon as the stationmaster signals our way out of the station and into Anglesea and Chester. At Crewe, I have a croissant and a coffee in a cold platform of moving trains and commuters. From there, the fast train snakes up the Lake District calling at Carlisle, and at mid-morning, and after nearly twelve hours of traveling, pulls into a narrow valley in central Edinburgh.

With no time to lose, a driver across the arrivals hall holds a sign with my name on it and shortly, I am driven around a city of grey-stoned buildings in intricate Victorian lines and glass windows. Edinburgh Castle dominates the view from the top of a steep hill while trains rush through the narrow valley and the Royal Botanic Gardens into the busy Waverley Station. It is a beautifully laid cram.

At Dalmeny, Edinburgh turns suburban and opens to the Forth of Firth, dramatically conquered by two suspension bridges that dominate the landscape of this windy and broad estuary. Across it, I am told that we have now entered the legendary Kingdom of Fife, a land of soft green hills, splattered with little villages, estates and castles.

At Balbirnie House, two charismatic Visit Scotland hostesses meet me out front and greet me in heavy Glaswegian accents. I meet my fellow travel agents and indulge on morning drinks and a delicious Aberdeen Angus burger in the cellar, before continuing uphill through windy country roads to Kingarrock Estate to, at the cradle of golf, test our abilities -or inability in my case- with old-fashioned hickory golf clubs.

Wrapping up a day of visits, the coach pulls into a beautifully laid pedestrianised street and we are told to explore the town of Saint Andrews on our own. Solemn and royal, Saint Andrews is a university town of streets as manicured as its students, and a luxury resort as chic as the Old Course that contours its windy beach. And so, in the spirit of luxury,  we are then driven to the Fairmont Hotel to spend a night of fine five-course dining and as many drinks as one could have at the chime of the General Manager’s contagious laughter. The full moon shines over the cruise liner-like hotel atrium and timidly reflects in the golf course that buffers our evening from the roaring ocean beneath the cliff.

Too much wine, too little energy. A Red Bull along with an omelette is necessary in the morning before an early adventure in St. Andrews’ West Sand Beach, which also happens to be the main setting for the movie Chariots of Fire. Big blue sails can be seen from the distance and we are told to brace ourselves for blow-karting time.
After a short explanation, I place my legs around a worn out rope while I don a yellow helmet and tightly secure myself. The winds of the North Sea  rapidly pick up and in a second, my kart speeds through the sand at the chant of older colleagues that watch the scene from the distance in shy chuckles.
Adrenaline pumped, I barely pay attention to the historic value of the Old Course as we visit it next. Golf was never an activity I considered a sport, although I find the fresh air in the manicured greens an amazing way to  shake both the hangover and the sand off before our pub lunch is served in one of their many fancy restaurants.

A long stone bridge solemnly crosses over the River Tay estuary and Dundee with its low rising buildings peak from across the shores under a cold spring sunshine. I am checked into the darkest room I have ever stayed in at the Malmaison Hotel and after a short shower, I put on a suit and wait at the Beetlejuice-inspired lobby for our coach to the Scottish Highlands.

‘We all have childhood fantasies about certain places.

To me, Scotland always represented ceremonious dark castles discreetly embedded in between lush green soft hills and snowy mountains in the backdrop. Scotland represented endless forests of tall pine trees, secluded from big towns and only reachable through small private roads.

Tonight, I see all of that and add a chef individually presenting a five-course dinner of typical Scottish cuisine at the castle’s main dining hall.
I sip on handpicked French wine and look through tall windows framed by velvety red curtains into the wilderness of the Highlands outside.
I dare to, for one second, think about the Scotland I dreamed of and the Scotland I am now part of as in one hand, I hold my single-malt Scotch and in the other, I hold a silver spoon topped with sweet desserts. 

Tonight at Kinettles Castle, just outside of Forfar,  I have created yet another one of those memories. The sort of memory that flashes in front of one’s head before dying.

Tonight I saw the Scotland of my dreams.’

Munching on my eggs Benedict the next morning, I leave Dundee in a mix of both delight for the dreamy past night, and sorrow for leaving Scotland next.
At the Gleneagles Hotel & Spa in Perth, we are force-fed more Scottish food before walking across the manicured gardens of the golf resort to try out  falconry. Over my hand, weight and power are milimetrically calculated in a delicate landing by one of the most elegant birds that ever existed.

The trip ends at Edinburgh Airport as our flights are coordinated to leave at the same time for many parts of the U.K. and Ireland. I board an empty AerLingus Regional turboprop and wait for it to taxi along the vacant runway and lift off towards the cinnamon-sprinkled clouds of the Irish Sea in the spring late sunset.

An hour later, the little plane touches down in Dublin Airport and the trip comes to an end. A trip of luxury, a trip of dreams. A trip worth of a Royal Scotsman.

Sao Paulo next week.