Before I even got off the ship in Invergordon, I knew what I wanted to do with the day. The ship had put Scotland right outside the door, and I wanted to take full advantage of it — get under some trees, hear water moving, let the quiet do whatever it was going to do.
There’s something genuinely wild about that transition, going from a floating city to a Scottish forest in about an hour. It’s the kind of contrast that makes you appreciate the sheer luxury of it — getting the quiet of the woods for the afternoon, knowing your bougie coffee and the exact same bed are waiting for you tonight.
What I also knew: I wasn’t getting the pristine backcountry version. No week-long trek into the Highlands. I had a few hours and an all-aboard time. So I had a simple plan. Coffee at a bakery called XOKO, then Ness Island, on foot, nothing else on the itinerary. That was the whole day.
XOKO was a great call. Flat white, a bacon and cheese sandwich, and a piece of banana bread on the way out. I’ve eaten more banana bread in the last three months than I did in the previous thirty years combined. What is that about? Is the sudden, violent onset of a banana bread phase just what happens when you hit this age? Like your brain just quietly resets its factory settings to senior-citizen comfort food. The staff were genuinely warm too, which made it an easy, good way to start the day. I didn’t rush any of it, either. Ended up staying for a second flat white, just watching the morning rush move around me — people grabbing something ridiculously good-looking out of the case and heading off to wherever their day actually started.
Eventually I got moving. Short walk, and you’re standing in front of the thing everyone actually came for — Inverness Castle. Big, red, photogenic. Everyone stops here. Which makes sense — it’s the reason most people came.
Twenty minutes past the castle, following the river, is where it starts to change. Not far. Just far enough that the path starts to empty out. By the time it reaches Ness Island, most people have already turned back toward the gift shops. I had a sandwich and a couple of flat whites in me, a bottle of water I was rationing responsibly, and a fifty-nine-year-old’s working knowledge of exactly where every public restroom in a foreign city is located. July, and hot. I was not overpacked for adventure. I was appropriately packed for a walk.
And then the trees close over the path and everything goes quiet.
All morning — the train, the crowds at the castle, half an eye on the clock — that was just the price of admission. This was the reward. Ness Island is flat, paved, beautifully kept, somebody clearly loves this place, and covered in old trees that turn July heat into shade. I found the perfect bench right next to the river, cool and shaded, and sat there watching the water move over the stones. Basically a three-hundred-dollar spa relaxation room. Except free, and nobody’s trying to sell me a seaweed wrap. Benches everywhere too, positioned like someone designed them for exactly one purpose: sitting down and having a think. Which is a much better phrase than “reflecting.” I’m stealing it.
The river runs over rocks the whole way through. That’s it. That’s the whole soundtrack. Water over rocks, for as long as you want to sit there.
I wasn’t alone out there. But I wasn’t really with anyone either.
Here’s what I noticed: everybody left on that path had made the same decision I had, past the castle and past the easy stopping point. You don’t end up on Ness Island by accident. You’re there because some part of you wanted a moment, whether or not you’d ever use a word like “forest bathing” to describe it. So everyone’s after the same thing, and everyone knows it without saying it. Someone says good morning and means it. And then you each go find your own quiet spot, fifteen feet apart, and it works. Shared solitude. Which sounds like a contradiction until you’re standing in it.
I got exactly what I came for. Banana bread, a walk, some trees, a bench by the water. Apparently, once you hit fifty-nine, a piece of baked fruit loaf is just the non-negotiable anchor of any successful wilderness expedition. It wasn’t complicated and it wasn’t hard to find.
Maybe that’s the whole thing. “Having a think” was always forest bathing. We just didn’t need a word for it before someone turned it into a wellness trend. And it turns out you don’t need a week in the Highlands to get a real taste of it. You need a few hours, a decent pair of shoes, and the willingness to walk a little further than the castle.
Even on a floating city, with a little intention, you can go find that. Sit by some water. Share the solitude with a few strangers who wanted the same thing. Get back on the ship before dinner.
Sean owns Slow Crossings, where he designs trips for travelers who want it done right and offers coaching for life’s bigger transitions — if either’s ever useful, reply or check the About page.