What Women Find When They Wander

I threw back the last of my whisky sour, smiled at the two women sitting across from me, and wished them safe travels. “Find those puffins,” I said, sliding out of the booth and into the soft, embracing energy of the Inverness night.

Outside, the sky was streaked with cotton candy pinks and blues. You know, the kind of sky that makes you want to pinch yourself. How does nature actually make these colors? I walked along the river, the brisk Scottish air on my face, Celtic music still echoing in my ears, and I felt it. That sharp, tender ache that sometimes hits at the end of a really good day. A little bit happy. A little bit sad…and you’re not quite sure why you’re feeling all these things at once. How can one be so content, so fulfilled, yet also a little melancholy?

As I walked along the river toward my hotel, I thought about the three women I’d met that day: the young American traveling abroad solo for the first time by accident, the older pair who’d been traveling together for decades, and then there was me, who was somewhere in the middle, on another solo trip, unsure what I was looking for.

That morning, I had climbed aboard a tiny white tour bus in Inverness, not realizing I was stepping into a day that would shift something in me. The morning before, I’d arrived by train from Edinburgh, wandered into the largest used bookstore I’d ever seen, had a quiet dinner on my own, and tried sticky toffee pudding for the first time, sparking a future addiction. The solitude felt different this time. Not lonely, per se, just unfamiliar. I hadn’t spoken much all day. The quiet felt heavier somehow, like it was showing me something I hadn’t noticed on other solo trips.

I wasn’t new to travel. I’d lived abroad before and taken solo trips across Western Europe, and had a passport full of stamps to prove it. But something about this trip felt unique. Slower. Softer. More inward. So far, this trip had managed to elicit several small moments of learning how to be fully with myself, to sit across from my own thoughts and not flinch. Maybe it was the Scottish backdrop? Some weird, ancestral pull to my roots?

On the bus, Willie, our tour guide (yes, that really was his name), had a thick Highland accent and the kind of boisterous charm that made you want to lean in closer, even if you couldn’t catch every word. He cracked jokes, gave history lessons, and told stories like we were all old friends. He was exactly who everyone would want their Scottish tour guide to be. Put him in a kilt and he could have easily been a character on Outlander.

I sat in the front row of the bus, eager to take in every aspect of the rolling Scottish hills, Highland cows or “coos” as they’re called, and the various lochs peaking through the greenery here and there. There were about fifteen of us. We were mostly Americans, a Brazilian couple, and a few solo women scattered throughout. I had noticed one young woman, college-age I presumed, sitting quietly near the back. We exchanged the kind of half-smile solo travelers give each other. The quiet acknowledgment: I see you.

We spent the morning winding through the Highlands, stopping at an ancient stone circle, feeding Highland cows, sampling whisky at a local distillery, walking the windswept and harrowing Culloden battlefield. I kept mostly to myself, but occasionally found the young woman for those quick “can you take a picture of me?” exchanges. We never sat together on the bus. We didn’t really talk. But she was a comforting presence, somehow.

When we pulled into Beauly for lunch, I managed to snag one of the only outdoor tables left at a busy café. A few minutes later, I saw the young traveler wandering around, scanning the crowded tables, a worried expression on her face. I waved her over. “Want to sit with me?”

She exhaled, relieved, and sat down. After ordering our lunch, she began to tell me the story of her first journey abroad. She told me that she’d planned this trip with a friend, but the friend’s flight had been delayed… and then canceled… and eventually, she’d just backed out altogether. Suddenly, she was alone. This wasn’t the adventure she’d imagined. She hadn’t planned to be by herself in a foreign country and definitely hadn’t felt mentally prepared for it. The first few days had been rough. She admitted to crying in her hotel room, second-guessing whether she should just go home.

But she stayed, and slowly, she began to figure it out: how to be alone in a new place, how to make peace with the quiet, how to feel safe in her own company. She was still learning, still navigating it all, but she was doing it. I was impressed. She was certainly younger than I had been the first time I wandered solo.

When the bill came, I picked it up and told her to “pay it forward.” “Find another young solo traveler one day,” I said. “Buy her lunch.” We smiled. We didn’t exchange numbers or social handles. Just a soft, temporary companionship. Later that afternoon, we waved at each other while stepping off the bus, each of us heading off into the next parts of our itineraries…solo once again.

By the time we had returned to Inverness, the sun was dipping low. I strolled aimlessly for a while, popping into the few shops that were still open, before settling into a riverside pub for dinner. The place was warm and loud, and quickly becoming packed with both tourists and locals. I slid into a corner booth on the water, ordered a burger and a drink, and listened to a trio of musicians play traditional Celtic music. It felt like a movie scene. I was alone again for the first time that day. I had no conversations to manage, no one watching me: just the music, the river, and the quiet awareness that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I was nearly done eating when two older women from our tour walked into the pub. I knew exactly who they were because they had sat across the aisle on the bus from me all day. One had been reading a paperback, completely unbothered by the sharp curves and sudden jolts, while the other had her phone out the entire time, snapping photo after photo through the dirt- and finger print–laden window like she didn’t want to miss a thing. I remembered the smudge of mud on the leg of one of their pants. It had caught my eye that morning and, for whatever reason, kept distracting me throughout the day. I found myself glancing at it more than once, wondering if she knew it was there, or if she’d seen me looking. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe that’s what happens when you get older. Maybe you stop worrying about things like a bit of dirt on your clothes. They stepped inside, scanning the packed room, clearly overwhelmed by the noise and lack of open tables. They reminded me of the younger traveler at lunch, uncertain about finding their place in this crowd. The hostess told them it would be at least a thirty-minute wait and I saw their faces fall. I waved them over. “Here. You can have my table. I’m just finishing up.”

They joined me, gracious and grateful, and we ended up talking for almost half an hour. They’d been traveling together for most of their lives. Just the two of them, always leaving their significant others behind. One of them had recently lost her husband to cancer. The other had been married three times and wasn’t particularly eager to do it again. They were in the UK for a month, with no real plan. They still didn’t have a hotel room at their next location. “We want to make it to the Isle of Skye,” one of them said, “and we need to see puffins.” They laughed, clinked glasses, and told me about their wildest travel stories.

They were everything I hoped I might still be decades from now: bold, funny, a little bruised by life, but not bitter. Still curious. Still dreaming. Still traveling.

I wished them well and left them my booth.

That’s when I found myself on the path along the river, the night coming on slow and sweet, that ache of unknown origin lingering. I didn’t feel alone. I felt connected to something bigger. Three generations of women, all navigating this world on our own terms, all crossing paths for just a moment.

The two older women had found something rare: a lifelong travel companionship, despite the people who had come and gone in their lives. The young college student had discovered her own courage, forced into solo travel and realizing she was more capable and brave than she’d ever given herself credit for. As for me, I found unexpected friendships on a trip I had imagined would be entirely about myself. I found inspiration in witnessing the beginning and the continuation of other people’s relationship with travel.

We each found something.

This is what women find when they wander.