My name is Alistair Pattison, I’m a junior (that feels weird to say) maths student at Carleton, and I love McDonald’s.

Aside from being delicious in the way that only food with 300 percent of one’s daily recommended sodium can be, the Golden Arches are a fantastic glimpse into the realities of local culture. There is no attempt at sugar coating reality for the sake of tourists, and there are few other places where one can find a banker and a homeless man enjoying a meal side by side. My first week in Cambridge, I found myself in a McDonald’s late one night accompanied by a room full of tuxedo-clad men and women in 2 millimeters of makeup, all belligerently drunk and waving their receipts at the overwhelmed girl behind the counter whose age was indiscernibly between 16 and 24. Two months later, I can’t think of another experience which captures England so perfectly.

There are also cute regional differences in the menus. The English have Chicken Selects (which are really just chicken tenders), and the French have a special sauce de pomme frites (which is really just mayonnaise). Going to McDonald’s abroad is really a magical experience.

This fascination is why I found myself waiting for a Big Mac in the McDonald’s outside London King’s Cross killing time before my next train while a pair of locals next to me complained in a dialect vaguely resembling English about how long their orders were taking. They had a point—I don’t quite understand having to wait 15 minutes for a meal whose preparation I can only assume consisted of grabbing my order off a mound of identical sandwiches all made some time last Thursday. After finally collecting my meal, I walked five minutes to London Euston, spent seven minutes filling my water bottle at a water fountain with the post pitiful flow rate I have ever seen, and boarded the Caledonian Express at platform 1.

It was midterm break, and we had disbanded in Paris earlier that afternoon. The majority of my classmates were staying in the City of Love or headed to Bournemouth for a few days at the beach (or as close as you can get in England). Another was going to Amsterdam (presumably for the bike culture and art museums) and my roommate had plans to climb rocks in southern France. I was off to Scotland.

I had taken the train from London and spent the two-hour journey trying to keep my freakishly long legs out of the space of the nice French family seated across from me. The second part of my travel was a 12-hour overnight train from London to Corrour, a small settlement north of Glasgow where I would be spending a few day hiking and exploring the Western highlands.

In principle, sleeper trains are remarkable, but my reality was far from it. My seat reclined a whopping three inches, I was required to switch cars in Edinburgh at 4am, and my carriage-mates included a couple who snuggled far too affectionately for my comfort and a group of unruly British school children who impressively timed their sleep schedules so that at all times, there were at least three awake and chatting very loudly. Twelve hours later and after a series of short and neck-ache-inducing naps which hardly qualified as sleep, I arrived in Corrour.

To call Corrour a town would be much too generous: its buildings were (1) a train station and (2) a surprisingly chic cafe which, if I ignored the prominent inclusion of Haggis on the menu, made me feel like I was back home in Northeast Minneapolis. After enjoying an exquisitely presented cappuccino made by a man in a Carhartt beanie, I walked 20 minutes down a gravel road to the hostel where I would be spending the next three nights, dropped my backpack, and set off into the hills in search of adventure.

I quickly discovered that in Scotland, everything is wet. Even ground which upon close inspection appears to be solid often gives way into squelching bog as soon as any weight is applied, and my feet were soaked within minutes. After exploring a rather underwhelming set of ruins which had come recommended to me by the hostel manager, I grew tired of sinking shin deep into peat and veered off trail up a rocky ridge in desperate search of higher and drier ground. Several false summits later, I arrived at the top with even wetter feet than when I started. The clouds had graciously parted, and I soaked in the scenery and made a few futile attempts at capturing the view on my camera before my rumbling stomach got the better of me and I descended to the café for a toasty and a bowl of lentil soup.

I spent the rest of the afternoon reading and exploring the nearby area, making sure to stay on the gravel roads as to not drench my second pair of shoes. For dinner, I made pasta topped with what I had assumed to be marinara, but turned out to be tomato soup upon consultation with a chatty and tetra-lingual Swiss couple at the hostel who were able to decipher the French writing on the package. (If anyone was wondering, tomato bisque over farfalle is quite the backcountry delicacy.) My 30-thousand-step day had me pooped and I went to bed at 8:30, desperate to make up for lost rest from the previous night.

Thursday morning, I was awakened by the early sunrise and made my way once again to the café. I told myself it was for another cappuccino, but really, I just wanted Wi-Fi so I could post my BeReal. After I had done the Times crossword and spent as much time as I could justify checking Instagram, I headed out for my morning adventure: a circuit of several prominent peaks in the area, including the one which my growling stomach had prevented me from attempting the day before. In the first few hundred meters of my hike, I passed a man frantically applying bug spray over his rain jacket and a group of photographers who stopped every six meters to take a photo of every rock, flower, and spec of dust that caught their eye. But the crowds soon disappeared and I walked by myself up the ridge, accompanied only by Dua Lipa singing out of my phone speakers. I shortly arrived at the top and enjoyed a few moments of childish glee at my newfound perspective, before continuing onwards.

I spent the afternoon exploring a few nearby villages, expecting to find a few run down cottages, and maybe some sheep. Instead, I was greeted with high walls, automatic gates, and Jaguars (the car, not the animal) surrounding stately mansions, suggesting that like many formerly wild areas, the Highlands were becoming a place for the second homes of the wealthy. With a sigh, I headed back to the hostel.

On Friday, I did more exploration and found cell reception on a mountaintop to check in with my parents and reassure them that I was indeed alive. On Saturday, I packed my bags for the final time, and hiked out to a train station where I caught the 9:40 into Fort William, a fishing village turned tourist basecamp which, despite its filth, was quite charming. I spent the afternoon perusing gift shops and sipping coffee before boarding an overnight bus to Manchester.

I arrived in the wee hours of the morning and found Manchester a ghost town, populated only by stumbling drunks for whom it was still Saturday night. Most breakfast places were still shuttered and wouldn’t open for another few hours, but I knew one place that would have me–a melting pot of humanity, perfectly poised to welcome me back to civilization after days of putzing around in the woods. I picked up my backpack and headed to McDonald’s.