We landed in Glasgow full of optimism, jet lag, and pub-fueled patriotism. Within 24 hours, we were seated in a rustic tavern listening to live Celtic folk music, which—if you’ve never heard it—is like being hugged by a fiddle while someone slaps your Guinness.

That’s when it happened: the band started playing a song about a tree.

If you’re unfamiliar, The Rattlin’ Bog is a traditional Irish song designed to slowly replace your entire personality. It starts innocently:

“Ho ro the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o…”

Then continues…” And in that bog there was a tree, a rare tree, a rattlin’ tree…”

But it never ends. It just adds verses.

“…And on that branch there was a twig, a rare twig, a rattlin’ twig…”

By the fifth verse we were sweating. By the eighth, we were chanting. By the tenth, Troy had developed a fever.

The details of the rest of the night get sketchy at that point. 

But, the next morning, we successfully hopped a train bound for the home of golf: St. Andrew’s, considered the oldest course in the world with even older fog.

There are many reasons to visit Scotland: the history, the landscape, the noble tradition of men wearing kilts and pretending that hurling tree trunks is a sport. But my friends Wilk, Troy, and I came for one sacred purpose: to eat as many fish and chips as humanly possible—and maybe, if time allowed, witness the birthplace of golf and the British Open.

After walking the historic course and posing for a photo on the iconic Swilken Bridge, Troy’s body did what any healthy American body would do when exposed to exercise, wind, and minimal grease intake: it started shutting down.

So I, a lifelong friend of Troy’s worried about his health, tried to help out the best I could.

“Guinness,” I suggested. (known medically as the Irish IV drip).

But Troy, running a 105-degree fever, insisted on finding generic Tylenol, so we wandered into the Scottish drug store. Five minutes later, we found him down an aisle, locked onto a promising box. He squinted at the label with the intensity of a man decoding ancient runes, nodded like he’d cracked the case, traced the fine print for “acetaminophen” like it was a biblical prophecy, and stood there—sweating, proud, triumphant—reading the active ingredients of what turned out to be a box of tampons.

To be fair, he was extremely dehydrated, had brain fog, and the packaging was, in his words, “very medical-looking.”

After finally securing the correct meds, we headed for the next logical step in the healing journey: the pub. Seeing the packed bar, Troy elected to sit outside on a nearby bench while Wilk and I grabbed a pint.

A full beer later, I decided to check on my friend. Stepping outside, I looked where we last saw him: on a park bench, gently steaming. But it was empty.

Troy was gone.

He had wandered off. Into St. Andrews. Alone. In a fever haze. With no phone. Just his recently purchased golf hat. And possibly a tampon.

I re-entered the pub and started explaining the situation to Wilk when this older guy at the bar—weathered, knit cap, sipping a frothy stout like it was his blood type—turned toward us, nodded solemnly, and said:

“Better order another Guinness. St. Andrews has your friend now.”

So we did.  And an order of fish and chips. 

By the end of the trip, I was in Scotland for five dinners and somehow managed to eat fish and chips six times.

Six.

Which defied both logic and the Scottish Fisheries Board intake guidelines. By the end of the trip, my bloodstream was 27% malt vinegar, and my intestines were beer-battered.

Eventually, we found Troy at the bus station—damp, dazed, and muttering what you’d expect from someone in that situation: “What’s a rattlin’ twig?”

In his delirium, he reasoned that instead of going into the bar—where he knew we were—he should return to the bus station, because, quote, “you guys have to come back here eventually.” It was the kind of logic you only get from severe dehydration and prolonged exposure to recursive Irish folk songs.

A few days later we made it to the British Open in Troon, where we saw the best golfers in the world heroically battle the wind, the rain, and the relentless temptation of mid-round whisky.

Speaking of which: On the train back to Glasgow, a kindly Scottish man and stranger to us shared his appreciation for Americans by offering us a sip from a small glass bottle that looked suspiciously like a urine sample.

Naturally, we drank it.

Medical professionals strongly discourage drinking from unlabeled glass bottles handed to you on public transportation, but that day, it just felt right.

So, here’s what I learned:

Scotland is a magical place. Golf is sacred. Fish and chips are never a bad choice.
And if your friend disappears in St. Andrews, don’t worry—St. Andrews will return him.

Probably standing in a bog. Possibly holding tampons. Definitely still singing.