“Say Gay in the Highlands”: A Love Letter to the Unexpected Magic of Scotland

By Michael Aycox | Out & Untamed Blog

There’s something wildly liberating about surrendering the plan. A few years ago, Marcos and I landed in Edinburgh with nothing but a rental car, a playlist of Scottish folk songs and Beyoncé remixes, and a mutual agreement to let the road lead the way. For seven days, we surrendered to Scotland.

From the cobbled charm of Edinburgh to the brooding skies of Inverness, across the majestic spine of the Highlands and into the shadow of Fort William, we drove with no real agenda—just the open road, a love of adventure, and each other.

We quickly learned a few things about Scotland.

First: when the road signs say “SLOW DOWN NOW,” don’t be cute. Don’t think it means “take your foot off the gas a bit.” It means brace for a hairpin turn that may or may not launch you into a sheep-covered mountain. We had whiplash by day two—but also respect. Scotland doesn’t play.

Second: the Wi-Fi and cell service? Out of this world. You could be driving through Glencoe—where the hills look carved by ancient gods, and there’s not a soul or town in sight—and somehow you’re still pulling full LTE bars. We FaceTimed our beagles from a mossy boulder with better service than we get in most of Florida. Come on, America. Step it up.

But the heart of this story? That came on a detour.

Somewhere between nowhere and the middle of it, we spotted a small wooden sign for a “waterfall.” Naturally, we said: Why not? It was about 30 minutes out of the way, just enough time to convince ourselves we’d discovered something secret and sacred.

We pulled into a sleepy little village that looked like it had been frozen in time. Not a car. Not a tourist. Not a Starbucks in sight. But right across from the “waterfall” (bless her, she tried), stood a cozy stone cottage turned restaurant. It looked like it had been serving stew to the same twelve locals since the 1800s.

We were starving. And curious.

The day had warmed up, and Marcos took off his jacket, revealing the shirt he had on underneath. Bold white letters on jet black fabric:
SAY GAY. SAY GAY. SAY GAY.

This was at the peak of the “Don’t Say Gay” nonsense back home in the U.S.—when visibility felt like an act of rebellion. I looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Of all the shirts to wear in rural Scotland…”

He paused. “Should I change?”

I laughed. “No. But maybe carry the jacket just in case we get run out by angry shepherds with pitchforks.”

We stepped inside.

The place was quiet, rustic, perfect. A fire crackled. Locals sat with pint glasses and newspapers. And then he appeared: our server. Young. Charming. Freckled. Hair like a bottle of expensive Scotch. I shot Marcos a look that said, If we go missing, we followed him. I casually asked, “Think we have room in the car if he wants to join the road trip?”

Marcos didn’t say no.

And here’s the thing: nobody batted an eye at the shirt.

Not one double-take. Not one awkward pause. The locals were kind, our Ginger Prince was delightful, and the food? Divine. We talked, laughed, and felt—strangely and beautifully—right at home.

When the check came, we braced ourselves for a cash-only situation. But nope—grandma behind the counter whipped out the card reader like a pro. We tapped and paid with ease. In the middle of nowhere. In a village with sheep outnumbering people. Florida, get it together.

That meal, in that moment, wasn’t just about food or scenery. It was about humanity. It was about being seen—not as activists or outliers—but simply as two people, in love, hungry, curious, and deeply alive.

We left that restaurant feeling a little fuller, and not just from the food. We’d been reminded that the world is more tender than we think. That love can be loud, and still be safe. That sometimes the boldest thing you can do is wear your truth and go where the map doesn’t lead.

So, let the road take you there.
Let love lead the way.
And wherever you go—say gay. Say it proud. Say it in Glencoe. Say it at the top of your lungs. Say it at the bottom of a Scotch glass.

We did. And we’d do it again in a heartbeat.