The sky pulsed red with the glow of a distant Guy Fawkes Night bonfire, and a cold, wet fog sat heavily on the town of Inverness. The conditions called for whisky—not a hard thing to find in the Scottish Highlands—and I dipped into a bar and ordered something unfamiliar off a fat menu. From the all-seeing perch of a solo drinker, I watched tourists come and go. A clique of French women coordinated their order, building out a flight of Scotches that they took turns sipping and rating (one actually said “Oh là là”). Two middle-aged Americans, matching orange ringlets…

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