​It’s easy for a privileged white fifty-year-old bloke to sound awfy preachy, full of hummus and sourdough, by saying “Don’t worry, life is not constant.” If yer feeling stuck in a rut, the way you pay the bills, your family, or the place with your bed may be filling you with dread, and your daily routine has become more of a battle.

Hopefully my wee recollection of a night I had almost 20 years ago will give you the motivation to have a wee rummage around and find at least one choice that could bring a smile, even a bit of contentment.

​It was the second night of a 5-day trip trying to find some of my limitations, cycling from the Atlantic coast to the North Sea across Scottish Glens and Bens. It’s not a massive adventure like right across the North American plains, Pacific to Atlantic, or Scotland to Australia pedalling through Europe and Asia. For me, it was my first real solo bike trip, and I was really filling my breeks about heading into the middle of nowhere—but not all wilderness. I had a plan to kip in the cheapest bed and breakfasts, or sometimes a small hotel.

Like The Kincraig Hotel. It had a big square bar, with two blokes on high stools on my left—the younger one about 30 years old—and a couple about the same age sitting filling their bellies at a table on my right. I was hoping for a pint and a burger before an early night. I had just pushed, struggled, and cycled over the Corrieyairack Pass, a mammoth ancient road, my legs knackered and the rest of me feeling pretty buckled. The night before I had planned a sedate evening in Fort Augustus, although that turned into a multilingual single malt affair with loads of laughs, male bonding, and departing hugs from new best friends that were strangers a few hours previously.

​The second evening started with the normal chat: Where have you been? Where are you going? Then, the What do you do? With an answer that has stuck with me for decades—more so than some of the places I cycled through, the gorgeous heather-covered glens and the ancient gnarled Scots pine forests during the whole trip.

​The younger of the two blokes sitting closest to me started describing his old work at a fabrication shop. A big, dirty, dark workshop where sparks fly and chunky chunks of metal collide, resulting in thunderous echoes that vibrate your stane brain. Movies romanticise blacksmiths, but the reality is welding is a loud, manky way to earn a wage. After a decade or so, and having learned most of the tricks of the trade, he had returned home one evening and fell into the regular ritual of telling his wife about his day and how much it bored and sucked the life from him. He wished he had other options, but felt stuck in the fabrication shop forever—an old dog with too many responsibilities and no chance to learn new skills.

​His wife pointed out a job advert.

​”There’s hunners of better qualified folk than me applying for that job.”

​”It doesn’t cost anything to apply, just need a wee bit motivation and I can help with your CV.”

​A few days later he sent his application.

​In a couple of weeks, he was sitting having an interview.

Then a second interview.

​This welder’s hands were bouncing about. The aulder dude on his other side was smiling—must have heard the story a thousand times, and it still lifted his spirits.

​The closest welder went on with his story: “So my first day I turn up at the office, all my cleaned and polished tools held in a new bag. One of the most nervous times of my life.”

​And he pointed his thumb at the aulder dude: “He’s standing waiting for me.”

​The aulder dude’s smile increased. The hotel owner who had served the pints had come across to listen.

​The closest welder continued: “He says”—he flicked his head towards the aulder dude over his shoulder—”aweright. Look, fire yer tools doon there, son. We’ve got to go up and chase the rhinoceros back into its pen.”

The welder’s face lit up, his arms flung out from his sides: “I only got a start in Edinburgh Zoo, me, some dafty fae a scheme. Am chasing rhinos round the zoo. Every day, I pinch myself to see if am going to wake up.” The couple from the table had joined us at the bar by this point, and we were all feeling pretty excited sharing the welder’s passion. And another quiet pint turned into another big night.

The aulder rhino chaser shared stories and photos of making claymores—huge Scottish swords, which was his hobby when he wasn’t sorting cages at Edinburgh Zoo. The owner behind the bar gave me a map (which I posted back to him once I got home), and the couple that were mad outdoors folk showed me a better way through the Cairngorms. The night finished like the first one, with hugs from friends that were strangers a few hours previously.

​I am sure there will be a few folk reading this concerned with the zoo animals, although this story isn’t about wild exotic beasts held captive like the dude in the fabrication shop. His story had a lasting effect on me—a dude wanting to show up for his family, buy groceries and new shoes for his bairns so his family could continue to enjoy life while he felt like he was drowning, thinking he didn’t have options.

From a dark smoky fabrication shop to chasing rhinos is a fair jump. Your leap of faith doesn’t need to be so big—or it could be huge. Maybe me mumbling away will encourage you to land an opportunity to help animals stay in the wild. Or maybe just try wee steps, like going for a swim in a loch. It helps me stop the wee negative thoughts turning into all-consuming stories in ma stane brain. Swimming outside allows me to see the good stuff that gives contentment.

​I got a wee swim at Montrose a few days later. That passion to see different places and meet new folk continued, and after a decade or so I managed a couple of epic Scottish bike tours.

You might be hankering after Scottish adventure through Bens and Glens, or maybe you fancy herding rhinos. What change in your routine could increase your contentment?