Scotland Anjventures

Oct 1, 2021

📍Glenfinnan Viaduct, Scottish Highlands
A Bridge Between Dreams and Divine Timing

Yes—the bridge. That bridge. The one that curved its way into cinematic history and the hearts of every Harry Potter fan around the world. The Glenfinnan Viaduct, suspended between the Scottish hills like a whisper from a more magical time, is every bit as breathtaking in real life as it is on screen—perhaps even more so. But this post, long overdue as it is, is not just about standing in front of a famous location. It’s about what it meant to finally stand there. What it took to arrive. And why this moment—quiet, misty, and unassuming—was one of the most soul-affirming highlights of my 2021.

It took me four months to write about this. Not because I didn’t want to, but because it felt too sacred to rush. Because sometimes, the words don’t come immediately—not for the moments that change you in still, subtle ways. This trip to Scotland was one of those moments. And maybe now, after time has softened its edges, I finally know what I’m writing about.

When I stood before the Glenfinnan Viaduct, the air tinged with the scent of wet grass and sky, I didn’t feel like a tourist. I felt like someone returning to a place they’d never been, but always known in their bones. I paused before even lifting my phone to take a photo. I just stood there. The wind blew through my hair and the valley was quiet except for the occasional crunch of footsteps along the trail. And in that quiet, one thought rose above everything else:

“I am blessed.”

Not in the social media kind of way. Not because I had ticked another destination off my list. But because I remembered. I remembered the girl I used to be—the one who watched this very bridge on a screen, chin resting on her palm, wondering if dreams like this would ever be possible for someone like her. I remembered the seasons of waiting, doubting, questioning. I remembered scrolling through other people’s highlight reels, fighting off the ache of comparison. I remembered asking God so many whys.

Why not me?
Why is everyone else getting there first?
Why does it feel like I’m always running behind?

And yet—there I was. On my own two feet, standing in front of something that once felt so far away. Something I thought belonged to other people’s stories. But it turns out, mine was unfolding all along. Quietly. Faithfully. In a way I didn’t always understand at the time.

Because now I know: we all walk different timelines. And no delay is a denial. Some prayers are answered slowly—not because they’re ignored, but because they’re being carefully prepared. The detours, the delays, the “not yets”—they all led me here. I see that now.

Glenfinnan wasn’t just a place for me. It was a lesson. A reminder. A physical, mist-covered metaphor for what happens when we surrender the story we’ve been trying to write by force—and instead allow God to write it for us.

I had prayed. I had worked. I had waited.
And when I couldn’t hold it all together anymore—I let go.
I surrendered the need to be on time.
I laid down the pressure to arrive early.
And slowly, grace led me here.

So if you’re in that space right now—where the timeline feels blurry and everyone else seems to be moving faster than you—please know this: you are not late. You are not forgotten. Your story is not over just because it hasn’t unfolded the way you imagined.

What’s meant for you will find you. What misses you wasn’t meant to stay. What’s coming has your name written on it—and God has not overlooked you.

Because sometimes, when you least expect it, He will bring you exactly to where your heart once longed to be—without noise, without cameras, without warning. Just a whisper in the wind that says: See? I heard you all along.

Now—let’s talk about the bridge itself.
The Glenfinnan Viaduct is nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, surrounded by dramatic green hills, low-hanging clouds, and air so crisp it almost tastes like a memory. The view looks like a painting that came alive—one stroke of grey stone across a canvas of wild green. It’s the very bridge the Hogwarts Express travels across in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, whisking Harry and his friends away to the school that changed their lives.

But for me, the most iconic scene will always be from The Chamber of Secrets, when Harry and Ron miss the train and soar through the sky in Mr. Weasley’s enchanted Ford Anglia—chasing it, wide-eyed and reckless, until they finally cross the Glenfinnan Viaduct mid-air. It’s a moment filled with whimsy and wonder, and seeing it in person? It’s enough to make your inner child cry.

And the best part? It’s free.
Yes—budget-friendly magic does exist.

There’s a trail you can walk, a viewpoint you can climb, and a hush that falls over the landscape just before the train passes through. And when it does, even if you’re not a Potterhead, it feels like something ancient and special has just happened in front of you. Something timeless. Something that reminds you what it’s like to believe in things again.

As the train curved across the bridge that day, I didn’t wave or cheer. I just smiled. Not with my mouth, but with something deeper. Something in me had been waiting for this—not just the trip, but the knowing that I had arrived. Not just in Scotland. But in a season of gratitude, of perspective, of faith.

When I returned home, I carried more than just photos and souvenirs. I carried the gentle truth that some dreams take longer because they are being aligned with the best version of you. And I carried the conviction that wonder still exists in this world, and so does grace.

If you ever get the chance, visit Scotland.
Walk along winding roads wrapped in mist.
Let the Highlands teach you how to be still again.
Stand before that bridge and listen—not just to the wind, but to what your own heart is finally ready to hear.