Good, keen man on loose in Britain's underground

The imposing Edinburgh Castle towers over Scotland's capital city. Photo / Jim Eagles

My knowledge of Britain didn't extend much beyond reruns of The Office, so when Visit Britain offered an Alt Albion tour of the motherland (well, my Dad hails from England), it seemed like a good idea.

I shed a tear for the fact I'd be missing gigs by Nine Inch Nails and Iron Maiden back home, but the Queen was calling.

The fun started a stone's throw from Glasgow, at Loch Lomond. The name may be familiar: Captain Haddock's favourite fictional whisky was named "Loch Lomond". Maybe that's just one for the hardcore Tintin fans.

Although initially disappointed I hadn't found myself at Loch Ness (I'm a keen monster-hunter), the joys of Lomond soon revealed themselves after checking into the apparently haunted Drover's Inn.

Stuffed animal heads adorned the walls, including a fascinating two-headed ferret. It might have been a stoat. It wasn't long before a steaming plate of haggis found its way to my table (just an exploded, rich pie) along with a multitude of Scottish beers and whiskies.

The entertainment was provided by a Scotsman and his guitar - the hit of the night being The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond, which had the whole bar dancing, some not gracefully, in a circle.

A song like that almost makes you want to go and dip your feet in. The next day I realised what a bad idea it had been to go for a 1am swim in the loch, as it appeared much of it had frozen over. Apparently watersports on Great Britain's largest lake are all the rage in summer. In winter ... not so much.

It was time to head to Glasgow, the main goal being to find Optimo, a club famous for opening on Sunday nights. There's no dress code or door list. If there's room, you get in. Optimo manages to be full of fairly civilised, interesting people. A better clientele than your average Auckland spot, that's for sure.

Optimo was actually inside a place called Sub Club. Most Sundays I find myself drinking a cup of tea and having a biscuit on the couch. But in Glasgow, on a Sunday night, 500 people were clubbing. I didn't spot one person drinking tea. It was out of control.

I left at 3am; they stayed on. It's got so bad - or good, depending on who you are - some workplaces have banned employees attending. Their performance drops. They fall asleep on the job. But still ... every Sunday, they come back.

As for me, I had trouble finding my way back to the hotel. All the buildings looked the same. I was pleased when I found the right door, because I'd forgotten my gloves.

Somehow Glasgow turned into Edinburgh. I think it involved a long drive. I took a walk, and while I was meant to be looking at castles and churches, I went shopping. And not even a cultured shop: I went looking for DVDs.

I bought British comedies to put next to The Office. The pickings were rich: Peep Show, Garth Merenghi's DarkPlace, Man to Man with Dean Learner. The recession appeared to have hit, as prices were rock bottom.

Day turned into night, and I glanced up at Edinburgh castle. There appeared to be some kind of party going on: flashing lights - red-blue-green - were going off in the distance. I bought another crepe and walked up the hill.

Eventually I found myself in front of the most magnificent castle I've ever seen. I knocked on the door and a wee face popped up behind the bars. "I'm from New Zealand. Can I come to the party?"

"No, private party, can't let you in, mate."

Marvelling that he said "mate", I went on my way, back down the hill, to be with the commoners. You can't really break into a party in a castle. It's too secure: walls, moats, bars.

Liverpool has fewer castles than Edinburgh, but is still quite charming. Eventually I found The Cavern, the club where The Beatles met their manager Brian Epstein in 1961. Looking around it all seemed a bit tacky.

I had a beer and left, only to see another place called The Cavern across the street. I went down six flights of stairs to investigate. The second Cavern was much more authentic. The place actually had a stage I could imagine the Beatles performing on. "What's the story with the other Cavern?" I asked the barman. "Oh, we own that, too. People go down there thinking it's the proper Cavern, they buy beers there and then they realise their mistake and come here. Then buy more beers."

I should be annoyed at this but for some reason I'm not. The place is that charming, all is forgiven.

I jogged around the streets of Liverpool before returning to the Beatles-inspired Hard Day's Night Hotel. A giant John Lennon face hung over my bed. I would have had an amazing sleep but they'd turned off the water for maintenance and I had to go to bed sweaty from the run.

I dreamed I was back in the wrong Cavern again. This time, in the dream, I felt a little bit angry.

I suppose it's inevitable you eventually end up in London when you hit Britain.

I think London makes you forgive any potential shortcomings Britain has: the drunk guy telling you the bad joke in Glasgow, the youths who chased you through the darkened streets of Manchester wanting your iPod. It's got all the history but it's also wonderfully current.

I found myself in a comic store called Forbidden Planet that I can only describe as being a dream come true. One block down, more bliss: a bookstore full of occultic grimoires usually reserved for virtual worlds such as eBay.

I lost myself, but managed to catch the tube south to Brixton. NME magazine was putting on a series of concerts and the last one was on tonight. Not just one band, but four: White Lies, Florence and the Machines, Friendly Fires and Glasvegas. All uniting together under the roof of the Brixton Academy, one of London's most famous venues. We drank, we danced - it was no Iron Maiden, but you felt part of the scene, the friendly rambunctious crowd making it all worthwhile.

You don't have to be cool in London; you can also be a fairly boring geek. In the midst of stylish events such as London Fashion Week (I got in for a day - that was enough), I found myself at the Grant Museum of Zoology listening to a lecture by Jonathan Downes and Richard Freeman.

Downes and Freeman are two of the world's leading cryptozoologists: their job involves searching for creatures such as Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. They'd just returned from Russia, where they'd been searching for the almasty - Russia's answer to the yeti.

Freeman reckoned he'd seen a 7ft (2.1m) almasty walk over the deck of his cabin. Unfortunately, he couldn't make it to the camera in time.

The two monster-hunters also told of hunting for the Mongolian Death Worm and a dinosaur-like creature in the Congo. It was a real treat.

After that, it was off to Hyde Park for one final mission: a chat with Karl Pilkington.

Pilkington became a bit of an internet phenomenon after doing a series of podcasts with British comedian Ricky Gervais.

I thought he might have some interesting thoughts about what makes Great Britain so special.

Meeting at Speakers' Corner, he tells me he'd never live anywhere else. I ask why.

"The wildlife," he replies. "Just looking at all the things knockin' about." I nod.

"I've said it before, but it's always changing. The squirrels here are eatin' Twix bars now. They're getting more greedy, knockin' about, gettin' fatter. And you can come here and jus' watch 'em." As I leave the park, I see a squirrel run up a little girl's leg, up her body and down her arm to grab a cookie from her hand.

I suppose Karl had a point.

Nightline reporter David Farrier was invited to join an Alt Albion tour.