Easter mini-Interrail, day two: Glasgow

My planning for this trip, such that it is, extended as far as reading about the National Piping Centre and deciding that, if nothing else, I should visit that because if everyone knows one thing about Scotland, it's probably bagpipes. Possibly deep-fried Mars bars (fry them from frozen to avoid accidents – actual culinary truth) or that its official animal is the unicorn. The important thing is that Glasgow has a whole cultural experience dedicated to everyone's favourite weaponised musical instrument – second only perhaps in lethality to a recorder in the hands of a child obligated to learn Three Blind Mice – the bagpipe.

Just five of your Scottish pounds secures access to the museum and accompanying tour which today was led by Flynn, a young man well turned out in his number two uniform who has been playing the pipes for eight years and whose knowledge of and enthusiasm for Scotland's national instrument is positively infectious. A group of six of us were talked through the history of the bagpipe, from their origins in the Middle East and introduction into Scottish culture perhaps via the Crusades in the 13th century, to the more modern instruments of today for people who aren't overly keen on the idea of smearing tallow into a sheep's stomach every month just to be able to knock out Scotland the Brave. 3D-printed bagpipes exist, and there are synthetic bags available, but the best sound is decidedly not vegan.

We were guided round the exhibits and learned that there are many different types of bagpipe, including Folkpipes destined for indoor use because they're quieter – apparently – as well as local variations from different parts of the United Kingdom, Ireland, and Brittany. I never thought that the bagpipe could be such an interesting subject and I have to confess that I initially approached the visit with a certain degree of irony, but when we got to the piping proper each of us was given a chanter, the wooden tube in which a reed vibrates to produce the desired pitch, and it was genuinely quite exciting indeed.

First, we were taught very patiently how and where to place our fingers to coax the required pitch from the chanter, and it became increasingly clear that this is indeed a very complicated musical weaponstrument to master. By coincidence, six across in today's New York Times mini was "cantor", clearly a sign. With patience, all of us were soon giving virtuoso performances of Mary Had a Little Lamb (before her father turned it into an instrument) on our comically duck-sounding pipeless chanters and before we could summon any Eider, Flynn had the reckless idea of letting us loose on a pair of actual bagpipes – beginners' pipes not actually capable of hurting anyone.

First, he demonstrated how an incredibly talented person plays by giving us astounding performances of Scotland The Brave and Raft Race, a contemporary piece that properly demonstrated the technical brilliance of our host and how pipes can sound when played well. And by god those things are fucking loud. And that's just scratching the surface of the mastery required to get music from these things, because the craft of hand-making them and maintaining them is a completely different story.

After I'd chivalrously suggested the ladies in the group would like to go first, I was no longer able to escape my go and it quickly became unmistakably clear that there is a lot of coordination required. First, you must get the blowstick into your face without taking anyone's eyes out or knocking over furniture with the other pointy-out bits, and once you've done that, it's time to take the chanter in your hands and start blowing "harder than you've ever blown before" to inflate the bag sufficiently that you can then easily – we were told – flip the bag up and position it under your left arm and let rip, so to speak.

Flynn helped us all by holding the drones out of danger's way and offering excited words of encouragement until there was enough pressure to seduce the reeds into life and start belting out a banger. In a previous existence I was a church organist, and that requires a certain amount of dexterity but if you've been out on the lash the night before you do at least have the luxury of sitting down and not having to blow in anything. Never having played a wind instrument before it's a challenging technique but once you've got enough air going it's possible to play and breathe simultaneously without losing a beat. It is not possible to play rests because of the continuous flow of air, so grace notes make their ornamental mark and lend a particular quality to Mary's tragic lamb lament.

Afterwards, I bought a most magnificent fridge adornment as a souvenir of my visit and nipped next door to The Piper's Tryst for a quick whisky (no e, this isn't Ireland) which I consumed at an outside table in the sun while excitedly scribbling notes in my notepad about the experience. There is so much more to report but it would defeat the point of going for oneself, but I can honestly say that my bagpipe experience was probably the most fun I've ever had for a fiver on a Saturday morning that results in a complete stranger in a kilt brandishing a foreign object and telling you to stick it in your mouth. And a whisky to finish. Would absolutely recommend. Up there bang-for-buck with the sheer joy of the Plzeň Puppet Museum as far as I'm concerned.

The weather was lovely and after my wee dram I was emboldened to set off and explore Glasgow proper, listening to people along the way. I started walking towards the town centre until I was admiring the statues in George Square – "theruz a seagull on his heed" – before finding a place to sit on a bench with two people who had previously been minding their own business, basking in the sun. After my terribly British observation that there was "a bit of a nip in that breeze", Ian and Pete – who had just made the same remark to each other – were very keen to suggest things to see and sent me off in the direction of a white spire which belongs to what was Glasgow's first free hospital.

I got distracted, of course, as I lost sight of the spire when I got to Ingram Street and remembered to fire up Street Art Cities to guide me in my afternoon's lazy tourism during which I met lots of other people doing the same thing (in fact in the app, some paths crossed today, which is quite exciting). I did see the spire later as I discovered a portrayal of Saint Mungo – Glasgow's founder and patron saint – on the end of a building on the imaginatively-named High Street, just next to it.

I ended up in the cathedral – love a good church – and was surprised at how nice it was because Ian had told me he thought it was a bit disappointing. Perhaps this was some kind of Strathclydian mind-trickery to ensure I went, because as cathedrals go I found it rather fine. The stained glass is magnificent, as all stained glass is to be fair, and with the sun streaming in, it was even better. The wooden ceiling is of particular note, I think. Technically not a cathedral really because the Church of Scotland doesn't have bishops, it is a still working church.

I toyed with a trip to the necropolis but decided that my cultural horizons would be much better expanded by some lunch from the Merchant Chippie, winner of Scotland's Best Fish and Chips award and various Scottish Italian awards. Normally of non-meaty persuasion, I wasn't hungry enough to justify fish and chips so settled on chips with salt and vinegar and curry sauce. I also contemplated a fried Mars bar for pudding, but decided that is a delight best saved for the Lord's Day.

The final art quest was to find two of the portraits of Billy Connolly which were commissioned by BBC Scotland in commemoration of his 75th birthday. I kept on stumbling upon more street art along the way, mostly by accident, which made this a long job as I persisted in getting distracted by all manner of shiny things, but in the end I was happy to find the two town-centre ones; one on the gable end of a block of tenement flats in a beer garden, the other on the side of a building next to a car park where the attendant was delighted to talk about Billy Connolly at length and possibly told me his half-sister parks there quite regularly. I'm not sure I understood all of what he said, if I'm honest, but I think that's what he said.

Culture, art, and tat-procurement complete, I found myself enjoying refreshing a pint of Staropramen in Bier Halle before a leisurely walk back to the hostel.