AS my train pulls over a glistening Clyde, I contemplate my journey from the sultry shores of the Arabian sea, through the chaotic crowds of London; finally finding refuge under the sometimes cloudy, but always welcoming skies of Glasgow.

After two years here, my life is settled with lifelong friends made and a beautiful house bought; most of all, I know that though Pakistan will always have my heart, it is in Scotland that my spirit is free.

I am no stranger to new horizons and somehow find comfort in unfamiliar places, but I never understood why, until recently. As a child, my father captained merchant navy ships, taking his family on most voyages. Educated on board with no peers to interact with, I would look watch for a glimmer of land, before landing in the port that would be our temporary home for a few weeks.

Aged eight, I finally settled in Pakistan, but these early childhood experiences formed the foundations of my ability to connect and find calm in unfamiliar places through imagination but most of all, flavour. My mother was passionate about cooking in the tiny captain's galley and the frugality of the tools of the trade never deterred her. She involved me in the preparation of every meal, which revealed hints of faraway places and memories of her childhood. Though I never learnt to cook by written recipe, I did through osmosis of these experiences; I engaged every sense to explore technique and taste, each imprinted on my impressionable mind.

Finding this sense of home away from home allowed me to later settle easily in Karachi, where I never lost my thirst of discovering my homeland’s true flavour.

Each weekend, I would watch my mother, five aunts and grandmothers cooking, or simply talking about recipes. Everyone in the kitchen had a role to play in preparing the meals. No recipe was exact; instead they were thrown together effortlessly without set ingredients or measurements. Slowly, I absorbed this art of "andaza" (cooking with estimation and senses), which forms the cornerstone of Pakistani cookery. I have now realised that this method allows me to adapt, create and alter my home cooking without compromising its authenticity. To me, this has been my key to finding a sense of home in new lands.

When you never leave your native soil to live elsewhere, you take for granted the things that cradle you in comfort, like the taste of your grandmother’s food, the fruits growing in your garden and your favourite street food vendors. So, when life brought me in London, 12 years ago, I found myself trying to find this calm in a new space. Reaching out for the distinctive flavours of home, I began to recreate the recipes I grew up with; working with what produce I found locally. It became evident that though I used substitutions for many ingredients, I still found authenticity in each mouthful.

I believe that we can find reassurance of home by delving deep into the memory of our senses – our heritage cuisine evokes the strongest connection to who we are. The spirit of a recipe, rather than what makes up the dish, can sometimes be enough to take you right home to a place of belonging.

While I enjoyed living in London, I never felt a deep connection until moving to Glasgow two years ago. A city whose shores were probably the birthplace of many ships I sailed on, it evoked a connection that I find indescribable. It's not just the romanticism of this country that lures me. Scotland offers a degree of comfort I have found in making connections with its abundant natural larder, which in an unusual way, resonates with the quintessence of my homeland.

Each time I reach for a fresh ingredient I am able to either connect with its producer, or easily befriend my local shopkeeper or merely chat to others about the food I cook, and receive a friendly understanding of my cuisine. As I learn more about my adopted home, I appreciate that the Pakistani diaspora in Scotland is deeply entrenched. I can sense that the impact of their flavours here are deeper than I experienced in London, and this has helped me to connect to Scotland well.

From the easy access to the exact brand of rose jam I grew up eating, to the mixed grill available from my local "desi" restaurant, I am taken back to my childhood in Karachi or to the streets of Lahore.

Finding home in a new place almost always begins with finding a way to bring back the flavour you grew up with. No wonder, then, that immigrants set up food businesses wherever they settle. In a world of ever-changing food trends, Scotland still has an element of ownership, permanence and loyalty to immigrant cuisine. There is an unspoken respect for those who share their flavour with the Scots, and whose cuisines have become part of the fabric of the nation: the Italians have chippies, the Pakistanis have mixed grills, the Polish have delis. I know that just like me, many of these people tried to find a home away from home through flavour, and I can’t wait to hear the stories. Through this column, I hope to learn more about first, second and third generation immigrants to Scotland and discover what it means to transport their food culture to their adopted home, and how they found their home through flavour.

Some recipes create a deep sense of home. In cooking certain dishes, the moment the spice hits the pan, I am transported to my mother’s kitchen. And the one recipe takes me back to our family Eid lunches, a time for sharing happiness and food, is Sindhi Mutton biryani. A regional recipe from the province I grew up in, its use of dried sour plums and dried pomegranate adds a distantly unique South Pakistani flavour, and reminds me of happy family festivities, and the reason why Pakistan will always be home in my heart.

The journey to understanding my new home has only just begun. I still long for that familiar salty, humid air of Karachi’s shore, laced with coal smoke from barbecues; but I find comfort in the freedom I feel climbing hills, overlooking lochs, the breeze carrying with it the scent of fresh heather and an incongruous coconut aroma of gorse. The air smells surprisingly like home, the land feels like revisiting an old friend, but most of all, the larder tastes like childhood comfort.