Scotland

There's a lot of Scotland in the air right now. There is the whiskey book I am reading, and the Edinburgh Festival is in full swing, with various acts and excerpts on the radio all the time.

I have always liked the idea of living in the Highlands, but I don't know what the hell I would do with myself whilst up there - aside from drinking myself to death during the long winter months, like everyone else.

I am seriously thinking about going up again this autumn - we have a friend who owns a massive mansion, an entire sea-loch, two castles and a string of small cottages, all set within hundreds of acres of prime deer-stalking territory on the mainland off Mull - but H.I. is set on the idea of getting on a plane and going to Cordoba. I have my work cut out trying to persuade her otherwise.

I have never been there in the summer - every other season, but not summer, when the midges are at their most playful. My daughter used to live in Edinburgh, having moved down from Elgin, where she was brought up after about two years of age. She is a quarter French and three-quarters English, but to hear her speak, you would swear she was 100% Eastern Scottish. I once went walking up to the castle (above) with her, one warm evening, and we got to within about 100 feet of the gate before two soldiers came running out and pointed their rifles at us. I waved them a friendly 'hello/goodbye', and we turned around and walked in the opposite direction. It was then I realised that the castle is still a proper military barracks.

The first time I went to the Highlands, I hitch-hiked with three other friends from art school, at the time when we were supposed to be setting up our degree shows (who needs a 'Surrey Diploma', anyway?) It took us three days to get there, one of which was spent standing and sleeping by a roundabout just south of Preston, Lancashire for the full 24 hours.

Our destination was a small crofter's cottage which was a couple of miles up from Campbeltown, which we had agreed to rent for £30 or something. When we got there, we found it had no roof or floors, so we slept in an old sheep-dip. The farmer said we could buy it outright for £500 (including about 2 acres of land), and I now wish we had.

The last time I went up, it was for a friend's (she with the entire village) wedding, and we flew from Bristol to Glasgow, hired a brand-new Mercedes for £13 per day, drove to a ferry crossing (which took about 3 hours off the journey time - have you ever tried to get from A to B around the lochs and inlets?) and made it to Ardtornish just in time for dinner that evening. The wedding was a hoot, with elderly and benign, kilted bankers 'stripping the willow' to the music of a local band which I swear could have out-played Jimmy Shand.

Like many other things that she has no direct knowledge of, H.I. had said all her previous life that she hated Scotland, without ever having been there. As we left the outskirts of Glasgow in the Mercedes and began climbing the high roads into the glorious scenery of the Highlands, she went quiet, then said, "My God, it's beautiful here."

That's the thing about Scotland - once you are there, it is so... well, Scottish.

A few mementos left behind in Edinburgh by Burke and Hare.