ONE OF the prerequisites for leading a full and active social life in
Scotland is stamina. One has to be prepared to travel considerable
distances, expend a great deal of energy and, in doing so, be able to
survive with relatively little sleep. Thankfully, as one has grown
older, one has continued to be able to do all the things one was able to
do when one was a girl. It simply takes me longer to recover.
Over the past three days, what with the Oban Ball, the Northern
Meeting, the Lochaber Ball and the Aboyne Ball, one has been spoilt for
choice. But, as I have often said before, one cannot be everywhere at
once, although one does try.
It is with this in mind that tonight Old Camperdown and I are
abandoning our house party, leaving them to their own devices, and
Dawkins, our chauffeur, is driving us to Preston Hall, near Dalkeith,
home of Henry and Jackie Callander. Situated at Pathhead, Preston Hall
is a splendid location for a dance, and I shall never forget the
amalgamation ball of the Royal Scots Greys and 3rd Carabiniers to form
the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards held there back in 1971. I was seven and
a half months pregnant with Fiona, my daughter, at the time. Do you
know, I've always been convinced the reason she chose to arrive
prematurely in the early hours of that morning was just to see what she
was missing out on!
Being held in aid of the Game Conservancy Trust and their game-bird
research programme, the Grouse Ball tonight is presided over by Sir
Robert Spencer-Nairn, James Thomson, and Richard Strang-Steel. Chums
such as Janie Stodart from Kingston and James Kentish-Barnes are on the
organising committee, Alice Salvesen has been acting as ticket
secretary, and music is being supplied by the Simon Howie Band. I note
there is also to be an auction conducted by Sotheby's Scotland,
presumably by Harry Robertson, who is such a gentleman.
Since we will be staying overnight in Edinburgh, we had already
decided to return via the Gleneagles Hotel tomorrow evening for the
Sotheby's private view for their picture sale. It is one of those
occasions when one always sees so many familiar faces. Sometimes one
even finds time to look at the paintings.
Isn't it interesting how love changes all? Last year I was desperate
for Fiona, my daughter, to accompany us to the Skye Balls, held in the
Gathering Hall at Portree. Skye is such a beautiful island, and I can
think of nothing more romantic than being transported over the sea to
dance until dawn on two consecutive nights. Alas, I simply cannot see it
being the same once they build that bridge. In the past, Camperdown and
I have always made use of our yacht, and part of the magic has always
been arriving with damp feet.
Inevitably, although the first night is particularly formal, the Skye
Balls are essentially for the young, but last year, having become
involved with a most unsuitable student drama group at the Edinburgh
Festival, Fiona would have none of it. Since meeting Fraser, her young
man, she has positively bloomed. I can't tell you how happy I am to
report that this year she has seized upon our Skye ticket allocation for
next week, and on Thursday, therefore, it looks as if Camperdown and I
will have to be satisfied with the Glenlivet Fireworks Concert in
Princes Street Gardens.
The old boy has already telephoned the New Club to book in and, of
course, the slightest suggestion of Scotch whisky being involved on
Thursday puts an immediate spring in his step.
My principal concern, however, is that being in Edinburgh, one will be
expected to include Henrietta, my sister, in our plans. I can't tell you
what it was like having Grigor, her Ukrainian friend, demonstrate
Cossack dancing to us in the midst of our eightsome reel at the Northern
Meeting last night. Fortunately it was such a good party that nobody
appeared to notice.
As I write, they are still in their room, although the balalaika music
tends to suggest they are anything but asleep. I have to say I'll be
amazed if they materialise before Camperdown and I set off mid-afternoon
and although I hate to be churlish, I would very much like them to be
well and truly gone by the time we return. If one is to believe
Henrietta, Grigor has made such an impression with his impromptu poetry
recitals outside the Fringe box office last week that he has been
offered a soap box beside the steps of the Royal Scottish Academy.
Fingers crossed!
I know for a fact that tomorrow they've been invited to some
exhibition entitled Wonderbrats, put together by Sophie Buchan-Watt, the
Duke of Hamilton's rather extrovert young cousin. I understand Sophie
has already been featuring in the chorus of a festival sex and
censorship show, the title of which I could not possibly bring myself to
impart in this column. In the late 40s and 50s, Camperdown's mother used
to take part in all those wonderful drag hunts with Sophie's
grandmother, Lady Margaret Drummond-Hay of Seggieden. Undoubtedly
''drag'' meant something entirely different in those days.
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