WE returned home towards dawn this morning having been at the Donside
Ball held in the town hall at Inverurie. For me, the only disappointment
of the evening was missing the chance to dance the Reel of the 51st in
the same set as David Sole, the handsome Scotland rugby captain, whose
parents own Glenbuchat Castle in Strathdon. I know that Torquil, my son,
who is 12 years old, will be furious when I tell him.
The last couple of days have been pretty demanding what with having
people to stay and driving them over to Scone to watch the polo. I am
not sure I will have the stamina to spectate again this afternoon, but I
am dying to know who wins the Whitbread Cup, won by James Manclark and
his Monkrigg team last year.
Under the circumstances, I also felt it sensible to decline the
invitation to a garden party, gala, buffet and masque all being held by
The Friends of Rosslyn at Rosslyn Chapel on the outskirts of Edinburgh
this afternoon. The Earl of Rosslyn is a London-based policeman and lets
out his nearby, dramatic, cliff-top castle through the Landmark Trust.
The story of his ancestor, Prince Henry St Clair, who probably
discovered America 200 before Christopher Columbus, never fails to
fascinate me and, having delved into Sir Walter Scott's Lay of the Last
Minstrel, the idea of Prince Henry being buried under the Rosslyn aisle
with 24 of his knights, all in full armour, fills me with excitement.
I am currently having an awful row with my daughter Fiona, otherwise I
would have certainly asked her to represent me. I had arranged for her
to join a very smart party of young things for the Skye balls being held
next Wednesday and Thursday in the Gathering Hall at Portree, but she
now tells me she cannot possibly get away from the Edinburgh Festival
Fringe show which has kept her so occupied all month. Imagine, she
turned down an invitation to the Oban Ball last Thursday in order to
watch the Glenlivet fireworks display!
Regardless of Fiona, however, Camperdown and I are planning to set
sail from Mallaig for Skye on Tuesday, stopping off first at Eilean
Iarmain so that I can pop ashore and visit Sir Iain Noble and Lucilla,
his lovely young wife, who comes from Inverness-shire and who,
obviously, I have known since she was a child. Camperdown is very much
looking forward to sampling some Poit Dhubh, the 12-year-old single malt
which Iain's whisky company has just introduced.
On Wednesday afternoon we will follow the coastline, through Loch
Alsh, and into the Sound of Raasay where we will tie up alongside the
fishing boats in Portree Bay. We rarely use the yacht nowadays, but it
is such an independent, romantic way of attending these island events.
And I do like to feel that we justify the expense of keeping the crew
standing by for the rest of the year, although the recent arrangement
with a charter company based at Gibralter has proved not unprofitable.
Camperdown and I have been regulars at the Skye balls since before we
knew one another. Ruaridgh Hilleary, a neighbour of my aunt's in
Morayshire, has been in charge of the organisation for as long as I can
remember, although obviously not as far back as the first one which was
held in 1879. Such a dear man, he has a wonderfully talented family --
Dhileas Sanders, who so sportingly runs the Scottish country dance band
named after Ben, her late husband, and who has now become engaged to
Harry Lukas, an Edinburgh estate agent, and Alasdair, better known as
''Loon'', the cartoonist.
Finding suitable accommodation for the Skye balls is a real problem
since there are so few big houses on the island. As a result, the young
are usually relegated to bed-and-breakfast establishments, which, of
course, is such a novelty and they love it. With Lord and Lady Macdonald
of Macdonald running a hotel at Kinloch Lodge and Armadale Castle turned
into the Clan Donald visitor centre, the largest private residence is
Dunvegan Castle, home of John and Melita MacLeod of MacLeod, but since
he is an opera singer and has to spend so much of his time in London,
there is always the possibility they might not make it. Anyway, I
imagine that the Hon. Alexandra and the Hon. Isabella, Gog and Clare
Macdonald's pretty teenage daughters, will be much in evidence with
their chums.
My nightmare scenario is bad weather. Fortunately, The Countess of
Camperdown, as my husband affectionately christened our 95-ft motor
yacht, is sufficiently large to sustain most storms. But I am praying
that it doesn't rain and I really do not want a repetition of the early
morning mist of 10 years ago when Camperdown, in his full Highland
evening dress, admittedly rather the worse for a few drams, managed to
fall off the pier.
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