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.