As a lover of good drama, my favourite week of the year falls in the late summer when I make my annual pilgrimage to Scotland. The fabulous scenery, the weird and wacky costumes, the inventive use of language — it all adds up to a very memorable few days. No, I’m not talking about the Edinburgh Festival, but about deerstalking in the Highlands. For sheer, heart-stopping excitement, it knocks spots off a trip to the theatre. If you’re lucky, you’ll come home with more than just a fistful of programmes, too — though hand-luggage restrictions make it advisable to stick such souvenirs in the hold.
Admittedly, it has taken me ten years to become fully conversant with the sport. On my first trip north of the border I was thrown into confusion when my host pointed down a corridor and told me to ‘grab a piece’. I eagerly went in search of the gunroom, expecting to be faced with a choice between a Kalashnikov, an Uzi and .375 Magnum, only to discover a trestle table piled with sandwiches. Apparently ‘piece’ is the Scottish term for packed lunch.
Another beginner’s error was to assume that a couple of brisk walks through Hyde Park would be more than sufficient preparation. After all, my fellow guests would be a collection of Scottish aristocrats whose diet consisted of wine, whisky and Marlboro Reds. In fact, the moment their green wellies hit the heather they developed the lung capacity of Kenyan long-distance runners. My host had to stay behind and wait with me while the others disappeared over the horizon. As I struggled to catch my breath, he told me to take my time. He didn’t want to add my name to the long list of arrogant city-dwellers who’d dropped dead ‘on the hill’, whether from heart attacks, strokes or aneurysms.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in