Ten years on, I’m still prone to a townie’s faux pas when I go deerstalking

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