[I wrote this in August, at the end of the holiday, but have been having photo download problems (caused by incompetence rather than a technical fault.]
The ancient English tradition of 'beating the bounds' consisted of an annual trip by the villagers around the parish boundary. In order to ensure the key landmarks were remembered, the youth of the village were given a good thump at each relevant tree, rock or ruin. This - I assume - ensured that everyone had a strong sense of belonging (as well as a sore bum.) I'm not sure of Bill had this in mind when he planned our honeymoon: as I am now a member of a clan, by marriage, we spent an awful lot of time doing Highland things. No violence, obviously, but an awful lot of driving! Over the past 7 weeks, I have done nearly 3,000 miles, the result being not dissimilar to the effects of beating the bounds. But we had a fabulous time and I'm not complaining.
We bought a caravan, which, despite my total lack of self-confidence, I actually enjoyed driving very much. I have to admit that so far I can only drive it forward and was forced to look tearful and helpless in order to attract the attention of any kind, experienced caravanner who wished to do his good deed for the day and either help Bill push or reverse the car himself.
We love caravanning!! Every site was different; all -bar one (see below) - were fantastic; all the other campers were just lovely, with happy, friendly kids and well-behaved dogs. (This blog's title, by the way, refers to the fact that I attempted to kepp a ginger beer plant alive all summer. The things that happened to that poor plant! We'd park the caravan. only to find that it had somehow tipped over and the bathroom floor was awash with ferment. It survived for a while, but sadly died, apparently of sucrose poisoning.)
We drove from the Aberdeen ferry down to London, anticipating a jungle of weeds, but in fact the garden was not too bad at all. It required a lot of hard work, but not machetes and flame-throwers as I'd anticipated. It was nice to be able to pop in to my former place of work and catch up with a few kids and colleagues. (Nicer still, to be able to assure said kids that, no, I would not be coming back.) Star moment: getting a congratulatory kiss from the new Head, a former colleague. (The previous one would probably have had me marched off the premises under armed escort.)
After a few days, it was all the way back up to Invernesshire for the Gathering of the Frasers of Lovat. This wonderful event, the first for 10 years, was not marred, fortunately, by our accommodation. There wasn't a 'recommended site' nearby, so we chose one at random, which turned out to be owned by some extremely dodgy geezers from Essex. Apparently the site was where Lord Lovat exercised his troops before the D-Day landings and the semi-derelict shower block was left over from his tenure. Bill was reunited with his laird, a merchant banker who lives in Geneva (they're not daft, these highland chiefs.) This charming young man was exceptionally tall: this seems to be a prerequisite for being a highland chief. We met several during our travels and all looked like ex-Guardsmen.
We went to the Gathering in Edinburgh, an amazing event, the first Gathering of the Clans for a hundred years. There were Scots from all over the world, including Native Canadian Scots, Maori Scots and Caribbean Scots. A bunch of German barbarians calling themselves the Lechfeld Highlanders fell in love with Bill and kept dragging him into their photo shoots: we never worked out what they were for, as they didn't speak a word of English, but they were frightfully jolly. After the Gathering, we returned to the North-East for the Aboyne Games: lots of caber-tossing, sword-dancing and so on. By this time, Bill seemed to have palled up with half the aristocracy of Scotland. Suddenly, his dyed-in-the-wool republicanism went out the window, to be replaced with remarks like "As I was saying to Lord So-and-So..."
Photos this time are of one of the new sculptures at the Camden Market Stables; Bill argues politics with aristocratic chum; Bill meets Robert the Bruce; a march-past by the Atholl Highlanders, who are, I believe, the last private army in Europe; and, for those who remember my years in Finchley, Bill with Mari.
