The Highland Fling

The background to this particular story is as follows: some time ago I had to attend a meeting of some importance in London. It was one of those get-rich-quick, pyramid selling schemes. The company, proudly proclaimed, in just a few short years I could become a rich man overnight and live the life of a film star with millionaire status. Their brochure contained lots of glossy photos of flashy cars, luxury yachts, huge mansions, and scantily clad girls. Say no more, I thought, I’ll certainly have some of that. Anyway, having earlier exchanged dialogue with the regional sales manager of the company, I was invited to attend a meeting in London which was being held at the Regency Hotel in the Bayswater area.

Having arrived at the venue an hour before it started I got the chance to meet some of the other candidates, who like me, were highly keyed up and raring to go. In all, there was about thirty people in attendance. As I mingled I was introduced to lots of men and women who came from different backgrounds and cultures, and after a while, I got the impression that whilst many of them devoted their entire attention to the acquisition of making money, others however were more interested in scoffing the freebie spread that was laid on. I was then introduced to a rather distinguished looking guy who went by the name of Nigel. He was what you might call a true English gentleman - charming, with impeccable manners, together with a great personality. However, he gave me the impression that he had all the characteristics of a fully fledged scoundrel. But more to the point our instant liking for each other proved to be a blessing in disguise. The turning came when he asked me if I’d be interested in joining him for a drink after the meeting had finished.

Anyway, over a pint of beer and a packet of crisps the conversation got round to travel, and how he, Nigel that is, had got the travel bug, big time. He went on to tell me that he’d been round the world dozens of times as his previous occupation had been a pilot with a well-known airline. Now retired and living quite compatibly, he now spends his time writing articles for a travel magazine. Incredibly, there were several places he had not visited before, namely Scotland and the Lake District. Reading between the lines I got the impression that the pyramid selling thing was definitely not for either of us, so therefore, as a result of my chance meeting with Nigel, he asked if I would be interested in accompanying him as a friend and travel companion to visit the places he had mentioned. I nevertheless accepted his offer with both hands. Though I found Nigel to be a really smashing bloke there were certain aspects in his character that were slightly puzzling. Admittedly there were a few drawbacks, namely his rather eccentric behaviour. This was perhaps a mild exaggeration as you will later discover.

A week later something happened that rocked me to my utter foundations. I was going about doing my usual mundane formalities, when from out of the blue I received a phone call. I’ve got to admit, it was the craziest, most ridiculous phone call I had ever received in my life. The call came from my newly acquired acquaintance, Nigel; whereby he began to download his spiel upon me, with words to the effect:

“Tabhannaich-Raineach-Uaici-Baidealech-Dachach-Cabhagach-Eaphon-Lala-Maigheach-Nasgadh-Gadheal.”

(Plus to go along with this nonsense was a rhyme)

“Up the airy mountain, down the rush glen, we won’t be going hunting but cruising around instead.”

What in creation is this load of codswallop? I asked myself.

Did my ears deceive me? Am I hearing right? I soon ascertained that a quick translation was needed, but in order to do so I would need the help of a top decoding expert. Holy Moses! Just hold on there a minute! How could I have been so stupid at not being able to understand his amazing vocabulary? Without question it had to be Gaelic dialect, of course. In order to unravel this extraordinary mystery, I was instructed me to read the complete works of the Gaelic language, and once I had mastered the complexities of the situation I would then find the answer to the riddle. Which when roughly translated would miraculously turn into pronounceable English grammar.

So, imagine my delight, when further into our conversation a rather pleasant surprise unfolded, which I am delighted to say came in the form of a one-week’s holiday to the Highlands of Scotland. This would take in the wonderful cities of Glasgow, Edinburgh and Perth, and then finish up in Inverness, gateway to the Scottish Highlands. Incredibly, the only thing required of me was to turn up at Milton Keynes railway station the following Saturday and catch the 11.10am to Glasgow. The train tickets were booked, along with the hotels and a bit of cash for spending money, all courtesy of Nigel.

The motivation behind this sudden surge of extraordinary behaviour was this: the week before, Nigel had seen a documentary on television concerning the Loch Ness Monster mystery. The programme went to great depths as to the whereabouts of the monster, but more importantly, he had become a trifle intoxicated with the stunning scenery and the sheer beauty of the place. By his reckoning, if we got ourselves up there, to Loch Ness that is, we could go about and do our very own private investigation, and with a bit of luck, we might even come face to face with the monster himself. Yikes! I trembled in my boots.

All things considered, it was altogether a thoroughly satisfying arrangement, and indeed, a lovely trip to look forward to. So it came to pass the following week, Saturday, I found myself being magically wafted over to Milton Keynes railway station. But quite unknown to me I was to meet a red Virgin train on platform one. Having mastered the technicalities of boarding, I began the daunting task of trying to locate my friend. But bless my soul, the compartments were brimming with a melee of activity and positively teeming with commuters, packed to the rafters, with not a seat to be had. My cunning fiend of a friend had craftily slipped through the net at London’s Euston Station and had devilishly sneaked through the gate barriers, past the guards, and somehow had managed to climb on board a red choo-choo train. Nigel explained the night before that I was to meet him in the third carriage of the train marked Rear Admiral Horsley, which is of course one of his weird and wonderful jokes. Searching for signs of intelligent life, I unexpectedly stumbled across a rather balding head, glistening in all its glory. It was Nigel, sitting there in a first-class seat and beckoning me over to join him to take my reserved seat.

And so began our long train journey as we clicked and clacked, rattled and rolled our way along, sailing past a multitude of industrial towns. Then, quite dramatically, the scenery changed to beautiful rolling landscapes, nestled amid fertile pastures with roaming flocks of livestock. Silhouetted against the greyness of the sky I caught the occasional glint of the sea, darting dandily in and out of the headlands.

The only minor disturbing thing to talk about was the constant hustle and bustle of vending trolleys, zooming up and down the aisles in search of a customer or two. Surprisingly, the journey up from England flew by with remarkable speed, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves pulling into Glasgow Central Station. It was now a matter of nipping across town to another station to get a reconnection for Perth. Sometime later, inside Queen’s Street station the information monitors were busily flashing up the necessary information to the travelling public. With about twenty minutes to kill, we thought a coffee and a sticky bun would go down rather well. Positioned on the main concourse next to the ticket office was a rather super bar type café. However, taking up our positions inside the place, little did we know what surprises were in store? Our immediate attention was drawn to a group of men who were lying spread-eagled on the floor, highly intoxicated and in a state of rigormortis. Standing over these undesirable heathens was a gathering of the cloth. Three men of the clergy, knocking pints and whiskies back like there was no tomorrow. Were these good men of the forgotten flock bell-ringers or something or were they part of the whisky fraternity? I asked myself. I knew from past experience that the golden rule for bell-ringers was to keep one’s feet firmly on the ground. But little did I know, we are of course in Scotland, where’s it’s not too uncommon to see people getting deliriously drunk on Bell’s, their favourite whisky.

Well can you beat that, one of the bevvied boozers was doing his utmost to get up; he went down, but he soon managed to claw his way up again. His head swayed from side to side, his hand trying in desperation to grab a drink, his breath by now smelling like a Scottish distillery.

“See you Jimmy!” He spluttered out in a strong Glaswegian voice.

I had the distinct feeling that our short-arsed, pint-sized friend, all of five-foot nothing of him, had it in his mind to do a bit of embroidery and to carve his initials with a great pride across my friend’s face, thus rendering his features into a grotesque mess of unrecognisable proportions. The intoxicated Jock finally slithered back to the floor again, passionately calling out for a wee dram more. Then in one stint of barbaric madness the place turned to a scene of uproar. Punches and boots went in like sledgehammers. In the middle of this madness and mayhem were our three men of the cloth, who by the look on their faces were having the time of their lives.

The outrageous sight of three clergymen, rolling about on the floor, kicking the living daylights out of these poor defenceless people was far too much to take in, and so we left to continue on with our journey.

The train journey to Perth did not pass without incident. Some idiot pulled the communication cord. A flasher ran among the passengers, causing the usual chaos associated with flashers. Plus an old lady got her handbag pinched by a bogus vicar. Just as things were hotting up, our train pulled into Perth station whereupon the vicar did a runner with the finest selection of quality leather handbags.

Thankfully, my travelling companion Nigel had conveniently pre-booked us into a hotel called the Rob Roy. But in order to reach the damn thing a taxi was required, and as luck would have it, one was on hand.

“Oh, excuse me driver,” Nigel enquired. “We’d like to get our heads down for the night, could you take us to the Rob Roy hotel please.”

“Heeds did ye say?” The driver asked.

“Yes, that’s right, driver, heeds, I mean heads.”

“Oh, and driver, before we set off, I’ll need a hole-in-the-wall as well, bit short of the old lubricardos, you see,” Nigel brimmed, pointing towards his empty wallet.

It began to dawn on our Scottish friend, the taxi driver that is, that his two acquired passengers were not of the full shilling, but two raving mad Englishmen, who had nothing else, better to do than flash their wallets and ask about holes-in-the-wall.

But you see they all think us English lot are stark raving bonkers up here in Scotland.

Later on as we climbed the stairs to our rooms Nigel complained he felt tired and needed to lie down for a while. “Look, I’ll give you a knock a bit later on, once I’ve had a chance to recover,” he groaned, holding back his weariness.

Fully rejuvenated, he knocked on my door just as the grandfather clock struck its chimes at eight o’clock. Thereafter, the old codger summoned enough energy to pay a visit to a nearby pub, aptly named the Tartan Arm, and apparently the meeting place for up and coming alcoholics. Soon we were mingling it with the rest of the local inhabitants, and like all good Friday night pubs it thronged to noisy vibrancy. Away to our left was a small group of football supporters that were glued to a giant screen, showing scenes from a live match, with the usual ruckus and foul language associated with football activities.

“Come on, you Ackies, for God’s sake score man, shoot you idiot.”

“Who and what are the Ackies?” a bewildered Nigel asked.

“Their real name is Hamilton Academicals,” I replied back in an informing manner.

“Oh, I see,” he sighed.

Sitting back enjoying a pint of the local beverage, a surprise came when the door of the snug bar unexpectedly opened. Wedged in the doorway stood this huge man, elaborately dressed in a chequered jacket and with it bearing matching trousers and whose accent was that of an American.

“Why, howdy there folks,” he began, puffing away on a big cigar. “Could anyone please help me, I’m looking for my long lost cousin by the name of Jamie McDonald. Has anyone seen him? I’ll buy anyone a drink with information regarding his whereabouts; just stick your hand up in the air.”

Within seconds the entire gathering of the pub had their hands held firmly in the air, at the same time pointing towards their beer mugs. The American bought one round, two rounds, three rounds and finally four rounds of beer, and just as the bell rang for closing our American friend was getting mighty anxious as to his cousin’s whereabouts.

“Now where the hell’s my cousin,” he demanded in an angry tone.

A little, red faced, rat-arsed of a Scotsman stood up and declared in a well-oiled voice. “Och away man, ye cousin’s been dead since 1969.”

The American looked dumbfounded.

“But all that drink I’ve pumped into you guys, along with the whiskies and cigars I bought for you.”

“Aye, ye be a grand man, that’s for sure, but can ye come back tomorrow night and I’ll tell ye all about the Stuarts?” the deliriously intoxicated Scotsman winked with an air of satisfaction and left our American friend totally flabbergasted.

The next morning we moved on to Edinburgh. The initial plan was to devote a whole day for sightseeing activities and then later on in the day heading up to Inverness. My first impression of Edinburgh was a city of immerse splendour and grandeur. In fact, the history of Edinburgh, I am told, goes back two and a half thousand years, to the Iron Age times, where the visible legacy starts at Edinburgh Castle which still dominates the skyline of the city. And, what better way to begin one’s journey than in an open-topped, double-decker bus. Soon, we were leaving the splendours of George Street and making for a volcanic piece of rock set on a high peninsula. Sure enough perched high above the city centre stood the famous Edinburgh Castle. Thereupon our tour guide, aptly named Charlie, gave us an in-depth analysis, together with an account of the castle’s chequered history. Charlie explained as we walked along that Edinburgh Castle was built in the twelfth century and was first used as an Abbey, being later transformed in 1639 into the Scottish Parliament buildings. However, the earliest references to the castle go way back to the sixth century, and apparently the oldest surviving building is the Norman chapel. Not only that, in the eighteenth-century Edinburgh Castle was turned into a garrison fortress with a small army, including barracks and military hardware, due to it being easily defendable.

Fresh from Charlie’s amazing history lesson we climbed back on board the bus once more. Close by, the cobbled streets led to the oldest part of town. In fact, Lawnmarket is the starting point of the Royal Mile and incorporates such names as Cannongate, High Street, Lawnmarket and Castlehill. The Royal Mile has been described as the largest, longest and one of the finest streets in the world. From my vantage point I could see turrets, gables and towering chimney pots nestled in alongside historic monumental structures. A sudden screech of the brakes brought the bus to a grinding halt somewhere in the Cowgate area where the bus’s engine fell silent.

Piling out, I found myself standing in a secluded square surrounded by the eeriest of old buildings. Tucked away among the isolation and quietness were two old churches camouflaged with weepy old willow trees. Magdalen Chapel, it became known, is sited in Edinburgh’s old town near the George IV Bridge. This small, but beautiful sixteenth-century chapel held pride of place for the whole community throughout the centuries. The chapel is of great importance for several reasons. Firstly, it can be said, it had been the cradle of Presbyterianism, holding the first assembly of the new Church of Scotland, dating back to 20th December 1560. Furthermore, it once housed a hospital, looking after the sick and infirm, then later passed into the hands of the Incorporation of Hammermen. From Magdalen Chapel, Charlie escorted us to another secluded square to take in another historic building. Hidden behind a cluster of old elm trees was the Kirk of the Greyfriars church, made even creepier by the forbidding, looking graveyard?

Greyfriars Church, believe it or not, is where the Covenant was signed in 1638, just after the battle of Bothwell Bridge in 1679. For it is told that several hundred of the Covenanters were imprisoned in Greyfriars. The perpetrators were duly executed. In addition, and more worrying was the thought that this particular part of Edinburgh had once seen the likes of public hangings and beheadings, including torture and floggings. This area became infamous as one of the grizzliest parts of Edinburgh and certainly not a place to be hanging around in, especially at night. Charlie explained that over the years strange sightings had accrued on days relating to executions. The likes of ghostly hauntings with headless figures have been seen roaming through the graveyard. The outline of white transparent figures had often been seen floating through the church grounds, dragging their bondage chains along with a distinctive moaning and groaning sound.

So this is Edinburgh. Yikes! Let’s get the hell out of here!

For much of the day we had Edinburgh pretty much all to ourselves, but having said that we became acutely aware that our time in the city was coming to an end, so the necessary preparations were made to move onto Inverness.

The very first time I clapped eyes on Inverness was on a cold wind swept night with an easterly gale blowing in from the North Sea. And, as far as hotels go, the Stornaway was a grand old place, set high on a hill, overlooking the magnificence of the Inverness skyline.

The next morning after a good night’s sleep a stroll into town was decided upon. Halfway down we came across a parade of shops that sold a dazzling display of the finest Scottish kilts, bagpipes, tartans and sporrans. Because of Nigel’s ancestry, the McDoulish clan, the canny cad insisted on buying a tie of that particular persuasion, whose only claim to fame was a bottle over the head incident in the Gorbals area of Glasgow!

Scouring through the tie rack, Nigel found the one in question. “Here it is the one I want, a McDoulish.”

Over came the assistant, wearing his full regalia of the Campbell Clan but without the Y-fronts on. The cheeky sod not only suggested buying a tie but to go with it he urged Nigel to go the full hog.

“Oh, but sir, ye cannae just wear a tie,” he said. “What ye need to go along with it is a kilt and a sporran,” he suggested.

“My dear man,” Nigel began, looking towards the assistant with some surprise. If I was to wear a kilt in my local butchers, me bits and pieces would be cut off. Plus the fact, if certain people who use dodgy lavatories saw me in that outfit, they’d use my bum as a pincushion, then they’d stick me privates in a storage jar and use the damn things for the manufacturing of the finest red plums.”

“Oh, but sir! What a lovely way to go,” the assistant replied in a campish voice.

For much of the morning we wandered aimlessly around shopping centres and pedestrianised precincts, nosing in and out of shops and doing the usual touristy things.

Unfortunately, in the midst of our walkabout we had somehow managed to get caught up in a swarm of Japanese tourists, little people smiling and bowing their heads as if they had just won the lottery, in addition to their cameras madly clicking away at anything that resembled a historic building. In our quest for peace and solitude and with our hearts firmly set on jungle-type adventure, we took refuge at the local tourist office. Outside the booking office was a selection of day trips which read something like this:

“There is something truly wonderful about a coach tour, so why not try one of our very popular day tours which provide the traveller with an ideal opportunity to visit several of Scotland’s many renowned beauty spots and historical places of interest. Glide your way in comfort and superb style on board one of our luxury air-conditioned coaches. So for today, why not join us on a grand tour of Loch Ness?”

Without any further ado, two exclusive tours were duly booked up. The first one, for today, was an all day excursion to Loch Ness, and for tomorrow we had the resounding pleasure of looking forward to a trip to the Battlefields of Culloden Moor. In no time at all we found ourselves clambering on board a coach bound for Loch Ness, with the more terrifying prospect of meeting up with our friend Nessie!

For many a person the Highlands are synonymous with Scotland and as our coach made its way through the Scottish countryside, images came before me that resembled clips from a picture postcard. I witnessed a land of unspoilt beauty, a land of glens, castles and of lochs, magnificently steeped in mountains and heather.

I’d like to put one thing straight before I go any further. My understanding of sea serpents is very sketchy, but I do know this. The legend of the Loch Ness monster still persists to this very day and is backed up by a number of near sightings. In short, Loch Ness would be the ideal starting place to begin Nigel’s investigations. But strange as it may seem, Loch Ness has no such need for any underwater monsters or sea serpents, whether they be mythical or not. More worrying was the thought that deep down in that black bottomless pit hides the long-necked gorgon called Nessie.

Our tour guide was a chap called Rabbie, who was of the highland persuasion, and spoke with a twang that only the cleverest of Orientals could understand. Leaving Inverness heading west, our beast of a coach trundled its way along with gritty determination, twisting and snaking its way through a landscape if wonderful, mountainous terrain. Where lonely roads mingled with lochs and glens all beautifully blended in to form a breath-taking backdrop.

A sign indicated a turn-off point from the main road that fell sharply away, taking us down in zigzag patterns towards the vast sprawl of Loch Ness. Away to our left were the remains and ruins of Urquhart Castle, once used as a major fortress, now a great super-duper vantage point to see what our friend Nessie was up to. It was here, from this very spot, when in 1955, a lone photographer claimed he say a grey head arise from the great depths of the murky waters and he quickly took a snapshot of the long-necked fellow - claiming it to be Nessie, the so-called Loch Ness monster.

“Look yonder,” a fellow passenger cried with alarm.

Something mysterious stirred from within the blackness of the deep. A slight ripple made its way across the dark satanic waters with submarine like appearance, about to submerge. What in creation was it? Could it have been a ripple or indeed a wave or perhaps something far more sinister? The passengers were aghast with horror, for good reason. Because, far from drawing to a close our fears were only just beginning. Something far more sinister than a ripple or a wave, I shouldn’t wonder. More like a sea serpent! In fact if you gaze into the water long enough, you may convince yourself that underneath the surface lurk dark mysterious shapes, darting back and forth descending to the depths.

“Aye” Rabbie sighed, “I do believe that something will stir from the great bowels of the Loch today, a creature so frightening he’ll make the likes of Frankenstein look like a Boy Scout. Aye, my beloved Nessie will arise from the deep and his heed will lunge up and gobble up as many of you Sassenachs as he can eat. Aye, Nessie, there’ll be a fine dinner for you today, that’s for sure.”

Rabbie sat there rubbing his beard in glee, simply frightening the lives out of us. But the punters were not at all too happy as to what Rabbie had said, for there was far worse to come. Rabbie informed us that, as part of the package, he’d be taking us out to the middle of the Loch in a paddle boat, where Loch Ness is at its deepest and most dangerous. Moments later we were drawing up alongside a jetty. In the water sat a paddle steamer, all nicely tied up and raring to go, and soon, we were being ushered on board. The engines sprang into life and the paddles began to rotate as we slipped gently away from shore, making headway towards the centre-point of the Loch - gazing into a black abyss. It suddenly dawned on me that the colour of the water had mysteriously changed from blue, to an almost dark, menacing black colour.

Rabbie announced that in a few minutes time we’d be sitting right on top of the Loch at its most deepest. Eerily, the engines fell silent and we sat there bobbing about in the water, motionless. Moments later however I witnessed a scene of utter madness. Rabbie decided to lunge himself forward as though he was about to jump off at the deep end for an early morning dip. Had the canny Scot one mad? For he seemed to be talking to something beneath the water, as he hung half in and half out of the boat. “Och! Will ye come up Nessie and give us a wee peek at ye, man?” Rabbie pleaded. “We want to see ye in person. Please Nessie, arise and don’t ye worry, there’s plenty of food in the boat for dinner.”

“Oh please, Rabbie! Let the monster stay down in the depths,” a lady passenger urged.

Back on dry land again there was further grim news. Rabbie announced it was now on to the monster museum. Heavens above, how much more of this terrible onslaught could us poor Sassenachs take? Actually it turned out a rather interesting experience. The theory goes that Nessie lives out at sea, due to the fact there is absolutely no food in the Loch to sustain any life form, either for fish or monster. This was the scientists’ point of view, which I suppose seems quite logical really.

I awoke the next morning covered in a cold sweat, recovering from a series of psychologically disturbing nightmares, induced by the sight of naked girls removing the scantiest of clothing that only dirty old me like me dream about. And what’s more, certain rumours were flying about by several members of staff that our guesthouse had apparently been infiltrated with a roaming flock of whoofters. This was confirmed by the sight of a strange man who’d be seen wandering about, darting in and out of gentlemen’s rooms late at night and craftily reappearing in the morning. Could I still be dreaming? For there was a hand slithering its way under the bedclothes, and worming its way to a region that only the cheekiest of squirrels dare know about. Moreover, in view of these rumours I could see the shadowy figure of a man sitting by my bed.

“Shuush! Don’t be frightened,” a voice whispered. “It’s only me, Santa Claus. Look what Santa’s brought you from his grotto,” as the dirty old dog unashamedly rips open his tunic and shakes his raspberry ripple at me. Gulp! They certainly don’t make-em like that anymore, I cried. Badly shaken by the experience, it did however take me all of three days to get over it!

The next morning I found myself strolling across a bleak moor filled with the scent of heather and heath. I was in the heartland of Culloden Moor, and immediately visions of Bonnie Prince Charlie and his brave band of followers were suddenly brought back to life. It was on a murky day in April of 1746 when Bonnie Prince Charlie deployed his massive army of 5,000 brave Highlanders here on Culloden’s bleak moor to challenge the Duke of Cumberland’s men.

Historically, a huge battle took place on this site pitting Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobites against Prince William, Duke of Cumberland and his mighty English army. For it is said with some reserve that the first blood drawn from this great battle came from a Jacobite gun, which narrowly missed the Duke of Cumberland’s head. And carrying eighteen stone about his person was surely a prominent target that no one could easily miss. If this is true then the first shot must have been an incredibly lucky one indeed. For the Jacobite artillery consisted of some twelve guns, positioned in the centre and on the flanks. Cumberland’s massively rear-aligned artillery under the command of Brevet-Colonel William Belford gave the command to fire and let rip five-ten-pounders. Such was the damage done on the tightly packed Jacobite ranks; it was one of pure carnage. The battle raged on, but in the end the Duke of Cumberland won the day, which to me symbolises a dashing dream for both men to raise their flags in victory.

The next day we left Inverness and caught the first of a twice daily train service to Fort William, which according to my sponsor Robert would be the highlight of the trip - a classic “steam train” journey, and as “preserved railways” go, the Fort William to Mallaig line is rated as one of the great train journeys of the world. So impressive is the route that the 84-mile round trip takes one through a mind-boggling succession of great landscapes.

Sadly, our time in Scotland was running out with alarming speed so the necessary preparations were made for a hasty return back home. But bugger it, we thought. Why the hell should we rush back to dear old Blighty? Where’s the old bulldog spirit?

However, in the course of our high spirits we had somehow managed to get ourselves lost, ending up in a remote area known as Ardnamurchan, and not the sort of place that was often visited by your average tourist. Our 1955 guidebook, picked up at one of Inverness’s antique shops, suggested a stay at Dunhoulie Hall, which unfortunately was a decision that proved most regrettable.

Dunhoulie Hall is one of Scotland’s oldest castles and legend has it that no other castle in Scotland could match its nightly goings on. Not just any old castle but a crumbling old, grey-stoned eleventh century relic. For rumour has it that Dunhoulie Hall is haunted by all of three ghosts who unfortunately met their deaths in the grizzliest of ways. For it is said that one poor chap called Sir Archibald carries his severed head under his arm, in hope of meeting the dirty rotten scoundrel who chopped it off. As dusk fell we arrived at the castle steps to be greeted by a kindly gentleman called Angus McTavish who acted, it would appear, as combined chef, waiter, porter and receptionist - a combination we found somewhat unusual, but I suppose it keeps the wage costs down. And wearing a kilt instead of trousers, probably helps keep clothing costs down as well - canny fellows these Jocks.

“Will ye gents be wanting a room for the night?” McTavish enquired.

“Well actually, Jock, we not only require a room, but evening dinner as well.”

“Och, let’s have a look,” Angus sighed, as he cast his eye over the register. “I’ll put you in the East Wing,” Angus smiled, rubbing his hands together with glee.

“Oh, and by the way Angus, after dinner we’d like to get our heads down, we’re absolutely cream-crackered,” Nigel injected.

“Heeds did we say, och away, man, ye’ll get no sleep at Dunhoulie Hall, have ye nae heard of the three ghosts that wander the belfries at night?”

“No certainly not!” Nigel declared with a look of surprise.

Angus told us that back in the fifteenth century several of the occupants at the castle had been executed by one means or another. Apparently it was the norm in those days. The story goes that the men involved in the reconstruction of the castle had by accident bricked up a gentleman called Boris within the mighty structures of the castle. He was never heard of again so it was assumed the worst that he must have rotten away from within.

“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped, we all make mistakes, but I’m sure the brickies did their best,” Nigel quipped.

“How many other guests have you got staying at Dunhoulie Hall?” Nigel asked.

“Nayn, apart from yourselves, there’s only me and Mrs McTavish.”

After dinner we got down to the more serious business of a good night’s sleep, but would you believe it, I was woken up yet again from a deep sleep, covered in sweat. It was another one of my recurring dreams. This time fresh images came before me of naked men wearing the tiniest of G-strings. More worrying was the thought my passions for the fairer sex were diminishing by the minute. My thoughts were now of big burly lorry drivers and hairy all-in wrestlers, roping me down to a bed and giving me one hell of a whipping. Ouch! I went back to sleep but was woken up yet again this time by the sound of footsteps coming from outside on the landing. Peeking through the crack of the door, I could see the faint outline of a white transparent figure that floated regally across the hallway and then mysteriously disappeared through the upper walls of the castle. Heavens above! I cried. Could that have been Sir Archibald?

The next morning, haggard, worn and weary, I made my way down to the breakfast table to find Nigel sitting there looking grumpy and fed up. “Nigel! I’ve got some rather disturbing news to tell you. I think I saw Sir Archibald last night, carrying his severed head under his arm; he went right through the upper walls of the castle and then completely disappeared through the pantry cupboard.”

“Well, blow me! It’s funny you should say that, because I saw him as well, round about 3pm, coming out of the pantry cupboard, this time with his heed on, I mean head.”

“Never!”

“Yes, it’s true,” Nigel insisted.

On hearing my friend’s similar story, we immediately dashed down to the pantry to throw some light on the situation - but would you believe it, when we got there we found the pantry had been stripped bare, with not a morsel of food in sight.

“Now, where the hell are Mr and Mrs McTavish to explain all this?” Nigel raged. To add to our problems the McTavishes were nowhere to be found and, having scoured the castle in its entirety, we found not a living soul in sight. And in view of the management’s failure to provide adequate breakfast facilities it was decided to vacate the establishment and try our luck in the next village.

Sure enough, a couple of miles down the road our journey brought us to the tiny hamlet of Ockle, and in no time at all we were tucking into a full Scottish breakfast. The friendly old lady who owned the inn told us she had lived in Ockle all her life and said everyone knows everyone round here as they were very friendly folks.

“I suppose you know the bloody McTavishes,” Nigel scowled, banging his hand on the table in a rage.

“Ah, yes, but of course, I remember them, but sadly, they died some years ago up in the great castle known as Dunhoulie Hall.”

“Impossible! We were only talking to them last night, in fact we stayed there.”

The old lady laughed.

“But ye cannae be serious, sir, for the castle burnt down to the ground some fifty years ago, taking Mr and Mrs McTavish along with it, all ye’ll find up there is crumbling ruins.”

“Hey Nigel! She must think we are stark raving bonkers, for you know and I know that we stayed there last night and now she tells us it’s just a ruin.”

Settling up terms with the lady, we immediately drove back to the place from which we came and back along the road we had driven and as we rounded the corner to where Dunhoulie Hall had stood, there was nothing. It began to dawn on us that perhaps Dunhoulie Hall didn’t exist after all. For as we gazed across a bleak foggy moorland, the only thing we found was a few crumbling ruins, filled with empty fields and roaming herds of cattle. Dunhoulie Hall had completely vanished, just as the old lady had said, and to this day neither Nigel nor I can explain the mysterious chain of events that took place that night!