HAVING deposited Old Camperdown with his hip flask in the middle of
the Fife Agricultural Show, hosted by John and Valerie Gilmour at
Balcormo Mains, near Leven, I am having Dawkins, our chauffeur, drive me
over to Bellahouston Park in Glasgow for the Scottish Kennel Club
Championship Show.
The old boy just loves any opportunity to get together with his East
Neuk cronies, and since I've made a point of inserting a mobile phone in
his Barbour jacket pocket, it should be simple enough for me to ring
from the Bentley Mulsanne Turbo and arrange where to collect him on our
way home.
In the meantime, the prospect of spending this afternoon with all
those adorable working, utility, and toy dogs is too thrilling; such a
pity I won't be able to stay over for tomorrow's gundog, terrier and
hound judging, but, as I keep telling myself, one simply can't be
everywhere.
Nevertheless, one can but try, and that is why on Wednesday I'm very
much hoping to be able to drop in on the Marie Curie Cancer Care Women
of the Year luncheon taking place at the Belleisle Hotel at Ayr.
Rosemary Findlay has agreed to be the charity's local chairman, and
speakers are the Rev. Effie Campbell, Carol Mitchell, the horse breeder
and interior decorator, and Ann Wilkson MBE.
After that I will be travelling cross-country for the little soiree
being held in Dumfriesshire by the local branch of the National
Association of Decorative and Fine Arts Societies. This is happening at
Threave, the National Trust for Scotland property at Castle Douglas, and
is being organised by Bridget Fleming Smith who lives at Parkgate.
All being well, however, I shall be leaving Camperdown in Edinburgh
for the musical gala concert featuring the band of Her Majesty's Royal
Marines, Flag Officer Scotland and Northern Ireland, which is taking
place at the Usher Hall for one night only.
Robin Salvesen from Eaglescairnie in East Lothian is chairman of the
Scottish council of the King George's Fund for Sailors, benefiting
charity, and from what I remember both he and Camperdown are rather keen
on big-band sounds. Peter Morrison, that handsome singing lawyer from
Glasgow, is the soloist, accompanied by Peggy O'Keefe, and my only
concern is that the old boy will inevitably insist on crooning his
favourites from the programme on the way home in the car.
I shall have to remember to take my ear plugs with me so that I can
get some sleep, especially as the following morning we are on parade for
the environmental seminar being held at Battleby, Perth. This is
sponsored by Brodies WS and the Field magazine and the topic is The
Scottish Highlands: The Last Wilderness, a subject cherished by
Camperdown with biblical fervour.
The discussion is being chaired by the Hon. Sir Charles Morrison, a
son of the 1st Lord Margadale from Islay, who is chairman of the Game
Conservancy Trust. Mark Tennant, Sir Ian's swarthy son, a budding
European politician, is presenting a resume on the role of the Scottish
Highlands in Europe; Captain Ben Coutts is giving a discourse on hill
farming, and Simon Fraser, director of the Scottish Landowners'
Federation, will be considering the prospects for land ownership in the
21st century.
The principal reason for my wanting to go along, I should say, is to
hear Paul Van Vlissingen, the fascinating Dutchman who owns the
Letterewe estate on Loch Maree. Letterewe has such long-ago romantic
memories for me having been stalking with my father on Beinn Lair in
that remote and spectacular landscape in the days when it was owned by
Colonel Bill Whitbread. The house, being across the loch, is
inaccessible other than by helicopter or boat, and if one arrived at
night one had to light the little oil lamp to summon the boatman. As
often as not the weather would be so bad we'd be obliged to spend the
night at the Loch Maree Hotel once patronised by Queen Victoria.
On Thursday, Paul is scheduled to speak about access and conservation;
Camperdown has been having all sorts of problems with hillwalkers, not
to mention new age travellers, on our west coast land, and is therefore
hoping for some useful tips on what to do about them.
Henrietta, my sister, has been in the South of France for the Cannes
Film Festival this week. She took off for Monaco last weekend,
supposedly for the grand prix, which rather surprised us as we've never
known her show the slightest interest in motor racing before. Between
you and me, Camperdown and I are utterly convinced her intention was to
track down the evasive young Marquess of Bute who, as Johnny Dumfries,
was a Le Mans champion in 1988.
We're pretty certain she must have got wind of his inheriting that
#144m from his late father, and where Henrietta is concerned that sort
of thing is tantamount to exposing a side of smoked salmon to an
Abyssinian white. Fortunately for him, the grapevine has it that since
his divorce from Carolyn Dumfries he's become happily involved
elsewhere.
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