The October school holiday is never an easy one to plan for.
Certainly not since the Scottish Government decided to change the timing of my kids’ school break after I’d bought a damn timeshare!
Still, that aside, the wanderlust is always in me and my family at this time of year and to escape the cities the MacLeods usually take the high road north.
But of course, as you will have gathered by now, MacLeod hols are never without their problems!What to pack? Everything! From arctic ski wear to shorts, woolly jumpers to swimming trunks, a month’s supply of booze, every piece of newfangled digital entertainment gear and the almost redundant though essential outdoor sporting items.
Oh, and the dreaded bikes and their stupid racks.
How I hate them. On more than one occasion I’ve watched them leap off the back like metal lemmings trying to cripple those travelling behind me. I’ve even had one sneakily attacking me through the side window.
This time, I’m delighted to say, it was agreed the bikes should stay in the garage as there was plenty to do where we were going Ballater.
We had clay pigeon shooting arranged, zip slides booked, swimming and forest walks planned, and a delightful three-hour pony trek to look forward to.
We eventually found the shooting range, arriving an hour late after I took the wrong turn at the Highlands answer to Harthill, Tomintoul.
What a bleak, dreary and creepy wee place this is. Honestly, you expect to meet the mad penny whistler from Little Britain or the odd couple from League Of Gentleman.
The zip slides were cancelled due to the weather, but not until we had again driven over the terrifying road of the Lecht and screeched through Tomintoul.
Our swimming was short lived due to the amount of chlorine in the pool. So strong I looked like a peeled lobster when I came out!
The visit to Fort George and the Culloden memorial was bleak and depressing and my mood wasn’t lifted when I realised that I had to drive back through Tomintoul and over the Lecht. What was this Groundhog Day?
Then there was the pony trekking! What a nightmare. So awful that if I was ever given the choice between living my days out in Tomintoul or riding a horse for half an hour along with a massive win on the lottery I would seriously consider racing over the Lecht in a packed furniture van.
The day started well enough, but after 20 minutes the first twinges started. After an hour I was biting my lip. Two hours and I was in agony not helped by the fact my saddle had slipped and I was riding sideways.
By the end my legs, back, shoulders every part of my body, come to think of it was racked with pain.
I couldn’t walk properly for two days. I kept hobbling to the left. I’m still not 100%.
Horse power is fine in an engine. Horses, though, are better in a burger. Only joking!
The rest of the break was taken up with drinking and stuffing our faces.
We avoided Tomintoul on the way home. Same cannot be said for The House of Bruar, where the food is brilliant but you want to throw it all back up after clocking the prices of their clothes.
Salmon pink trousers, garish gaiters, hunting shirts, wellies up to the ears, cashmere scarfs and jumpers, or the worst revolting bright green driving slippers.
The fact that people buy this stuff and they’re all sitting around you makes you think you’ve entered the Twilight Zone.
Still, all in all a great break. Just one thing though what are those big yellow poles with boxes on them doing on the A9?
People were slamming on the brakes to look at them every time they neared one. I just bombed past them…
Related article: A Donald MacLeod holiday is anything by relaxing
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