Plungers

Hopeman Harbour, which is where Gordonstoun keeps its boats, is a lovely place to wake up, even if you don’t do it for ten hours.

It felt brilliant to wake up and not be tired.

It is beautiful, rather like the pictures on the sort of jigsaw that has got nine hundred and ninety eight pieces and is now for sale in an Age Concern shop. The sea is blue and crystal clear. Lots of jaunty boats fill the harbour, and the waves crash on to the rocks, just excitingly enough to be picturesque.

Mark took the dogs out to be emptied whilst I tidied up, and then we went for a stroll along the harbour wall before breakfast.

We sat in the edge for ages and gazed with fascination into the little world below the surface. Crabs and fish – quite big ones – basked in the sun below us. I am no marine biologist, and completely incapable of distinguishing one fish from another, but there were some flat ones, and some little quick ones, and some which were patterned to look like the seaweed.

I am not a great eater of fish, unless it is smoked and peppered with any hint of ocean grilled out of it, but was quite surprised to discover that my thoughts instantly turned to the best way in which we might capture some for dinner. Mark, it turned out, was thinking the same, we must just be natural predators.

Of course we did not, we have got Cambazola cheese and chilli flavoured crackers for dinner, along with some ready-smoked fish, being in this instance trout, but it amused us to notice that our thought process has not evolved at all from being hairy spear-wielding Neanderthals, and that the impulse to hunt is as strong as ever.

We strolled along the beach and paddled in the surf, awed by the brilliance of the northern light and the shifting blue of the waves. After a while it became apparent that you can’t just visit the beach in summer and walk, so we dived back into the camper van for our swimming costumes and plunged into the sea.

I do not suppose you want to imagine it. The north of Scotland clearly has no association with the Gulf Stream, and even in the sunshine the cold waters had a grip of frozen steel.

We did not stay in for very long. I do not mind the cold as much as the salt taste in my mouth, and my hair and skin still feel crusty as I write, but it was utterly exhilarating, and we collapsed, laughing, on to the sand.

Since we are English people on holiday, we sunbathed, sandily, on our towels, until the cool Scottish wind had blown us dry, and we were bored. This took about ten minutes, and was hurried along by the dogs, who were mightily relieved that we had emerged from the terrible ocean, and who lay as close to us as they could, wet and sandy, and panting heavily and occasionally trying to stick their tongues into our ears.

I was hoping to have a sun tan when I had finished, but it turns out that ten minutes isn’t long enough, which was disappointing when I looked in the mirror in the quiet hush of the camper van afterwards.

I had managed a bright pink nose. It is still glowing warmly even now.

We filled the camper with fuel and gas before we went for Oliver, and drove a little way along the coast to Burghead. We had no time left to explore here very much, but we liked the look of it, and chalked it up as one to be investigated next time. You will hear that name again.

After that of course it was school, and the rediscovery of a boy.

He is not going to be a boy for very much longer. He is tall and deep voiced.

I had no idea that he would have so much luggage, it is going to take ages to get it all unpacked and organised. He has not brought everything home all at once since he started, two years ago, and it has accumulated, gradually, ever since.

It is a jolly good job we do not have Lucy with us. We filled her bed right to the roof, and had to jam everything in.

Oliver was unimpressed by stories of plunging into mighty waves, because school makes them do it all the time, and he told us tales of sailing and kayaking and climbing fearsome mountains where they went crawling beneath the ice.

There is still snow on the mountains. It is July. Just remember that whilst you are sitting in your garden.

You can be very glad you are not a Scottish sheep.

I took a picture. It really looked exactly like that. Maybe even more vivid.