Gordonstoun

I think if I were to write a strap line for the Scottish Tourist Board’s advertising campaign it would probably be: “Scotland. It’s Nicer Than You Think.”

It would not be difficult to have been nicer than I expected, but actually it is an awfully lot nicer.

The Mansion House provides creamy milk and lovely heavy feather quilts and deep, boiling hot baths to make you lobster pink, and breakfast was to die for. Buttery scrambled egg and sausages and bacon cooked by somebody who has given serious thought to the way bacon ought to taste, accompanied by a cheery girl dishing it up, and a dreadful Englishman who was the only other occupant of the dining room and who slurped and chomped and gobbled until Mark kicked me under the table to stop staring at him.

The morning had dawned ice blue and gloriously fresh. The huge dome of northern sky was cloudless and the air was sharp and crystal bright. Gordonstoun was not all that far from the Mansion House, out into nowhere at the end of a long tree-lined drive by a lonely stone church.

I have been resisting the idea of Gordonstoun because of it being in the Arctic, and my preference for the sort of school where the uniform for mummies includes white high heels on purpose to stick into the cricket pitch, an enormous hat and a parasol carried demurely in a gloved hand.

By the end of the morning. I would have grovelled on my knees to get them to take Oliver.

So much so that I don’t want to think about anywhere else, with or without sunshine and apricot trees on the pavilion.

Let me say here that Gordonstoun is magnificent in every imaginable way.

We were given a programme for the day which included our lunch, and we talked to lots of different staff members, all of whom had thoroughly read Oliver’s report, and were given a tour of the school by an ace sixth former who managed to be entirely enthusiastic and utterly civilised without once losing his teenage cool.

We met the Headmaster, silver-haired and softly spoken and charming; we met a ginger-haired teacher-and-old-boy, bouncing with happy energy, we met an unflappable housemaster, solid from years of rugby. We talked to the teacher in charge of curriculum and the teacher in charge of dyslexia, and we ate an excellent lunch in the canteen.

The Sports Hall has got the emblem of Number One Daughter’s army corps outside it, because of having been founded by one of their number.

They think it is important that children can ski and run skiing trips to places where Number Two Daughter teaches.

They are kindly and thoughtful and friendly and gentle.

They teach them to sail.

They don’t at all mind dyslexic children and have got lots of them and think that what matters is that a boy never stops trying, because then they can teach him to be the very best he can be.

The music and dance and drama were brilliant. They take theatre to the Edinburgh Fringe, they put on splendid productions, and their bagpipers pipe the home team on to the pitch for rugby matches.

They had got Oliver’s school reports, and they thought that they might like to see him very much.

We were blown away.

By the time we left we were exhausted, partly from exploring the enormous site, and partly from having so much to take in and think about, also because I stupidly wore the boots with the heels that Mark likes. We had to stop the car as soon as we were out of sight so that I could tear them off and hurl them into the back and sink my feet gratefully into forgiving sheepskin.

It is nice to be so very married that you know what one another is thinking.

Mark does not talk nearly as much as I do on occasions like that. I talked my head off all day. Mark is quiet and notices things.

In the car he pointed out who had not cleaned their shoes and how the drainage system worked. I get carried away with impressions and excitement. Mark watches and listens.

We knew before we got to the end of the drive that we were both absolutely enchanted.

We drove to Edinburgh, which is where we are now, in a dignified stone street called Royal Terrace, looking out over the city. We have eaten an enormous dinner and had a very exciting walk up to the top of one of the small local mountains that seem to be dotted about, and now we are getting ready for bed.

I am so tired now that I can hardly keep my eyes open, and we need to sleep. All the same, I am desparately excited about seeing Oliver tomorrow and telling him all about it.

Gordonstoun is ace.