Kinloch is one of the most romantic houses you’ll ever see, a beautiful old baronial pile designed by William Lieper and sitting right at the head of the loch, looking out to the islands of Eigg and Rhum. If it is normally
serene, arriving when there is a coating of snow makes the whole place seem magical.

I had been in London for Christmas, so caught the sleeper train to Mallaig and arrived at Lochailort first thing in the morning. By the time I arrived at Kinloch and had breakfast I still had most of the day to kill so I wandered along the sea shore past the Seven Men of Moidart, the row of seven trees planted to commemorate the fact that this is the spot at which Bonnie Prince Charlie landed in Scotland with his seven companions before going on to raise the clans at Glenfinnan. By the time I returned and greeted old friends it was time to get into my kilt in preparation for the festivities.

Folk flock from all over the Borders to see the greatest names in the Scottish game - famous old clubs like Edinburgh Academicals, Glasgow High School FP, Gala and Hawick - compete to win the Ladies’ Cup, one of the most sought-after bits of silverware in sport. Not only are the trains from the other Borders towns full-to-overflowing on this Spring Saturday morning, but so are the services from Edinburgh, and even from as far afield Newcastle.

This year the train from Hawick was particularly full and a large number of the 10,000 crowd were “Teries”, as the men of the town are known. Their team, led by the inimitable Doug Davies, were the defending champions and
have so often dominated the tournament.

Nothing could be better than spending the opening day of the shooting season going after the high birds at Dorbach on Speyside, one of the most beautiful places in Scotland. To the south of us we have the town Nethy Bridge, to our west the peaks of the Cairngorms, and in front of us a purple-specked moor that seems to go on for ever.

To my right my brother Fergus was banging away like a legend, wiping my eye at every opportunity and at one stage registering a left and right - I’ll hear about that one for years to come. By my side, my springer spaniel baffie was tearing through the heather to retrieve the birds as they fell and before the beaters’ or gamekeepers’ dogs could get to them.

I often take a solitary week on Islay in early summer, wandering around the island, moving from loch to loch carrying my little 9ft cane rod with only my springer spaniel Baffie, a book of Rabbie Burns’ finest verse and a hipflask of the McClelland’s for company. I’ve been coming here for so long that I know the lochs like the back of my hand: from Loch Finlaggan on the north of the island overlooking the Paps of Jura where each King of the Isles was crowned for hundreds of years, to Loch Gorm on the western Rhinns of Islay, Loch Kimmabus on the sandy flats of The Oa in the south west, and countless lochans in between.

A century ago there were 15,000 Gaelic-speaking crofters on this island but during the Clearances so many emigrated to the new world - including General Alexander McDougall, hero of the American Revolution and the first president of the Bank of New York -that there are now only 3,000 left.

That’s why my brother Angus and I decided to head south when our uncle Hector went on a tour of Italy and somewhat surprisingly offered us the keys to his Crossley tourer.

We didn’t need asking twice and picked up the car in Edinburgh yesterday before driving along Princes Street past the castle with the canopy down and the wind in our hair. Then we headed south, following the tiny network of roads into the Borders. Our destination was the house of my friend Alasdair Elliot, who lives near Galashiels on the doorstep of Abbotsford, where Sir Walter Scott wrote the Waverley Novels and Ivanhoe.

Alasdair loves our visits because we always bring him a bottle of the McClelland’s Lowland single malt while he brings out a bottle of Auchentoshan, the only remaining triple-distilled single malt.

It’s been ten years since I last climbed aboard the Waverley at the Broomielaw in Glasgow, but this trip has already been an unforgettable reminder of just how beautiful this land is. No wonder we half-jokingly refer to it as God’s Country and Bonnie Scotland.

The whole of this coast is dotted by sights that are rich in history, and my sketchbook is already bulging with charcoal drawings of Dumbarton Rock, the ancient capital of the Picts, and Mount Stuart, the imposing, ornate home of the Marquis of Bute that is at its most splendid from the shore.

After dining at the captain’s table and presenting him with a bottle of 12-year-old McClelland’s – a gesture which bought a tear to the old boy’s eye - we spent last night on the Isle of Arran, in a small but pleasant hotel next to Broddick Castle. My fellow passengers are a cheerful crew who chattered excitedly about visiting Iona, the birthplace of Christianity in our land, and Tobermory, before finishing by following in Bonnie Prince Charlie’s footsteps by going ‘oe’r the water to Skye’.

It’s especially grand to be back on Speyside again. The Spey is my favourite river, although I can¹t decide whether that’s because it’s so beautiful, whether it’s because I always seem to catch a fish here or whether it has something to do with way the river winds its way through the heart of some of the greatest whisky country on god’s earth. Travelling up by train, every station we stopped at after turning north at Aviemore seemed to be named after a famous malt!

It’s icy cold but the smoke still billowed everywhere when the train pulled to a halt at Nethy Bridge station. I felt sorry for the porter as he carried my two bags in one hand and the three sections of my 18-foot greenoak rod in the other as I strode ahead, but I was too intent on crossing the road and heading straight to that familiar old friend, the Nethy Bridge Hotel, to stay and help. I’ve stayed here with my brother Angus every year since I was a lad, playing golf at Boat of Garten in the summer, fishing the Spey in the winter and always sinking a dram or two of McClelland’s in front of the fire of an evening, just as my father did.

Our man in question Mr. Burns is representative of much that is Scotland, not only today, but in Scotland’s historic roots. Few countries have claim to a man of such genius, common identity, and worldwide fame and appreciation as Burns. His poems, letters and songs not only demonstrate his obvious ability; they inspire, they rouse the
imagination, they fuel the heart and they accurately represent and depict life in 18th century Scotland – an undeniably fine man.

On doing a spot of research however I learned that poetry was not the only subject that dominated his life; there were others, namely women and Scotch whisky! Burns was only the tender age of 15 when he penned “My Handsome Nell”, an ode to these two very fine past times.