by Jane Shortall

As a child, I lived in Dublin, Ireland and once each year our Scottish relatives came over to visit us.

This was a time of great excitement as, apart from loving their beautiful, musical accents, Auntie Maggie always came laden with gifts. When I was nine years old, out of her big, brown leather case came a kilt; brand new, with blue and green squares and red lines woven through the tartan, it had a proper shiny silver pin and brown, real leather fastening straps.

I swooned with happiness and the kilt became my absolute favourite item of clothing. I wore it until I simply couldn’t fit into it any more. I almost wished I could stop growing and be able to wear it forever. It was super, the real thing, with its straps and its big pin, made in the highlands of Scotland, a place I would fall in love with ten years later.

At almost twenty years old, I found myself conducting educational tours in the UK and Europe, where I did indeed fall in love with the enchanting countryside that is the Scottish Borders.

One evening, leaving Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott, having seen the amazing library, the stunning collection of armoury, the peacocks on the lawns, we headed for our destination for the night, the magical Trossachs hotel, but the coach driver, unfamiliar with this particular trip, took a wrong turning and we completely lost our bearings.

The coach party couldn’t have cared less if we never got to our hotel. They were happy, carefree students who, despite feigning interest, found the five-day trip one big joke.

We drove for ages, through the gold and purple shades of a Scottish evening in autumn. Pure heaven. We even passed a lone piper, playing in a dream landscape. These were the days before mobile phones, so I couldn’t let the hotel know we were lost. But I honestly didn’t care either, as we were seeing so much of the spectacular countryside.

I hoped that in years to come the students would look back, remember the wonderful places they saw and the interesting people they met; people passionate about their subjects. I, completely biased, loved each and every one of my Scottish trips as much, if not more than the students did.

The ruined abbeys of Melrose and Kelso, Jedburgh, the fabulous Trossachs hotel with its turrets, where I used to stay in a room overlooking Loch Katrine, were all enchanting places to me. I always wished I would see the White Lady, reputed to haunt the place, as she floated across the lake. But despite my best imaginings, and many nights staring out at the lake, willing her to appear, I cannot claim to have made her acquaintance.