A right royal groupie
Lucy Helliker
Apart from her son, the best thing about my mother-in-law is her home in the Scottish Highlands. For one week each year in October, my husband and I become neighbours of Her Majesty the Queen in the grounds of Craigendarroch, a Victorian house on the outskirts of Ballater, within a curtsy of Balmoral.
In fact the house is just a time-share, but under Scottish property law time-share ownership here is in perpetuity (999 years) and the houses are pretty, Swiss-style chalets tucked in among the pine trees. In my mother-in-law’s pad, there are three bedrooms and bathrooms on the ground floor and a vast open-plan living area upstairs. There is a sauna incongruously tacked on to the side of the sitting-room and an enormous balcony looking on to the Highlands. One of the wonderful things about Craigendarroch is the soporific property of pine. For this one week in the year, I sleep like a teenager, and am woken each morning by the sound of a red squirrel on my window ledge.
The other wonderful thing about Craigendarroch is that you get to pretend that you are a member of the Royal Family. In the busy centre of Ballater, nearly every shop proudly displays the Royal Warrant. I was delighted to find that the tube of Germolene I bought at the chemist came in a paper bag decorated with three crests, and that the local garage sold me a fuel cap by appointment to Her Majesty. The butcher is my favourite. His shop sign is crowned by three magnificent royal coats of arms, and there seems to be at least one assistant to every second bacon rasher.
Two miles east of Ballater, in Taolich, we had a fishing lesson on Davey’s Fishing Loch. Davey was a generous host and, after watching us struggle with our rods for a while, he eventually swapped them for string and sweetcorn. It felt like an Olympic victory to have caught two trout as dusk fell, even if one was already disabled after its earlier contretemps with an osprey. Back in Ballater, my trout were gutted and filleted by the royal butcher, and my offer of payment vehemently rejected. We spent that night lounging on the leatherette sofa feasting on fish and and reliving the afternoon’s adventure.
The nightlife in Craigendarroch revolves around the Country Club. Here, within the glass walls of the hotel’s annex, lies a labyrinth of leisure facilities. I’m told that Fergie and Diana were frequent visitors to the swimming pool, and our favourite spot — the cocktail lounge overlooks the pool, so we were able to enjoy a tipple while watching elderly gentleman performing breaststroke. There is also a Michelin-starred restaurant, The Oaks, where the Prince of Wales entertains on occasion.
To conclude our visit to Craigendarroch, we attended Sunday Eucharist at Craithie kirk, where the Royals worship and where Princess Anne married Tim Laurence in 1992. A handful of onlookers, among them a posse of leather-clad bikers, waited behind a length of string for a glimpse of the Queen and exchanged banter with the many uniformed police who were there. As an extra security measure, the Royal Protection officers attempted to blend in with the crowd but I recognised them by their repetition of ‘Evenin’ all’. The previous week a zealous police frisking had led to a disabled pensioner being all but stripsearched and there had been complaints from the congregation. This week, though, a WPC just patted me on the tummy and let me keep my Polos and my pamphlet on angling tuition.
Once inside the church, the baton of command passed to the elders who guided visitors to the rear pews and swung their sporrans importantly. The regulars appeared nonchalant about the royal presence, but for me the experience of taking communion with our Defender of the Faith and her husband and eldest son was extraordinary. At the end of the service, after singing the National Anthem loudly and proudly, we watched as the Queen, flanked by her bodyguards and two soldiers in full service dress, departed via the side door, no doubt heading home for a roast. The patience of the assembled wellwishers was at last rewarded when the Duke of Edinburgh drove slowly past and his wife, resplendent in emerald, bestowed upon the crowd a few of her trademark waves.
Actually, we are returning to Royal Deeside in May, when Balmoral will be unoccupied and the castle is open to the public. We shall be renting the Old Schoolhouse, one of five properties available on the royal estate. I look forward to feeling even closer to Her Majesty, to driving down the roads marked ‘Private’ and waving at the police presence without the need to adopt a foreign accent and point in confusion to my map of North Wales.
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