Christmas in the Highlands The air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself at Cawdor, says Ella Windsor
1 nverness in winter. Sugar-coated riverbanks, glittering with leaves. Inverness — home to the Loch Ness Monster and Cawdor, land of Macbeth.
I was staying with friends for a Christmas with a difference. It was a time for legends, sloe vodka and a toddler in a kilt, who I suspect is hardier than I am. Born on St George's Day, I grew up horrified at the thought of the dragon and only got to sleep knowing its fate. The Loch Ness Monster, on the other hand, is still alive and zooms through the depths of Loch Ness. Yet children in Scotland don't seem to loose sleep.
Columba, the holy man bringing Christianity to the Picts in the 6th century, never so much as prodded the 'water beast' but simply told it to flee so that his slave could swim across the loch and fetch a vessel. Both Columba and George were sanctified for their bravery, although of course, unlike St George's dragon, the Loch Ness Monster is as revered in the Highlands as a troll is in Iceland. Every dweller on the banks of Loch Ness has seen it swimming in the water and some have been inspired to go in too. December seemed too chilly to me.
On Christmas Eve my friend Raoul took me to Urquhart Castle. Jutting out on to the promontory in the middle of Loch Ness, the once vast 13thcentury fortress and stronghold of the Grants was caught up in the Wars of Independence, invaded thrice by English kings and finally, in the 17th century, blown up by deserting soldiers. Now a ruin, shrouded in the pink dust of the night below a fingernail moon, it is a silent witness to the silver fur spread around it.
Cawdor Castle; below, taking the plunge After Urquhart, my brother Freddie and I went to Cawdor Castle. Macbeth was always one of my favourite Shakespeare plays for its supernatural aspects like the three weird sisters. I believe it was the Second Witch who told Macbeth he would be Thane of Cawdor and I can understand his excitement.
Several times restored, the castle has been inhabited by the Thane of Cawdor since it was built in 1370. The widow of Hugh, the 24th Thane, greeted us in a cashmere Cawdor tartan skirt, made for her by Hubert Givenchy.
She showed me the holly tree inside the castle that marks its foundations. My favourite two legends of the holly tree are of the holy man and the donkey. The first concerns a holy man living nearby who was visited by 'a kingly figure' who later built his home over the holy man's grave. The holly tree stood on the holy man's land; the kingly man was the Thane of Cawdor. The second legend is that the Thane put his possessions in a golden chest, on the back of a donkey. Where it settled he would build his home. The donkey lay under the holly tree.
I first came to Cawdor aged seven, but hardly saw the castle. I spent much more time in the garden, trying to leave the labyrinth. Unlike Jim Henson's brilliant puppet epic, this labyrinth is free of stench and oubliettes but, for a seven-year-old, no less challenging. Originally, said our hostess, the middle of each maze featured a minotaur. I was tempted to venture out this time but there was no avoiding Midnight Mass.
At the local service a lively chaplain led us through several carols before letting on, in hearty Scottish dialect, 'That was just a warm-up!' Our little cousin Flora, who lives in St Andrews, speaks in refreshing Scottish tones but for Freddie and me the accent is a source of intrigue and sometimes confusion. When at last our female priest arrived and thanked us all for coming, one drunken youth responded, `Thunk you'. Afterwards Freddie described his shock at the drunkard who swore at the priest.
I left Inverness and Macbeth and the monster just before Hogmanay. As the aeroplane lifted off the icy northern runway, I thought of the toddler in the kilt, on the edge of so many adventures.
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