Honey and whisky

Today we moved into the Highlands and for the first time, this trip, we spied heather in all its soft shades of purple. It smelled of honey. The hills are aglow with the colour and patch-working of the heather. 

We are driving over the Cairngorms -- o'er moorland and brae -- 'brae' being the brow of a hill, and there are many of these: high ones that rate as 20% climbs in low gear; but our beloved little motorhome flies over them, with ease. Ne'er a hiccup. 

Our first stop this morning was another lord-made village, Aboyne, which is the only Scottish town which holds its annual highland games on its pretty village green, built in the style of an English one. 

We stopped at the local farm shop for our morning coffee and solved another query which had been plaguing us. We have been coming across these farms called: "Mains of something" like this one, very near the farm shop: Mains of Auchlossan. 

We have been wanting to know why nearly every town has a property so named, and, apparently, it comes from the French word, demesne, and refers to the mains being the principal farm on an estate. And while the laird's house might be close by, that is not considered part of 'the mains'. But 'the mains' buildings might include the farmhouse, the byre, the dairy and, possibly, smaller cottages for workers -- a little bit like a manor house in England. So, another problem solved. 

Our next stop was Ballater, which is very close to Balmoral Castle. Ballater is a pretty town that began its existence as a spa town. It receives a lot of patronage from the royal family during their autumn stays at the castle and many shops in town have Royal Warrants as providores for members of the royal family.

Tho', it is interesting to note, that there were some older ones, warranted by the Queen Mother, who recently lost their royal patronage just five years after she died, so a few noses in the village are still likely a little out of joint. 

The shops with the royal warrants seem able to deck themselves out with fancy royal emblems over their store fronts and proudly display a signed document in frame on their walls showing their royal provender status.

Balmoral Castle is privately owned. It is not a property of the crown, like some of the Queen's other homes. It became a royal household only fairly recently, in the 1850s actually, when the owner died after swallowing a fishbone. So, beware, fish. 

Then Queen Victoria and Prince Albert stepped in and bought it for themselves, for holidays. And while the house was pretty and peaceful, it was deemed too small for them, so Albert set about turning it to rubble and built another in its stead, in traditional Scottish baronial style -- a rather clever move given his close Scots neighbours. 

One interesting aside: When Edward VIII abdicated to marry Wallis Simpson he did not forfeit his right to Balmoral, or Sandringham -- another privately held royal home -- but held on to them. Eventually, though, a private financial deal was arranged with his brother, George VI, who then took over both Balmoral and Sandringham, so today they are the property of the Queen. 

The Queen is busy at Balmoral. The estate is run as a working farm with forestry, highland cattle and it even has its own grouse moors. Grouse shoot, anyone? 

There is also a whisky distillery as part of the complex, and very, very close there is an inviting golf course, just begging to be played as we passed it. Not to mention the gorgeous River Dee right on the doorstep which likely provides fresh trout for the royal table at least once a week. 

Onwards we drove o'er the braes, which became treeless the higher we climbed. Up there on the moors we came upon quite the most beautiful castle we have ever seen: Corgarff Castle.

We photographed it from every angle because it appealed so much: a minimalist castle set on this most minimally-featured moor. Utterly spare and beautiful. It was not surprising, then, to discover it has a tragic history with lots of clan infighting leading to the burning of the castle and the brutal death of many. It was once used as headquarters to stop whisky smuggling and illegal distilling around here, and its last owners, the Ross sisters, were called the Castle Ladies but had to leave their home during the first World War, after which it fell into ruin, except for a few shooting partes in the grounds, occasionally. Now, it is in the hands of Historic Scotland. And what a jewel it is. 

We dragged ourselves away and headed to the highest village in the Cairngorms: Tomintoul. Tomintoul is a small, cold, grey, little village, and from early in the piece it, too, has had a very chequered history. 

About twenty years after the local laird of the Gordons had the town built the reverend preacher at time, in 1794, John Grant, bemoaned the fact that the 37 families -- the men, the women, and the children, he included -- lived to sell, and to drink, whisky. Ach, the dreaded dram! Probably cost him his offerings on Sunday, too. 

Around this time, as the local births and baptism certificates in many of the local parish registers will attest, one of the local farmers, a Mr James Stuart, appears to be listed as the father of most, if not all, of the children of his female servants. Productive times for James. No doubt he enjoyed a dram or two, as well. 

And whisky is ever the great motivator. Much later, in the more recent 1990s, a former Deputy Director of Finance of the Metropolitan Police gifted millions to this small town, by improving the local Gordon Arms hotel. After much money was spent on renovations it was then discovered that our man in finance had defrauded his workplace of £4.5 million, and was sent to jail for 7 years, as a consequence.

A small village, Tomintoul: with many a big tale to tell.

On we drove for just a few kilometres further, on what is called the Whisky Trail, and stopped for the night at Glenlivet. We are staying on the grounds of the local village hall where the ladies tell us they will make something in the vicinity of £10,000 this month preparing lunches and afternoon teas for charity without even a smidgeon of whisky to be sniffed. 

But across the road, and in the next paddock, and up the hill a bit, rise the smoke stacks of the famed Glenlivet Distillery. Not too far away if we feel like a wee tot before bed. 

Heather smelled of honey

Aboyne village green

The 'mains' are common property names in Scotland

Many with royal emblems

Signed provender status

Balmoral Castle, not quite ready for afternoon tea 

Fishing in the River Dee

Corgarff Castle deserves to be painted

Scotland in its Sunday best

Tomintoul has a chequered history

 

Glenlivet Distillery