I don’t know where I’m going

I am writing this from a small seaside cottage in the highlands, a howling gale outside which the local sheep seem indifferent too. I went outside to see the waves and far off islands like Joan anticipating her doomed marriage in my favourite film I Know Where I'm Going! Before I was blown away I scurried back inside to more woodstove, to more coffee and lime marmalade on toast, more Daphne du Maurier and George Orwell.

A few weeks ago, I took my Life in the Uk test as the first step in my immigration process. While studying, I visited Holyrod Palace to put faces to names. I went in with the wrong expectation, that of visiting a museum instead of a continual and ancient institution. The parts you can see are very limited, you are shuffled along like a bewildered traveller in a 16th century airport. There are roped off areas, closed curtains, shut doors. I took a photo of a painting Charles the 2nd ( the first king after the 11 year republic, whose claim to fame is hiding in an oak tree and setting up the Royal Society though sadly not at the same time ) and was told no photos allowed. I made an idiotic North American squeak in return as if I were suddenly a tourist in the city I have lived in for years. I had disregarded the free audio tours at the beginning but regretted it as there were few signs of explanation and history except on cases of jewels. A portrait of Erasmus sat quietly unnamed in a corner. Everyone crowded into Mary Queen of Scots’ bedroom not too much bigger than a doll’s bedroom. In a nearby hall was a cartoonish splat of blood on suspiciously new floors where her alleged lover was killed. People were so tiny and strange looking in the 16th century, leading tiny violent lives.

One of the most fascinating parts of the tour was the gift shop which was strictly curated if you looked closely at the corgi stuffies and tea sets. There were postcards and whatnot of Prince Edward, whose name most people don’t know, but none of Harry or Andrew or other unmentionables. I walked in the garden where walking on the mowed grass is forbidden and could see, through uncurtained windows the working rooms of a living palace- admin offices and massive steel school style kitchens. The garden could benefit from patches of wildflowers for the bees as many public parks in Edinburgh have done and I keep telling myself to write a letter to the King about it as surely he would agree.

Last week for my birthday I visited Jupiter Artland with friend Neil Scott. There were big hunks of art everywhere, lumpy bronze statues, ominous Hansel and Gretel esque houses by Rachel Maclean and Andy Goldsworthy, a squarish crystal cave and a giant sculpture in the shape of an orchid ( Love Bomb by Marc Quinn) which genuinely frightened me as it had something of the Wickerman about it. It was great fun but my favourite bits were non art: two grazing grey donkeys and an eerie set of uninhabited chicken coops shaped like manorhouses but roomless and hollow inside.

The map we were given said to respect the privacy of the main house, which we did, but saw some tourists stray towards it as it looks irresistible, an orange 16th century fairytale house with a pack of beautiful dogs running around its yard.

In the highlands we visited Hermit’s Castle, on a ledge of rock overlooking the sea by Achmelvich Beach( where I had a deliciously cold swim. I am not very well travelled and have never swam in water so clear or with sand so white) . The castle was built in the 1950s by an architect who spent one night in it when it was completed than never returned. It is brutalist, a miniature barbican.

We also visited Ardvreck Castle, a grey ruin like a half demolished hunk of cheese which is home to many ghosts. The castle wasn’t accessible because of rising water levels in the surrounding loch due to the Scottish amber alert but perhaps something horrid and supernatural would have happened if we did.