Tom Peterkin: Midges and rain can’t dampen holiday mood

Intrigued, he moved towards it. On closer inspection he discovered that the decoration was not the crest of a local clan chief but a curiosity that neatly summed up his view of holidays in Scotland.

It was a bastardised piece of heraldry that showed a shield upon which was mounted a cartoon midge wearing tackity boots and holding an umbrella. Underneath this vision was the legend “Raineo et midgeo”.

“That’s Latin for rain and midgies,” explained my friend, who is not a noted classics scholar. “And that is exactly what Scottish holidays are like,” he added with some venom yesterday as I began to bore him by striking up a conversation about the latest tourism statistics.

Despite detecting a the weariness in his voice, I droned on about the figures which show an increase in the number of Brits choosing to holiday in Scotland. “How interesting that Office of National Statistics research showed that there had been a 10 per cent increase in visits to Scotland from within Great Britain,” I said, ignoring a stifled yawn.

Undaunted, I pressed on.

“According to the ONS, there has also been a 20 per cent rise in the amount domestic visitors spend,” I continued, showcasing my gift for tiresome doggedness that has wrecked the atmosphere of many a pleasant social occasion.

Eventually, however, my friend cracked. Faced with a persistent statistical onslaught about the economic benefits of the Scottish “staycation”, he began to reminisce about his own holidays.

Before long he was talking about his idyllic trips “doon the watter” alongside the thousands of others who made the pilgrimage to Rothesay during the Glasgow Fair Fortnight.

There were family tickets on the Clyde steamers and the time he was photographed by French tourists when he spent the summer selling donkey rides on Helensburgh beach.

“Aye, I’ll never forget it,” he said. “I was with my brother and there were two donkeys called Donald and Julie …You remember the strangest things … Anyway, the weather was beautiful. So was the scenery. It was the day the battleship the Vanguard came up the Clyde to go to the breaker’s yard.

“There were these French people who wanted to take our picture. They probably thought we were quaint Scottish peasants when all we were a couple of fly boys from Glasgow wanting to screw some money out of them.”

By now his charming tales of dodgy money-making schemes and youthful alcoholic excess were in full flow. So much so that my previously unsurpassed mastery of the art of tedious chat was facing a serious challenge. But I didn’t mind. Within a couple of minutes his cynicism about Scottish holidays had vanished and he was espousing the virtues of a good old-fashioned holiday at home. He agreed that the scenery, the golf courses and a vastly improved hospitality industry are a treat.

Even so, it is advisable to remind oneself that a little resolve is often needed to overcome the vagaries of the weather. Nowhere more so than on the slopes of the Cairngorms. Up there, Scottish skiers become far more adept at battling through hail storms and hopping over heather than they ever will be at swooshing through virgin Alpine snow.

But often it is coming through the trials and tribulations that can make a holiday live in the memory. Another friend often remembers a nasty fall suffered on a childhood ski-holiday to Aviemore. The Cairngorm ski-patrol was alerted to his spectacular tumble and found him in considerable discomfort. Before the skier could open his mouth, he had been strapped into the blood-wagon and was being taken off the mountain. In the car park, an ambulance was revving its engine waiting to rush him to Raigmore Hospital, Inverness.

As he was about to be lifted into the ambulance, someone thought to ask him why he appeared to be in so much pain. “I just want to go to the toilet,” was the nine-year-old’s answer.

Hurrah for the great Scottish staycation.