Scotland evokes memories of 50 years ago (When I found myself in a hotel room with a stranger)

The last time I travelled to the Highlands of Scotland was with my mother, in 1973. My father had died a few months earlier, and we felt sadness even as we wondered at the dramatic landscape.

We weren’t well off. My annual salary (as a British Railways clerk) was £1,200 and my mother wasn’t working. In those days, you found out how much a hotel for the night would cost by walking in and asking at reception.

Her rule of thumb was to avoid anywhere with an American flag flying outside, as that kind of place was likely to be expensive. Nowadays, it might mean the place was owned by Donald Trump.

In Glasgow, we ended up in a rough hotel on Sauchiehall Street, where a man wandered into my room after the pubs closed because of a mistake by the desk clerk, who’d sold the room twice. I was asleep in bed at the time, and the stranger and I were probably equally confused.

My mum and I drove around in my little Datsun and were enchanted by the countryside, especially when we crossed on the ferry to the Isle of Skye, with its desolate beauty. We picked a thistle and later gave it to my grandmother, who treasured it for the rest of her life, and it was placed in her coffin.

Retracing my steps this month, my journey was a little more comfortable than it was half a century ago. My first stop was Loch Lomond, where I had been invited to stay for two nights at Cameron House, a luxury hotel, where I was given a suite overlooking the water.

I love hotels and tend to have strong feelings about them. A five-star establishment that doesn’t live up to its rating and price greatly annoys me, while one that does gives me great pleasure. One reason why I keep returning to India is because of the extraordinary hotels.

I wouldn’t normally assume Scotland to be in quite the same class, but Cameron House is a beautiful property, with service to match anywhere I have visited in the world. As I’ve said, I was invited, so you might reasonably suspect that my judgement was clouded, though I think not.

The food was also exceptional, with fabulous ingredients and cooking at Tamburrini and Wishart, a gourmet restaurant where French-inspired classic cooking is employed in the service of local products, such as Orkney scallop and Gigha halibut. (OK, the Yorkshire rhubarb wasn’t exactly local, but it’s simply the best, and tasted great in a mille feuille.)

I travelled on by train to Fort William and spent a very comfortable night in a four-poster bed at the Lime Tree Hotel before taking the ferry to Skye. I hired a taxi to take me to a small, remote hotel called Coruisk House in the tiny southern village of Elgol. I’d say the landscape reminded me of Switzerland, but I met a Swiss tourist who said it was completely different. Oh well.

Coruisk House was a Michelin recommendation I had spotted online. It took me most of a day to reach the place by train and boat, while taxis to-and-from the village added another £170 to my bill. But it was worth it. Coruisk is a charming property with outstanding food. I would say it were owned and run by a husband-and-wife team if I knew they were actually married, but I am not sure we discuss such things in Calvin country.

Anyways, this particular trip took me back to London via a spectacular train ride from Kyle of Lochalsh to Inverness, including crossing the Glenfinnan Viaduct, which will be familiar to Harry Potter fans. (The journey to the ferry at Mallaig from Fort William is also dramatic, but I was distracted by pain in my hand, which I'd hurt after slipping on ice.)

My journey ended prosaically on EasyJet to Gatwick. (Not bad, by the way, though I'm fussy about flying, too, and wouldn't normally choose to be squeezed in six abreast.)

So that’s it: Back to Scotland after 50 years. I miss my dad and my mum (who died 22 years ago today as I write this on March 13) but I’m old enough to know now that life can be sweet and sour.