A right royal adventure fit for the Queen

While a tourist in Windsor for the weekend Fiona receives the royal treatment, while the MacNaughties cause mischief back home...

We go south for the weekend. Down to sunny Windsor, a place I have only visited once before, although the chief spent some years there in the army. It is a hectic spot, even out of tourist season. This might be mid-March, but already pavements are jam-packed. Lillibet’s Tea Room is turning a good trade. They are queuing to get into The Duchess of Cambridge pub.

Every day two railway stations bring bands of sightseers in to this small market town. The Queen’s castle is the draw. Thousands of tourists can stroll through its state apartments in just a few hours.

Among them are Japanese and German visitors. Cameras flash. Folk jabber away in different tongues. People peer through railings in the hope of spotting a royal. It is not unknown to find a day tripper picnicking in your garden. Then there are the planes. Every few minutes a jumbo jet thunders overhead, coming or going from nearby Heathrow. The noise alone would drive me to drink. Which we do. In a French restaurant watching the swans on the Thames.

Yet, despite its hordes, Royal Windsor has a charm. This community boasts a town crier. It has a selection of ancient wooden buildings and some red Victorian post boxes. And, of course, it is home to one of the most famous women in the world.

A notable Scot also lived here for a while. Billy Connolly stayed in a hunting lodge just outside Windsor Great Park. He gave it the name of “Gruntfuttock Hall” after a character in a 1950s radio programme. How very Billy of him.

I am sure the Big Yin has met the Queen. But the chief and I are like the tourists. We live in hope.

There might be no monarch, but there are plenty of doggies tripping around Windsor and most appear to be of the handbag variety. The MacNaughties would like to meet a few of these pretty pooches. Our scruffy pair, however, must remain in Scotland. While we are away they stay with friends at a nearby stables-come-animal refuge – and it works well.

Last time the Norfolk and the Spaniel had a rare old time, being temporarily housed in the stall between the stallion and the fattypuff Gloucester Old Spot pig. Everyone got on like a house on fire.

This time, though, there is trouble. Somehow the happy hounds manage

I am sure the big yin has met the Queen. But the chief and I are like tourists. We live in hope

to pull a large bag of dog biscuits from a table and are merrily chomping their way through the booty before being caught. I hope the pig got a rusk or two before they were reprimanded.

Meanwhile, the chief and I return home. We have seen the sights and survived the throng. And now the train is whizzing us back again.

I go to spend a penny. In the cubicle is a sign that says: ‘Please don’t flush nappies, unpaid bills, your ex-girl friend’s sweater, hopes and dreams, down this toilet…’ Someone has a sense of humour, but it is not quite Royal Windsor…