LADY AT LEISURE

It’s either feast or famine when it comes to holidays for the Armstrong-MacGregors, so no trip can be sniffed at, even if it’s likely to spell more work than pleasure

The MacGregors have a suitcase load of holidays in the pipeline

‘Waterloo was very moving but left no time for reading trashy novels in deckchairs, scoffing fat Belgian chocolates or lazing in bed’

Iam feeling quite spoilt: America in April, Marrakech in May, Belgium in June, and Majorca still to come. But before the greeneyed monster raises its jealous head, I can tell you that this is not normal. We are not a family known for annual holidays. In fact, there have been many years when t he furthest we’ve got is fishing in Taymouth. But when some MacGregor rest-and-recreation does appear, it often arrives in bulk, and 2015 – hurrah! – is shaping up to be the Time of the Tour.

All this adventuring will, of course, mean that we go nowhere for the next decade. As I recall, 10 years ago we set off on a South African tour. There were dreamy safaris at dawn, boozy vineyard trails and plump oysters eaten on the beach at sunset. It gave me a taste for luxury. But that two-week jaunt was basically it for moons to come. ‘Ah, well, we did spend all that money on the African trip,’ the chief would say firmly if I lobbied (in vain) for far-flung islands and five-star hotels. When I complained that we hadn’t been away forever, I was reminded of misty Table Mountain views and the elusive leopard we eventually spotted slinking through the undergrowth as we drove around in our Jeep in search of the Big Five.

That amazing fortnight apart, the Armstrong-MacGregor holiday record has not been great. It is possibly because we both travel rather a lot for business, although I always maintain that work trips cannot be classed as true breaks. Which, come to think of it, immediately discounts some of this year’s gallivanting. America was clan stuff at a North Carolina Highland Games: great fun, but with all that glad-handing it was not terribly restful. Belgium, meanwhile, was to mark the Battle of Waterloo, which was very moving and interestingly ceremonial but left no time for reading trashy novels in deckchairs, scoffing fat Belgian chocolates or lazing in bed.

Majorca at least does promise to be more of a party trip: the short stay in a villa on the Spanish island is to celebrate a friend’s sixtieth. It should be fun. Majorca, in the right spots, is rustically elegant.

And let’s not forget Marrakech, my idea of the perfect wind-down. I spent a few days in a glamorous private villa-cum-luxury spa, being brushed and polished, waxed and rubbed. Ezzahra was the name of the place, where Habida and Leila pampered and pummelled me back to my twentysomething self. I became particularly partial to the rather fierce ‘gommage’, or scrub, and returned to Scotland squeakily clean.

Of course, lying by a pool – doves cooing, creamy bougainvillea flapping with butterflies, a little downy blue bird dipping its beak in the water – may not be everyone’s cup of tea. Sipping rosé as the sun goes down and the crickets start their lazy evening ritual may not be to your liking. Nor might the manicures and pedicures appeal. Needless to say, they did not tickle the chief ’s taste buds. He stayed in Scotland and I went alone. I also made the most of it. It will most likely be the last for some time…