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I’ve come home to roost for a while, which means lots of long walks in spectacular woods. Autumn hasn’t even begun to arrive in this part of the Highlands, so everything is still lush and green.

My mental map of the area is not what it was, and so today I got quite spectacularly lost. My walk, which was only supposed to take half an hour, ended up taking two hours, and just when I was starting to think I’d wandered into some kind of self-replicating leafy maze, I spotted the familiar turrets of the local castle.

However, I was on entirely the wrong side of the fortress, creating something of a dilemma. Should I exit stage left via the designated tourist route, thereby extending my walk by another three quarters of an hour and guaranteeing that my dinner would be cold by the time I got home, or nip out through the secret ‘local’ route and be home in fifteen minutes?

A no brainer, some might say, but taking the shorter route effectively means breaking in to the castle grounds and marching over what is essentially the local laird’s front lawn, in full view of the tower and some twenty or so windows. Having been shouted at by the fearsome stepmother of the castle for far less heinous crimes over the years, I was somewhat feart of the consequences, but the thought of lamb stew spurred me on. I clicked open the side gate by the turnstiles, which is left unlocked for the staff to use throughout the day. I faltered slightly as I came out onto the open path that passes right round the castle, following the route of the dry moat. Lights were on in some of the windows and I could hear the shouts of children from behind the drawbridge. I didn’t dare look up, just marched on with tremendous purpose, making for the bridge that crosses over the frothing, peaty river. I hunched my shoulders in expectation of a hail of arrows, but none came. I marched across the bridge to safety, skipped past the tree under which I used to hide my bicycle every Saturday when I came to scrub dishes in the scullery, vaulted over the blue gate and tripped home to my dinner, feeling like I’d escaped from Colditz. Nothing like cocking a snook at the aristos to put a spring in one’s step.