We have been home to the Highlands recently. Every day we walk around the farm. At some point you face west across the Aird of Lovat. 30 miles behind the Aird, the peaks of Glenstrathfarrar rise on the western horizon, some nearly 4,000 feet high. They loom, mountainous guardians of Lovat’s beloved homeland, and 250 years later, ours. Lovat sought refuge amongst them, carried on a litter, after the catastrophe of Culloden.
I think of Lovat continually at the moment. I have even woken up worrying about him, as if he were one of the family – our present family, I mean. Will people understand him? Did I do such a complex character justice? One historian thought that ‘seldom had a more horrible old man met a more deserved end.’ Another believes he was ‘the last and greatest of the old Scoto-Celtic chiefs.’ People are always asking me, do I like him?