Nae that I’m a sook, but: “Welcome back to your favourite castle, Yer Majesty.”
Although oor Lizzie has been up-by since July 21, she wisnae bidin’ in Balmoral’s granite turrets while they were still open to the public. Instead, tucked awa’, in bonnie Craigowan Lodge further into the estate, she’s been – according to my well-placed spies – goin’ her dinger on her newly installed stairlift.
Sadly, this year’s ceremony of entry into the castle was cancelled, presumably because of mobility problems. That Royal Regiment of Scotland Guard of Honour summer event has long been a favourite with Her Maj, always particularly tickled by (and often spoken the most to) the Shetland Pony mascot.
Here’s wishing her good health for the rest of the summer. (Fit a permanent state of Royal Red Alert the folk at ARI must be on while she’s here.)
Lizzie’s aye loved Deeside. According to my sources, the middle-aged Queen regularly rustled up a tray of shortbread to enter into the Ballater WRI spring sales, under the name Mrs Birse.
Still loves just tootlin’ roon the countryside at the wheel of her Land Rover, heidscarf preserving anonymity. She enjoys the P&J every morning with her toast and heather marmalade, and usually has a keek at the EE ower her afternoon tea and scones.
Breaking news at Balmoral
It’s a strange fact that some of the biggest royal stories have broken when the Windsors were Balmoralling.
In 1936, when King Edward VIII ducked out of opening Foresterhill Hospital, leaving the ceremony to his shocked brother and wife, the Duke and Duchess of York. Meanwhile, an eagle-eyed EE (yess!) reporter spotted the king meeting his mistress, Mrs Simpson, at the train station. Worldwide headlines – first sparks under the abdication crisis.
Then, the tragic death of Princess Diana in 1997, when Charles and his boys were on their Highland holiday.
But, I must reveal my own family connections to Balmoral. In 1923, one of my great-uncles was a high-heid-yin on the royal estate. He recruited my 17-year-old mum, Kathleen, as a servant, doing cleaning, cooking, a’thing, including meeting her Romeo, a young estate loon.
Aboot 18 months later, she caught pneumonia and had to be rushed back to the City Hospital, while her beloved married another kitchie deem.
A pucklie years later, Kath was in the midst of her five year(!) upholstery-sewer apprenticeship with Archibalds, when she was sent scootin’ up the Dee again to sew the castle’s new tartan curtains and carpets, which I suspect still survive today, give or take a patch.
I’ve told this story before, but it still fair tickles me. Caught short working in one of the main bedrooms, she into the nearby lavvie, did her bizz, pulled the toilet roll and… a rousing chorus of Scotland The Brave reverberated through the cludgie. As she later said, if she hadn’t already done it, she’d have tiddled hersellie.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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