Like everyone else, I was totally transfixed by the royal wedding.
Unlike everyone else, though – and as an ex-journalist I’ve always tried not to go with the flow – I thought I would mark the occasion by not being glued to the telly.
So I took myself up the Cairngorms. Now bagging three Munros in one day might not seem like a respectful way to mark the biggest day since goodness knows when. Come to think of it, it might not seem like any sort of way to join the nation’s celebrations. But, no, I was in royal wedding party mood.
At as near as practicable to the time the happy couple were making their vows to each other I dug out my flask of coffee and raised my cup to Wills and Kate. I even had a banana and a ham and pickle roll – my very own wedding-day feast. A party, of sorts, at 4000 feet.
And as I sat by the summit cairn, lording it over the finest part of the realm the new duke will inherit, I realised I was not alone. The place was hoaching with folk marking the royal nuptials in their own special way: inwardly rejoicing as they sauntered from hill to hill.
For a fleeting moment, the thought occurred to me that all these people might well be republicans, anti-monarchists or merely miserable party-poopers; people who would do anything and go anywhere to avoid the glitz, the glamour, the pageantry and the hype. I even had the appalling thought that they might be thinking the same about me.
But at probably the very moment the couple became man and wife I looked up at the vivid blue sky and I swear I saw a criss-cross of vapour trails form itself into a Union Jack. In the face of such a sign, how could anyone be so cynical?
Now, I can’t wait for the next big royal bash. I think I’ll go to the Cuillins to celebrate.