There’s a bad-taste joke doing the rounds on the Scottish clan circuit; something about burning the Campbell at both ends? I can’t quite understand it myself; apart from the odd seizure of Highland land and property, the MacGregors seemed to rub along quite well with them; and as a borderland family, the Armstrongs lived too far away to have much to do with them.

In their defence I do hear that the handsome Campbell Chief, the Duke of Argyll, is a very good dancer. As is the Chief of the McLarens, who was cutting a dash this month on the floor of the Dunblane Hydro at a dinner dance to raise money for wounded servicemen… Mind, my own man is also pretty nifty on his feet when it comes to an Eightsome or a Hamilton House. It must be something they learn, in between tramping the heather and gralloching deer. Yes, a Scottish Chief, regardless of his shape and size, is born to dance.

Before I met MacGregor of MacGregor I had only reeled on the occasional high day and holiday. Now I was destined for greater things. The Royal Caledonian Ball is a glittering night in the Celtic calendar. First held in 1848 when the Duke of Atholl gave a London ball to raise funds for Scottish charities, it has since given out large sums of money to deserving causes.

For those whose only reeling experience has been in village halls, it is either quite magnificent – or utterly terrifying. Several hundred people attend this very smart and most Scottish of events outside Scotland. There is a long list of titled Patronesses, topped by its President, Iona, Duchess of Argyll. The gentlemen sport Highland Dress, white tie, mess kit, hunt, or tail coats, and the ladies in wear floor-length dresses and clan sashes.

Dancing to disaster

Tiaras are very much encouraged, but the MacGregor jewels stayed in the bank. I had decided it would be enough to concentrate on the dance steps, without having to worry about something balancing on my head. And so the day arrived and MacGregor and I presented ourselves at the Grosvenor House Hotel for an afternoon dance practice. There was, of course, no pressure; we were in a party of 16 who would be first down onto the ballroom floor. And with 800 people watching from the balcony above, we would start the dancing with a Sixteensome reel. After an hour of practice, I felt pretty confident. We were couple Number Two and I had all the moves worked out; where I turned to, and with whom I twirled and set.

That evening our party processed down the vast staircase. On the dance floor, the Chief and I made our way to couple Number Two position. A minute later, we were pushed sideways. ‘Look, I know you’re meant to be Couple Number Two said an organiser, ‘but this couple here couldn’t make it to the run-through, so they must be Couple Number Two. You are now Couple Number One.’ It sounds pathetic, but where Couples One and Two move and set to is very different. There was no time to worry. The band struck up and thirty seconds later I found myself at the far end of the ballroom, with my husband partnerless at the other. I am not a timid person. Chairing conferences I often address an audience of a thousand.

I have read the news to millions. But this was the scariest thing I have ever done. Of course, time is a great healer. And I have since taken reeling lessons. The ball takes place on the 1st May and if you have never been, do try to get tickets, but go with a brave heart.