The invitations are coming in to this year’s Highland Games and clan gatherings – Lochearnhead, Glenfinnan, the Parade in Edinburgh to name but three – and in past years we have often taken one of the dogs, complete with tartan collar. But this year MacGregor of MacGregor has said that the oldest hound cannot come as he is, quote: ‘too fat to fight’. As we just want him to march, I cannot quite see what the problem is, but there you are.

That is what Chiefs are like, especially those who have been in the army for many years… A clan chief must have a dog, especially if, like mine, he is also a professional landscape photographer. Until the hound goes awol there is apparently nothing nicer than having fourlegged company on a photographic jaunt to wild places. Them or me We have two cockers, an older one who is rough-haired and rather rotund, and a young one who is silky and svelte. We also have a Norfolk terrier, who is cuddly and full of fun, but who has an irritating habit of barking at the wind. Considering that I have always been a confirmed cat person, I feel this canine overload is rather noble. But even in the worst cases – as in clearing up after the rotten rabbit which was brought in last week and divided up on the cream carpet – I do not go down the route of ‘them or me’, as know in my heart what the answer will be.

Fitting the image

I asked my husband which dogs he thought the most chiefly. ‘Anything with attitude’ was the reply. ‘But not a poodle, or a Pekinese’ (which is strange as they must be some of the most opinionated creatures on God’s earth). Corgis are not chiefly it seems, but then why does the Queen, the Chief of Chiefs, have one? A silly spaniel just about squeaks in, but it is a lumbering Labrador that fits the bill at gatherings, as they are handsome, calm and largely biddable. A pointer is slim, tall and holds its nose high. And an aristocratic deerhound is most suitable of all, as he looks the part outside a Scottish castle. I started thinking about the days when MacGregors and dogs were not quite so enamoured of each other.

In 1603 the whole clan was proscribed, and unable to bear their name lived as outlaws in the shadowy Highland hills. They were the original Children of the Mist; in the first half of the 17th century MacGregor men were hunted down with bloodhounds. It seems a harsh punishment for simply massacring a band of too-trusting Colquhouns. But there you are, in those days things were black and white, and the Scottish king who decided on the retribution was very squeamish about massacres.

Thrill of the chase

The Chief still has a gun which one of his ancestors used to shoot one of those pursuing bloodhounds. It is a heavy musket, acquired by his great great great great grandfather from the descendants of Bonnie Dundee, and hangs proudly on the wall, with an inscription of how it blasted one of the ravening beasts to Kingdom Come. Hounds nil, MacGregors one… As I have just swept up the remains of a raided dustbin and spent the last hour scouring the countryside for a missing spaniel, the said weapon is looking more tempting by the day. At the risk of sounding really clichéd, in this clan house it really is becoming a case of dog eat dog.