On Friday, being spared and well, I shall thunder excitedly by the grey-green depths of Loch Erisort and Loch Seaforth. Wend over the mountains of Harris. Snatch the last ferry of the day over the Little Minch and thus begin my one 2026 holiday.

I shall sweep by the misty peaks of Skye, ascend Glen Shiel, strike south by the Great Glen and pause in Lochaber, where my life began and because it would be rude not to.

And, finally, by cruel Glen Coe and the bonny, bonny banks, laughing in the face of Anniesland Cross, shall embrace my spry little mother and chill for ten days in G12, very near where I grew up in the 1970s.

The odd excitement is on the cards. I must scrub up for a Tuesday strawberry tea at Jordanhill School – a beloved member of staff is retiring. (In fact, quite a number of teachers stand down next week, having served 207 years between them.)

I hope to enjoy a day in Edinburgh, from a feed at a cherished French bistro to entrusting my luxurious locks to Alessandro Bottitta, the Sicilian barber.

And it’s been 15 years since I sailed on the Waverley, so I may put that right.

Otherwise, there will be much roaming of old haunts. Victoria Park. Knightswood Library. Such wooded glades of the sometime Jordanhill College as have not been flattened for Legoland housing.

There can, alas, this year be no excursion by the Renfrew ferry; two days after my last crossing a year ago, a service first chartered around 1130 by King David I ceased for ever.

Mine will not be a vacation of conspicuous consumption; and I shall still be columnising. Rather, it will be a change of scene – and a joyous revisitation of childhood.

Only boys really know an area. The secret trails and the useful shortcuts. The shady nooks, the gaps in fences, the scalable trees, the grumpy neighbours, the friendly dogs and the one that might have the arm off you.

Where best to indulge in the illicit; where, in season, to find the least-guarded plum tree. The spots on Southbrae Drive where, of yore, I could fill my blazer pockets with brambles. And the odd sight that sears.

Passing our old manse last year, I noted a pile of fresh logs by the steps from the garden path.

Circular; freshly sawn from the freshly felled. A cypress my late father had planted half a century ago, reduced to so much Swiss roll.

You never lose such local knowledge – though I’d have to mug up on today’s dogs, and my most useful gap in a hedge was meanly plugged years ago by Network Rail. Likely there is too much of MacLeod now for it anyway.

Of course there are subtle changes. Even 15 years ago there were still many surviving pre-war lampposts.

Often, if you looked closely, you could yet discern the white rings painted about them, from the days of air-raids and blackout.

There were quite a few Anderson shelters enduring in local gardens too. They have all now gone, and most of the lampposts replaced.

There is no more the ding of hammer from local shipyards, or the wail of their tea-time whistles. You see many magpies around Jordanhill now, and foxes too; there were none in the 70s.

‘Holidays’ are really a very modern concept. Some are more recent than you might think: the May Monday holiday was only created, by the Labour government of the day, in 1978, and Christmas was not a public holiday in Scotland till 1958. (Boxing Day would not be conceded till 1974.)

Originally, and as the name suggests, they were literally holy days, occasioned by the festivals of the church.

Alessandro still flies back to his native Troina, every May, to join the celebration – Festa Dei Rami – of Sylvester, its patron saint. Hundreds of men make pilgrimage into the wild in San Silvestro’s honour, traditionally costumed after evening Mass.

Camping out for a night in the woods; on the following day, the bravest are harnessed and lowered into a 500ft ravine so they can ‘touch the laurel’ and then return to Troina, bearing fantastic laurel-branch decorations, and feast on traditional fare.

A special focaccia, sweets, and snappy biscuits made with prickly-pear wine. Not for all the gold in Morningside would Alessandro the barber miss this Sicilian occasion. It is part of who he is, as an annual feast of cured gannet is to me.

I have never pined for fly-and-flop holidays on the Costa Del Sleazo. I wasn’t brought up with them. Like most Glasgow Highlanders, we returned to our glen or island every Glasgow Fair.

To this day, my mother would never say she was going to Lewis; she would say she was ‘going home’.

My parents’ excitement as they packed the car was infectious.

The drive north – by the same route I shall be taking, in reverse, on Friday – was in itself part of the holiday, with its own annual moments of kabuki theatre. 

Like the three little heads in the back clamouring that Daddy take the Ballachulish ferry and he, eyeing the queue, almost always electing for the long, boring way round by Kinlochleven.

Or vying to be the first, as we rattled up the Trotternish peninsula in the north of Skye, to spot the trusty Hebrides ferry wallowing towards us over the Minch.

She was almost as broad as she was tall, with the aerodynamics of a bungalow and invariably late.

With her side-loading hoist, too, she took an age to unload and load – especially at low tide – but we loved her and, to this day, a painting of the old tub hangs on my wall, over two decades since a Turkish scrapyard reinvented her as cutlery.

The wonders now are reversed; on the other foot. The summer scent of peatsmoke, the glimpses of dancing cotton-sedge, the sight of some grandmother on a three-legged stool milking the family cow – these were the marvels then.

Now, after more than a year on my blessed little island, I yearn to roam a Waitrose. Lose myself in Waterstones; fall asleep once more to the soothing whine and rattle of a passing ‘Blue Train’.

And, of course – cheeseburgers, talk to me! – McDonald's.