‘I have indeed – though I haven’t worn my kilt for a few years now. Not much opportunity recently and it was a bit strained round the middle last time I wore it – too many City lunches,’ confessed Christopher and added with a grin: ‘I could probably get into it again now – eighteen months in prison is a great slimming aid, though not one I’d recommend. My sporran is an otter’s head – a bit old and moth-eaten, but then it did belong to my great-grandfather. Otters weren’t an endangered species in his day.’

‘I’m rather relieved we haven’t still got Bunty with us,’ said Isobel, laughing. ‘Despite her idealised view of all things Scottish I’m not sure she’d cope with snarling fox and badger masks. I bet she clings to an anthropomorphic view of otters in velvet coats with lace collars as in Little Grey Rabbit or Mr Badger in carpet slippers handing out wise advice in The Wind in the Willows.’

Miss Auchterlonie proved to be an entertaining guide to her esoteric trade as she showed them examples of the range of hand-made sporrans she and her two sons could produce – from glamorous tasselled regimental ones for the Black Watch to synthetic creations in psychedelic colours to appeal to a less traditionally minded younger generation. Christopher told her he thought his great-grandfather would spin in his grave at the idea of a fluorescent pink sporran.

‘Och well – we have to move with the times,’ she said tolerantly. There were drawers full of samples of the different types of leather, horsehair and fur that could be used.

‘Bring me your granny’s old mink tippet and I’ll make you a sporran out of it,’ she joked, and then explained about cantles – the metal D shape at the top of the purse which could be either something really simple or highly ornate engraved silver: a Celtic rune, a family crest, a Masonic symbol. Auchterlonies, she told them proudly, could produce sporrans for anyone and any occasion and a lot of their orders, she said smiling at Marnie, came from Americans.

The sporran they had made for Giles’s godson was a very elegant affair – silver-mounted white horsehair with black tassels which was much admired by everyone.

‘That’s brilliant,’ said Isobel. ‘Giles will be delighted with it. Now we mustn’t take up any more of your time. Thank you so much for letting us come.’

Tillydrum, where Evelyn Fergusson lived, was a large, stone Victorian house, impressive rather than beautiful, at the top of a long wooded drive carpeted with bluebells. Isobel turned the dogs out of the back of the Land Rover after they’d crossed the cattle grid at the bottom and let them run after it, Flapper tearing along with lolloping ease and portly Lozenge puffing gallantly along behind.