THIS is what the Scottish town of Braemar is like during the first weekend in September. . .

Seas of people, this year somewhere between 15,000 and 16,000.

Kilts everywhere – on the pipers heralding the annual Highland Games with puffed out cheeks, on the burly competitors hurling cartoon weights with grunts of exertion, on the dancers leaping high in soft leather shoes and on Prince Philip along with a pair of thickly knitted green and red socks.

The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh arrive in a black car polished to a sheen with old-fashioned elbow grease.

This year she has chosen a pale green hat and coat ensemble decorated with a gold, feather-shaped brooch.

This is what the Scottish town of Braemar is like in the first weekend in December. . .

Deserted, completely, apart from a few foolish tourists (us) seeking a bolt-hole with no phone reception for a week’s break from work.

Kilts? No chance, unless you count the ones for sale in the souvenir shop, alongside books of haggis recipes and postcards of Highland scenes, and those on the pottery sheep carrying banners that say “memories of Scotland”.

And it is bitterly cold, so cold in fact that even Prince Philip’s toasty socks would not prevent frostbite as we walk along Braemar’s main street to the local pub.

Inside fruit machines flash and local teenage boys play pool while a coachload of pensioners warm their hands on weak-looking cups of tea.