This week my report comes from North of the Border, as I accepted an invitation to visit Lord McCano of McCano at his Highland home of Castle McCano, situated on the shore of the beautiful Loch Ankie. And so it was that at 10am prompt on Monday morning I boarded my Virgin train at London Euston, settled back in my seat with coffee, the newspaper and the latest Razzle and we were soon under way, speeding through the English countryside at up to twenty-five miles per hour. I dozed off for a while and awoke with a surprise to find that it was after dusk and that the train was pulling into a station.

"Excuse me," I asked the guard, "Is this Glasgow?"

The guard looked at me, smiled, looked at his watch and smiled again. "No mate, it’s only just eight o’clock. This is Crewe."

At this point I decided to bail out of the train, catch the next local to Manchester Airport and fly, so that in a mere couple of hours I was touching down on Scottish soil. Unfortunately the Scottish soil in question was the garden of a Mr and Mrs Wallace of Peebles, yours truly having accidentally opened the wrong door while attempting to use the gentlemen’s facilities. Nevertheless, the Wallaces were most kind hosts and after several lectures on the subject of their illustrious ancestor and exactly what he did to the English and what the English did to him, Mr Wallace was only too pleased to drive me into Motherwell so I could continue my journey and only charged me £50 for the privilege.

The following morning, I arrived at Castle McCano; Lord McCano very kindly offered me a lift from the nearest railway station in his spotless Volkswagen. Before very long, we arrived at the gatehouse, manned by two brawny specimens of manhood who saluted McCano briskly as we entered the estate and continued up the drive, past serried ranks of young folk engaged in vigorous physical exercise. And so we drew up at the front door of the Castle, an excellent example of the Scottish Baronial style of architecture, to be greeted by an elderly gentleman in immaculate lederhosen, who proceeded to remove my suitcase from the boot of the Volkswagen. I shall take the sight of those knees to my grave with me.

"Isn’t he a little bit old for that sort of thing?" I asked Lord McCano.

"Jurgen is an old family retainer," His Lordship replied sternly. "He has been with our family since we took him on when he fell on hard times in...1945, I believe."

Without further ado I allowed Jurgen to take my suitcase up to my bedroom and entered the Castle. The lounge came as a surprise to me; whereas in most stately homes one might expect to see the occasional suit of armour, portraits of illustrious ancestors and the odd stuffed bear (although I have known one or two which had a portrait of a bear and a stuffed ancestor), the interior of Castle McCano presented a spectacle uncannily like that of a busy military operations room. A wall which might otherwise have been covered with rusting swords or the mouldering and sightless head of an unfortunate antelope was instead home to a large world map, on which certain major cities- Washington, Moscow, Paris, Tokyo, Norwich- were illuminated. A team of flaxen-haired young women in khaki blouses and skirts moved various markers to and fro. I stopped for a moment to marvel at the military efficiency of the operation and the tightness of the blouses, before Lord McCano, glaring at me with impatience, took me by the arm and led me into a large and more conventionally-furnished library. He gestured to a large leather-covered armchair in which I made myself comfortable, while he poured me a generous glass of the local McCano malt whisky.

"So, Lord McCano," I began, being sure of my facts as always, "what exactly is it that you’re doing here?"

"Well, " His Lordship began, "what we at the McCano Trust believe is that young people today are missing out on so manyimportant life-enhancing experiences. Working together to achieve common goals, for example- the sense of community and belonging has totally gone- as has any sense of national identity, self-discipline and surrendering oneself to a greater national ideal".

"And what you do here addresses that, does it?"

"Well, it may seem a trifle drastic to you, Mr Eggewysc, but I can assure you that we offer a wide range of activities. Physical exercise and drill, of course- the sight of two hundred eighteen-year-old girls throwing their chests out repeatedly at six-thirty in the morning is most invigorating, I can assure you- but we also feed the mind. Here in this library, for instance, we have all the texts to enable a sensitive young mind to develop in such a way as to benefit themselves and society".

I looked around and took in the beautifully bound copies of Mein Kampf, Margaret Thatcher’s The Path to Power and Jade Goody’s autobiography.

"And the Swastika flag flying over Castle McCano?"

"Oh, that’s not a swastika, Mr Eggewysc."

"It isn’t?"

"No, it’s the flag of the Isle of Man. We’re celebrating Tynwald Day today. Kipper?"

And with that, he removed the cover from a silver tray on which several succulent kippers awaited my attention.

"Moving on, Lord McCano, I continued, why is there a submarine moored in Loch Ankie?"

"Oh, that," Lord McCano continued,"is an experiment in salmon farming."

"Salmon farming?"

"Yes; we’re experimenting with letting the salmon roam free in the loch and using the sonar to drive the salmon to the surface."

"Not, for instance, sailing it up the Thames and holding Parliament to ransom?"

"No, we checked that and the Thames hasn’t got the clearance."

"Pardon?"

"Salmon farming, dear boy, salmon farming."

All in all I spent a most invigorating weekend at Castle McCano, what with inspecting the biological warfare laboratories and helping Lord McCano handle the young ladies’ morning drill, and it was with regret and a case of the McCano 15-year-old that on Monday morning I left Castle McCano bound for the railway station and the sleeper home. There really is nothing like curling up for the night with a robust 15-year-old, and I speak from experience.