To think of Scotland and activity-based holidays is to have mental images of skis and walking boots popping up like cartoon images in your head. But the British Tourist Authority wants to get you thinking about activity holidays that are not as well-established as skiiing or hill-walking.
Pitlochry, a typically Scottish town of cutstone buildings, is a couple of hours drive north of Edinburgh. The landscape here has huge horizons, bisected by rivers that seem, in the distance, as tiny as the glinting silver spoor of a snail. Every isolated stone farmhouse looks idyllic, islanded in fields that extend for miles.
From Pitlochry, you are well placed to explore both Croft-na-Caber and the Stakis Dunkeld, both of which have activity centres for some very unusual activities. Bring boots or strong shoes that you don't mind getting wrecked. These are definitely not activities for those who can't bear to be parted from their stiletto heels. On the first day at Pitlochy, we clambered into a minibus and headed off for Croft-naCaber, on the shores of Lough Tay. This place is guaranteed to keep the adrenaline pulsing through your veins in the way that Scottish whisky goes down your throat like tangled fire. In addition to such comparatively sedate activities as archery, you can choose from river-rafting, kayaking, jet-biking, waterskiing, hydroboarding and canyoning.
Canyoning, what's canyoning? It's one of those invented head-rush activities of the 1990s, of which bungee jumping off the bridges of New Zealand would be the great grandpappy. Croft-na-Caber describes it as: "the latest outdoor challenge of abseiling down waterfalls, scrambling through gorges and jumping into plunge pools."
In the changing rooms, we donned westsuits, jackets, life-jackets, and helmets. It was a grey October day, with rain on the way. One way or another, there was shortly going to be a lot of exposure to the watery elements. We were driven by Land Rover to the top of a nearby hill, which is part of an estate that is used exclusively by Croft-na-Caber for the purposes of canyoning.
Crossing the fields on the way to the river, we pussy-footed our way across a tiny stream, hopping daintily from bank to bank. The two group leaders clutched their sides and roared with laughter at our attempt to remain dry for the nanosecond journey that lay between the stream and the big bruiser of a river that awaited across the field.
We got into the river, which was kneedeep at that point. Boots squelched. There was a bit of stumbling, due to that annoying habit rocks have of being slippery and sly when they lurk unseen under dark water. The facilitators assured us this was but a mere fiddle-faddle compared to what lay ahead.
There are three plunge pools on the two and a half hour course and I confess that I chose not to plunge into two of them. The first one was easy enough. You stood on a ledge above the river, tucked your arms into your sides, held onto your helmet, and jumped in for that total immersion experience. The second pool was my nemesis. You had to jump from some considerable height into the river, which was coursing through a slit of rock. "If you jump too far, you'll end up on the rock, but nobody has yet," the facilitator pointed out helpfully.
I was not the only one of the party to bottle out of this plunge pool, but those who leapt in like aquatic goats came back to jump a second time, they loved it so much. We scrambled and splashed on through the river, squeezing through gaps intended as throughfares for insects. There were natural water slides. There was falling backwards into pools on purpose and a lot of falling forwards into the river by accident.
There was a third jump from a rocky ledge over the river into a plunge pool, which was not quite so sensational looking as the second one, but again I backed off, guided by my non-lemming gene. By the time we arrived at the waterfall, which we were to abseil down, I felt the only way of reclaiming my demolished reputation was to go first.
It's a distinctly peculiar sensation to lean back into space with your feet at 90 degrees to the world, restrained only by the subtle workings of ropes, when all your instincts urge you to remain vertical on terra firma. I was lowered down over the waterfall: a reluctant spider dangling from a cobweb. It was not the most elegant abseiling descent in the world, but descent it was. Canyoning was later voted the most unusual and exhilarating event of the trip - although not by me, I must confess.
The following day saw us at the activity centre at Stakis Dunkeld. Some of the party went for the off-road driving option, which was pronounced a great buzz, even by those among us who had never driven before. The off-road driving vehicle was a specially-converted Land Rover with no doors, and metal bars for a roof. You had to vault in over the side to get in.
THE carefully-planned course was tightly laid out in a field, which we were guided through by an instructor, who sat in with each person. The Land Rover tilted across deep ruts, climbed up almost-vertical mounds of earth and slid down the other side, and splashed through ditches: a cross-section of an army-style training course.
Others of us took to the quad bikes in an adjoining field. Quad bikes are used by farmers in rural areas, and apparently their children are also big fans. They are a stout buggytype version of a four-wheeled motorbike, and have quite a lot of power. They reminded me of ride-on lawnmowers with a great deal of attitude.
I got on, pressed the right-hand handle, which controlled the speed, and off the quad bike went. Depending on how much throttle was applied, the faster it went. The first few laps of the field were sedate enough, reminiscent of motoring in the 1920s. Then, as people got used to the feel of the bike, they found their grand prix gene and roared around the field, whooping wildly as they whizzed past the finish line over and over again.
That afternoon, it was more bikes, but these were fuelled by our own manpower. Raised on ancient black bicycles and about as familiar with gears as I am with the mountains of the moon, the experience of mountain-biking to me was like the caveman's discovery of the wheel.
We explored some of the Stakis's extensive and beautiful estate on these wonders of movement, over terrain at the mere sight of which my normal choice of volocopede would buckle and collapse. These gear things were a revelation to me. Click a switch and I was transported up hills with no apparent effort on my behalf. What would Flann O'Brien have made of it all, I couldn't help wondering.
Later that day, we travelled towards Glen Lyon, near Aberfeldy, where we eased our aching bodies into Land Rovers. We were driven high up the glens, in search of wildlife. The ornothologists among us argued whether the birds we saw hovering far above were kites or hawks.
At the crest of a hill, we got out to listen to the silence of the empty Scottish glens. Flasks of coffee and nips of whisky were produced to ward off the biting wind. As we sipped the elixir, we spotted a rare white stag, small as a snowflake in the distance. Binoculars were passed around, as we all marvelled at the sight of the white stag, the cold wind suddenly forgotten. For brochures and information on holidays in Scotland contact the British Tourist Authority, 18/19 College Green, Dublin 2. 01-6708000, or the scottish Tourist Board hotline, 0044 990 511511.