The first little nudge that matters might be a little more complex was the arrival of Caledonian MacBrayne’s winter timetable. The sailings no longer assumed boatloads of holidaymakers arriving on the Glasgow train, but had moved into a more workaday mode. This meant a more complex rail journey from Macclesfield and, if you were to catch the morning ferry, an overnight stay in Oban. However, as these were the pre-Thatcherite days of public transport, you could still assume that what was published by way of a timetable tended to happen on the ground and there seemed no real reason for concern.

To say that the journey went without a hitch would be less than accurate. The weight of carrying Christmas to the Outer Hebrides caused a spectacular explosion of a bottle of sauce and the rending of an ageing rucksack strap in the ten-and-a-half seconds allowed for the change at Preston. The latter was not as inconvenient as might be assumed. When standing on the ground, the rucksack reached chest level. If you are manoeuvring such a piece of baggage through doors, along passages and around light-fittings, you tend to have to manhandle rather than shoulder your responsibilities. The outcome of the former is best glossed over.

The interchange at Glasgow was also interesting. The paterfamilias, feeling that he had borne the burden of the enterprise, repaired to the Red Roy MacGregor bar and, as Scottish law forbade the appearance of children, the rest of the troupe made do with the cafeteria. It is an immutable law of liquid consumption that it takes longer to drink beer than Coke. The result is an corresponding imbalance of absorption. The Coke finished, minds become absorbed in other matters and the matter in hand, as far as the larger section of the party was concerned, was whether we would miss the connection. I believe in punctuality but see little point in arriving early, particularly if there are more pressing concerns. So when I reappeared, my daughter was giving her very best Orphan Annie impression, much to the concern of the inhabitants of Queen Street Station. The said residents tend not from the most salubrious section of Glasgow’s society and their choice of wine is dictated rather by circumstance than appellation, but even they found it impossible to comprehend the depths of depraved irresponsibility to which I must have sunk to create such concern in a child. I left the concourse with, no doubt, not just a metaphorical flea in my ear.

And it was in such a way that, two days before Christmas, we arrived in Oban. If you were to ask me what Oban was like at that time of year, my reply would be, shut.