IT has blown a gale during our week in Scotland. Whistled down the wind. Scattered snow. Poured enough rain to match any tropical storm. And howled its frustration that John still wants to go on the hill to stalk deer.

Meanwhile, I have hit the shops. Grabbing a rare opportunity not to have our spending transgressions threatened with time limitations for lunch, I meandered, browsed, sampled, tried on and occasionally discarded anything that briefly took my fancy. Pure hedonism. That is as long as I got back in time to get the evening meal ready.

Leaving the farm, for even a short time, is always problematical. Friends come and house and dog sit. Geoff looks after the stock and generally keeps an eye on things. I pack enough stuff for three holidays and a small catering enterprise.

A significant problem on this holiday, however, is that because of the foul weather, John frequently gets back earlier than I do. This means then that I must assume a carefree air and only take out a few items for him to see. Vastly outnumbered by useful purchases such as milk and bread.

And today, with no stalking possible as the weather was deemed too foul for even the head stalker to want to go out, my outing to the famed Scottish shopping destination of the House of Bruar sale, was closely supervised by a thwarted farmer.

I have never seen as many staff in a shop. Perhaps they thought that the clientele, hungry to track down fishing and shooting essentials, both clothing and tackle, and the luxury food items to go with them, could not be trusted to make it to the cash tills; but rather stuff them in a bag and set off for their Range Rover or Discovery. With which the car park was stuffed.

But what struck me most was the quiescent attitude of the men in the shop. Those that is that were accompanying bargain frenzied wives, or partners. With glazed expressions they trotted behind, laden with bags, disappearing under coats, skirts and jumpers, wallets seizing up as their credit cards gradually melted into liquid plastic.

But not my husband. For a start no such luxury as a lunch out. Before I set out from our holiday cottage I had to pack sandwiches and a thermos. Then the first priority was new flies for fishing. New gaiters to keep John's feet dry when stalking. And breeks that kept the rain out on the hill.

For three days on the hill John had been wearing a pair of waterproof shooting trousers with a five-year guarantee to keep their wearer dry. But, defeated by the elements, they had let the rain in every day. So for me no cashmere jumpers. No silk scarves. No smoked salmon trimmings. No whisky fruit cake.

My spending money went on an early Christmas present for John. Guaranteed really water, storm, snow and hail proof shooting breeks. Just like the last pair and just what I always wanted. Really?