How did the English manage to nick a swathe of the Highlands? - Susan Morrison

Abuzr Mirza Beg, from Burnley, died days after celebrating his 16th birthday when tragedy struck on an end of school visit to Lake Windermere.

Wee white clouds scudded past in a Saltire blue sky. And I thought, how on earth did the English manage to nick a whole swathe of the Highlands and haul it down here?

My money is on one of those unfortunate encounters we had with an Edward or two. You know, the ones who nicked the Stone of Destiny.

Yes, we sent one proud Edward homeward, but it looks like he hauled off a decent set of lochs, glens and hills for the future of his nation's tourist industry.

Can’t really blame him. The Lake District is stunning. We, that is the loyal and non-complaining man who is my husband and myself, popped down for a wee visit.

I’ve always regarded ‘The Lake District’ as a peculiarly English name. It’s as if they neatly scooped all their big bits of water and hills and shoved them into one area, like a giant rockery at the top of the garden. Something to show off to visitors. “Oh, come and see what we’ve done with the lakes. They’re looking fabulous this year.”

It's an almost bureaucratic title. You’d like to see a lake? Then you need to go to the specially designated district.

Turn off when you pass Tebay, except no-one can ever pass Tebay. Some sort of force field pulls in the unwary traveller, and generates an overwhelming desire to buy artisan pork pies, craft ales and handmade twirly pastry savoury doodahs.

On no account should you ever eat these in a car. You’ll be hoovering the crumbs out for a month.

The Lake District is so neatly boxed in they could probably set up ticket turnstiles to get in.

With the Fringe about to hit us, there are times when that idea is quite appealing.

It's very tidy and ordered. Not like us, obviously. Our lakes and mountains have just been flung about with carefree abandon.

We’ve got a honking great hill right in the middle of our capital city. We’re never far from a loch. In fact, when it rains heavily in Edinburgh bodies of water suddenly appear big enough to water ski across.

Of course, I know they didn’t nick them off us, but the scenery is so incredibly familiar. It could be Loch Lomond. Scots feel at home looking up at those slopes and peaks.

Mind you, they do insist on calling them ‘lakes’ when every right thinking person would call it a ‘loch’, but I just smiled patiently at them. We beyond Hadrians Wall know that’s a word hardly anyone outside of Scotland can say properly.

Their lakes and hills are lovely, and peculiarly English, even down to their folklore and those tourist lures.

They’ve spun a web of tea-rooms and boat trips around cute Mrs Tiggywinkle, the adventurous ‘Swallows and Amazons’ children, and daffodil-bothering ports lurching about spouting verse.

In Scotland’s dark glens we’ve created an entire coach trip industry around massacres, executions and lost battles.

But be aware, good people. The folk of Bowness-on-Windermere have claimed they have seen a giant beastie lurking in their lake. They have called her ‘Bownessie’.

Won’t be a patch on our girl.