In the 18 years since Wild Bear Lodge began offering bear-viewing tours in the wilderness we’ve had hundreds and hundreds of wonderful guests.
But, especially in the early years - when a room for the night cost about the same as an expensive round of drinks in a pub and we were called Grizzly Bear Ranch, we had our fair share of tricky customers.
When weighing up the memorably abrasive, difficult or just plane odd, it’s not easy to decide between gold, silver and bronze.
But one candidate who definitely makes it on to the podium was a Californian in his early eighties who arrived one October afternoon our very first year.
In the interests of confidentiality let’s call him Jack. His girlfriend - we’ll call her Marg - was in her late seventies.
To begin with the couple turned up a day before they had booked to arrive.
"Jack, we were expecting you tomorrow," I said gently.
"Well, I came today," he replied.
"I'm afraid your cabin has somebody else staying in it tonight,” I said. “We'll put you in a different cabin and then you can move tomorrow."
"No." He was adamant. "I want my cabin."
"Well, Jack, the thing is there's somebody else already in it."
"It's my cabin," he said again.
"It's not your cabin, Jack,” I said. “It's our cabin. You can have it tomorrow night."
Still grumbling, Jack and Marg began to settle in and unpack. The replacement was a lovely cabin but it didn't, back then, have either indoor toilet or running water.
(That was to come later when I turned my hand away from the gentle art of frontline journalism and retrained – after a fashion – as a wilderness plumber, electrician and gas man.)
That afternoon we saw little of Jack and Marg.
I assumed they had reconciled with their reduced circumstances and decided to make the best of things. The new cabin was, after all, only yards from our beautiful blue-green wilderness river.
But, when we all gathered for dinner, it became clear that Jack had not quite given up his claim. As we sat down, and each guest in turn was served dinner, Jack leaned rudely across the table.
He fixed his stare on the male half of a charming Anglo-German couple who had, in his eyes, cheated him out of what was rightfully his.
Then, chin jutting forward and with each word annunciated so there couldt be no misunderstandings, he said: "You've got my cabin!"
The German was a gentle soul. He turned red and began to splutter.
"Aber, no, nein, wir haben reseviert."
He looked to me for support.
"It's my cabin," Jack repeated louder than ever.
And so once again I patiently explained to Jack that not only had he turned up on the wrong day, and that he was lucky to get a cabin at all, but that it was not polite to berate other guests over dinner.
For a while we all sat in tense silence.
Then Jack decided to share with us the news that his romantic life was on the up. The secret, he said, was Viagra.
"I get it free as a veteran," he said leering at us. "Damn good stuff."
"He get's it free," Marg repeated.
"It works, you know," Jack said. "It sure works."
Marg nodded.
"Oh it works," she said.
*
The following morning at breakfast Jack was once again in belligerent mood.
We were tucking into our eggs and looking forward to a day in the mountains, when he declared bluntly:
"Our cabin doesn't have a toilet.”
"I know that.” I said. “I told you when you arrived. That’s why I showed you the outhouse.”
(Just to reassure - all our cabins have had toilets for many years now. In fact, to my mind at least, they are each now little pods of luxury with tea and coffee service, warm slippers, wood-burning stoves, wireless internet, bird guides and binoculars.)
"Well,” Jack said. “Marg had to go in the middle of the night."
There was long theatrical pause. Jack’s eyes were gleaming.
"She didn't make it," he said finally.
We all looked at Marg, horrified.
“That’s right,” she said nodding. “I didn’t make it.”
She should have done what bears do !
Always enjoyable reading your diaries from Northern Scotland. Hope to visit sometime.