"You must see the Robert Louis Stevenson house. It is a classic home," said our tour guide, Bob Kinney, after the tour bus had settled into the Invercauld Arms Hotel in the highland town of Braemar, Scotland.

We were located one-half mile from Balmoral Castle (which we could not enter because the Queen Mother Mary was celebrating her 99th birthday.) Earlier that day we did manage to enter the Royal Family church, Crathie Church.

The countryside in the Grampian Mountains was lush and green. The hills, dotted by the cutest sheep, were majestic and yet a "wee bit sad," as the area was sparsely populated.

Scotland has five million people and Glasgow Inverness and Edinburgh were alive and buzzing, but in the highlands life was quiet and serene. Even the Loch Ness Monster had failed to put in an appearance.

Our hotel had a palatial stature, complete with turrets and battlements. It was a tourist's dream, ensconced deeply in the 18h century. The dark wood and red carpeting were everywhere, but so were beautiful purple and yellow highland flowers. Why go to the Scottish Highlands if you prefer to stay at a Sheraton or Marriott Hotel?

After our luggage arrived in our rooms, we took off. We were traveling with the Greenes. Gary and I sat next to each other in dental school when we graduated in 1959 from NYU. Susan Greene and Lorraine graduated from "Shopping School" and were doing post-graduate work in the mills and jewelry shops of Scotland. They are great traveling companions because they are always ready and complain quietly.

As we walked to the Robert Louis Stevenson home, an eight-point deer darted in front of us and disappeared into the thick woods. Shocking, but wonderful!

English history and literature were coming alive as we strolled to the house. Treasure Island, Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde and Kidnapped were among the great books of Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894). He had moved to this home in the highlands at Braemar because of ill health. Above the door of the simple one-story stone house was a highly polished brass plaque with Mr. Stevenson's important dates and accomplishments.

Lorraine opened the wooden gate and turned the brass handle of the slightly ajar front door, expecting to pay a fee for a tour of this historical home as is the custom.

In the living room a realization struck the four of us at the exact same moment. People were living in this house. It was not a museum, but a family dwelling.

Children's boots and clothing were strewn about carelessly. We were standing in somebody's house and we were trespassers. The place could have used a bit of straightening up but we had not been invited for a visit.

Our exit was much hastier than our entrance. Fortunately, the transgression wasn't discovered by the inhabitants and we confessed the misdeed to our fellow tourists.

It became a standing admonishment on the bus.

"There go the four New York housebreakers,"

More on Scotland to follow!