IT was like the Gathering of the Clans, but without the kilts and pipes. The upper deck of the park-and-ride bus from Pear Tree echoed with strong Scottish tones from a dozen visitors, young and old.

The only Englishmen were an immaculately-dressed elderly man of military appearance, called Ralph, and your humble scribe.

The two of us were ignored until the bus reached what was left of the old Radcliffe Infirmary when Scotsman Gordon (he volunteered his name) turned to my fellow traveller and asked what was happening on that site.

Ralph’s reply was concise, yet tinged with sadness at the passing of the place where his children had been born.

Gordon said it was his party’s first visit to Oxford, giving the other the chance to launch into a potted introduction to the treasures of St Giles as we passed slowly along – St John’s College, the Eagle and Child pub, Greyfriars, Balliol, the Ashmolean and the Martyrs’ Memorial.

His tone was such that the Scottish invaders fell silent. He packed much into the few remaining minutes, a natural raconteur. In fact the bus had stopped in George Street before another voice was heard. It came from a tweed-encased matron of many summers, steel-grey hair swept back to reveal a well-chiselled, make-up-free face.

“Look!” she said, pointing excitedly to starboard. “Yon’s a Jamie Italian restaurant!”

PERHAPS she saw the place as somewhere to revise plans. Tuesday was particularly wet, with umbrellas much in evidence but buskers conspicuously absent.

It was in sharp contrast to a few days earlier when the street buzzed like a beehive in full production.

Everyone was on top form – especially the two-year-old with a football at his feet. While dad perched on a bench, he merrily chased the ball. I heard no words of protest from others as the future England star did his stuff. Smiles were everywhere.

What a pity a policeman felt compelled to tell the parent that ball games were forbidden.

Of course they were. He was doing his duty, but surely the loss of safety cameras hasn’t totally blunted our force’s sense of childish fun.

Or maybe he was out to impress his female fellow officer.

BACK to Tuesday. The rain eventually eased, so it seemed a good time to head for Cowley Road. On Magdalen Bridge half a dozen teenage boys and girls, all with cameras, were leaning over the parapet.

All were giggling, or more correctly, five were; the sixth was advising control, otherwise the subjects of their focus might disperse.

Vainly, I tried to look unconcerned, but one glance and I saw their point. Below were four young men bailing out waterlogged punts using brightly-coloured household plastic dustpans.

Just the thing to appeal to a British sense of daftness.