The soup or the burger?

I'm just back from a whirlwind tour of the Scottish Highlands. 5 days, a few castles, hundreds of mountains, waterfalls, wild flowers (that strangely always seem to be purple in the highlands...what's with that?) and one very large reason to...Well, whatever I say there is going to seem harsh to any who weren't on the same bus as me, so perhaps I'd best explain.
See, I was travelling on a tour, organised to the nth degree and generally pretty well run. The group were mostly 20-something, travelling around Europe and making the most of their time, knowing that they were sharing 5 days but, in most cases, would never see each other again once the tour was over. And for most, that was fine; good friends for now, but not forever. Some were thrilled to be tracing their heritage. The descendants of the Campbells and Macdonalds discovered why their clans hated each other. A MacKenzie learned about the downfall of her clan. And somewhere along the way, 23 tourists found a reason for 3 centuries of hatred directed at the Campbells to end; if all the MacDonalds were like our example, it was fair enough that after 2 weeks of sheltering with them during hideous weather you'd want to kill them in their sleep. There's a fairly good chance that sleep would have been the only thing to still their overly loud and energetic tongues.
See, one bad apple can spoil the entire barrel. Or it can unite the rest of the good apples in loathing. If the Campbells had two weeks of hearing the intimate details of the MacDonald's cousin's lives, of being one-upped in every story they told, of having every conversation they had among themselves not only eavesdropped on, but butted into...if they were having a quiet moment to themselves only to have someone stalking their privacy...If the voice that cut through the solitude managed to combine shrill with nasal...Well, I think I can understand why the Campbells banded together to slaughter the MacDonalds at Glencoe.
Certain aspects of what has happened since lends credence to the story. I much the same way that my refusal to loan my hairdryer to the person who burst into my room just as I was re-packing my bag earned me freedom from the promised catch-up back in London (after the tumbleweeds stopped rolling through the gap between the request for a catch up and my answer, that is), I can see why the hatred of several other clans might have seemed worth it to the poor put-upon Campbells. They would never have to deal with another MacDonald. It must have been an attractive dream. It probably all started with sleep talking. The straw that broke the camel's back. Sure the MacDonalds still bitch and moan about it, still ban Campbells from their lands and haunts (signs in bars saying "Dogs welcome, Campbells not", etc) but let's be honest here, if the MacDonalds were all like this descendant of theirs (a person who advocated clubbing seals to death during the Canadian seal hunt, because it is a tradition and has always been done that way), I expect they were fairly happy with the situation. Hell, they probably sell the trees planted in Glencoe that are a symbol of the hatred (the Campbells won't be forgiven for as long as there are trees in Glencoe). If I'd had an axe handy a couple of times, I'm pretty sure I would have used it.
As for the rest of my trip, well, Scotland is a beautiful country, there's no doubt about it. Even the grating annoyance of a fly in the ointment couldn't keep me from enjoying it. But next time, I'm leaving the buzzing creatures to themselves. Either that, or carrying a very large sword in my bedroll. Hey, it worked for the Campbells...