On The Level

In an effort to introduce an element of economy into our Great Garden Plans I decided to build the timber posts and doors that will secure the ends of what will shortly be christened The Great Poly-Tunnel of Trollaigh. Armed with sizable timbers, a cement mixer and the stuff that goes into it, I set about the door posts which were completed with suspiciously little trouble. Next into the workshop with strong, long lumber to create the sturdy door frames ready for the hi-tech poly, great efforts were made with jointing and setting the monsters square and fitted with the pair and half of hinges as we craftsmen call them, while I dreamed of the day when a small army of guest workers will swarm through my magnificent portals to dig, plant and sow all my 2010 veggie needs. Having hauled the doors on site imagine my dismay upon discovering that the blighters did not fit. After kicking some trees, abusing the hired help and with a lot of bolting, unbolting, planing, hammering and sawing my doors now fit, but hang in the usual cack-handed way that sets my woodworking skills apart from even the most lowly tradesman. To pour salt on the wound I surprise dearest Dottie sighing over a bright picture of glamorous, gliding, sliding aluminium doors in the poly-tunnel catalogue. It was not long before I uncovered the cause of my carpentry problems. While tackling some other minor measuring requirement I found to my horror that depending on which way I offered up my trusty spirit level, two quite different versions of vertically were displayed, so although my doors were things of beauty, my concrete embedded door posts are as bent as a dog's hind leg.

Talking of things being on the level, I always try to attend our local Community Council meetings as they provide me with the local gossip which otherwise flows straight passed the Great Gates of Glen Trollaigh. The most recent event provided humour of Hulotesque proportions on the subject of the Lochawe Village Bus Shelters. Hitrans is an organisation for funneling euro cash into highland transport schemes and had commissioned and paid for a rash of splendid new bus shelters throughout our patch. For some unknown reason two shelters destined for Lochawe never appeared, and as local children are forced to stand in a leaky converted hen coup while waiting for the school bus, questions were being asked. To cut an exceedingly long politically complex story short, contractor X who had been paid to do the job pulled out leaving the children in the hen coup. Contractor Z has agreed, for extra dosh, to erect the two shelters, however the bits are scattered between three different Argyll and Bute Council depots and a carrier must be found to gather up the pieces and carry them to contractor Z somewhere in the Scottish Central Belt. The partly assembled structures must then return to Lochgilphead by carrier for the glass bits to be fitted, further sub-contractors engaged to measure up and pour foundations and bases before finally contractor Z will appear in a flotilla of white vans to bolt the bally things together. One cannot help thinking that as this has all taken several years and many wet children perhaps the A&B Council who have a fleet of bright yellow trucks, and who employ many tradesmen of all shapes and sizes might remove the digit, quickly finish the job and cover the blushes of Hitrans who have already splashed the cash on the contract, particularly as the Hitrans chairman is an A&B Councillor. I had even considered pricing the job myself, however one look at the poly-tunnel doors and one old fashioned glance from dearest Dottie has seen sense prevail.

Now is the time to turn the wheelie bins "head to wind", avoid treading wet leaves into the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, endure much talk on the condition of Tups (not too good in our case, looks like gender problems), watch the snowline edge down from the tops, listen to the Stags roar and put the .308 away till next August. Southern softies start their game shooting season whilst we fret over the size of our log piles and curse all the things we have not done before the long chilly nights are upon us. However as each morning brings frost and fabulous river mists with distant sunlight on the ridges, and we can look forward to our traditional social winter evenings of chat and dance, safe in the knowledge that whatever the powers that be do to screw it up, some sort Spring will come in six or seven months. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.