The Baron's Column

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Salted Seagulls

2010-04-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

One thing that bothers me about our long wonderful Winter is; what on earth would our forebears have made of it all before the "freezer" reached the Tower of Glen Trollaigh? As we nip into Farmfoods for a few frozen beans from Tansanika or asparagus from Peru we hardly consider what it must have been like to survive the winter with a couple of sheep's legs well smoked in the chimney or a barrel of salted seagulls to gnaw on when the going got tough. This was brought home to me when we recently ran out of stored field potatoes from last year. As we are not due to plant until after April's New Moon, yours truly had to elbow in passed some bumbling pensioners to the Tesco potato section. I absolutely abhor Tesco at the best of times, I simply cannot think of a single thing that redeems them apart from their offering a wide ranging number of Oban school leavers legal bullying for a penny or two above the minimum wage. I positively weep when I see visitors and locals alike with their trolleys groaning, proudly labelled for Islay, Mull or Colonsay presumably saving a centime or two over supporting the Port Askaig Co-op, to say nothing of the Oban Tesco "catch of the day" being Barramundi flown in from Darwin. We must be complete gullible twits to be taken in by this rubbish, particularly here in Argyll which has quite rightly become a centre for first class fish shops and farm shops to say nothing of excellent restaurants, which let me assure you from comments made by our international guests are at the very least world class. I urge all sensible souls to spend that extra tenner a week supporting local produce available in your local store and tell Mr Cohen what we think of him, unfortunately many of us are just too bloody lazy or at worse stupid.

I spotted another piece of irresponsible marketing during a rare visit to a Glasgow B&Q where £19.99 tents were displayed next to £40 chainsaws. We have quite enough trouble with campers chopping down our trees thank you very much, without any overt encouragement. It is worth noting that whilst honest country folk are required to have a chainsaw operating safety certificate and dress up like Darth Vader before pulling the starter cord, your average camping lumberjack is probably completely blotto and certainly semi naked. Doubtless the first "class action" law suite for missing limbs will bring a return of the time honoured security of camping equipment juxtaposed with matches, paraffin and barbecues in a idiot's hyper-market near you.

Since I last scribbled, April the First has come and gone. I find this day difficult as I always have a great desire to pull off the most fantastic wheeze such as closing British air space on some loony pretext and the knowledge that I am also fairly easily duped. However this year's offerings were easy to spot even for me, although the poor Japanese seem to have been universally used as decoys. I received an earnest message from a Mr Motokami searching for any info about the local roots of General MacArthur, claims were made of a photo of the General and his family wearing kilts on Loch Awe side; I know for a fact that the only contact between the General (a single man famously married to the military in more ways than one) and water was his powerful breast stroke in any available direction away from the Philippines before his coca cola supply was interrupted by relatives of Mr Motokami during WW2. Then a message from a Prof Kamimoto, complete with a slightly unnerving photo of the author warning me of a most painful death if I drank water from a plastic bottle stored in my car. The give away was that the good professor had obviously no realistic idea of the chances of water being carried in the Baronial Bodile. Hopefully the news that the Liberal Democrats, those complete wankers, may in some way hold the balance of power in our forth coming election is also an April Fool! Hey ho, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

What's in a Post Code

2010-03-13T08:29:00.000-08:00

Woodpeckers drum in the Scots Pines, A pair of Ravens circle against the blue sky and snowy peaks searching for a nest site handy for a dead sheep carry-out. At last our Glen Trollaigh year is turning, Any day now the first March new moon will be with us and planting can start with the waxing moon; so seed packets are being shaken and sniffed, seed potatoes are chitting away on any spare cool shelf space, all this many weeks behind our southern cousins. Much of the new planting will take place (mice permitting) in the Great Poly Tunnel of Trollaigh along side a selection of grape vines, as serious research starts on Argyll's first vineyard. While you city dwellers starve under whichever political twat makes a monkey of our economy after the May election; and as you suffer dehydrated hallucinations you can imagine yours truly tucking into a fresh Salmon Salad washed down by a chilled glass of "The Baron's Choice" Sauvignon Blanc beside the Great Hot Tub of Trollaigh heated with surplus energy from our private hydro scheme; ahh life in the country. Speaking of the countryside and our constant battle with politically correct tree-huggers, our harsh though glorious winter has at long last brought Deer into the same eco spotlight as Seals. Strange bedfellows you might think, however mortality amongst last year's Deer calves has been high, with every country road culvert blocked by a corps or two and of course those dicks at the Forestry Commission (with apologises to all you Dicks) have chosen this moment to machine gun marauding Stags with the enthusiasm of a genocidal African dictator. So now the misplaced sentiment showered on Seals, those cuddly sea rats, has swung towards Deer. No bad thing I hear you cry however you probably grasp the fact the Deer are wonderful native grazers improving Scotland's superb natural heritage; whilst Seal foul our seawater and eat millions of tons fish that would otherwise be on our tables. The choice for once is yours, millions of Seals defecating in our pristine, unspoilt waters, a practice from which Homo Sapiens is banned, or fish suppers for your lovely children? I made my mind up years ago!

Although snow has fallen without fail every Wednesday, no rain has fallen on the North Argyll Glens since early December and a steady supply of cold Arctic air has given us an Alpine winter to remember, now we have the blessing of lengthening days with sunlight stirring the moths in the library carpet before 9.00 hrs and even now at 18.30 hrs there is enough light to walk the dogs around the policies without tripping on too may obstacles. However our outside taps remain frozen and although the deepest snow is creeping back up the braes, thick ice may still coat the burns; the late night release of the Trollaigh Matted Mutts often takes place in sub zero temperatures. Perhaps our wonderful winter encouraged our Olympic Gold for sledging, although lots of other countries seem to have been practicing a tad harder than us at curling where once we reigned supreme. Dearest Dottie and I have certainly made use of many "Half Day Senior" tickets at Glen Coe and skied in outstanding conditions for an hour or two before retiring to the pub to rest the knees on the way back to base. Its almost enough to tempt me to replace my delaminated ski boots with a new pair; however I have the uneasy feeling that as soon as I splash out a couple of hundred smackers for new ones, the snow will melt and not return for several seasons.

Some of you may have missed the grand finale of Morven's effort to secure its own post code, rather than share one with Oban. I think it has taken 10 years for a dedicated bunch of white settlers to convince the authorities of the need for this totally unnecessary change. Now the foolish Post Office have given in and are about to spend millions of our wonga on creating a new PA80 code for the Morven silver backs. Hurrah I hear you shout, but not so as the pimlico pensioners have said this it is simply not good enough, they want a more socially acceptable Perthshire post code or nothing. What staggers me is the fact that surely these lunatics realised what their post code was before they cashed in their zillion pound semi in London and swapped for a £20k croft in the middle of nowhere sans street lights and phone boxes. Yes, struggle against injustice, but you cannot just change things that have served the local yokels well just because your social chache with your London chums is under pressure, silly Bs. Your aye, Archie the Baron Trollaigh.

FTP or not to P

2010-02-09T12:08:00.001-08:00

I shall have to be brief as Google is about to cut off, at any minute, users of FTP of which I am apparently one. To those of you, like me, with Ulster Ancestors FTP has a fairly simple meaning; to google on the other hand, it is some independent, obsolete system which they no longer wish to support; and with arrogance would rather replace it with something profit generating and presumably of their own invention. Alas having got the hang of this thing I will need to start again. All this is A1 OK for those silver surfers with the time to play around with the Internet, however to those of us who have lost everything as Beat Up Britain spirals towards third world status and who have to wear our fingers to the bone trying to feed our families without, I may add any help from our corrupt government, concerned as they are only with Casino Banking and hiding behind 1675 laws, it is a nightmare; what happened to ALGOL?

Glen Trollaigh has seen the most fabulous Alpine winter weather ever since mid December, we have had at least five continuous weeks with crisp snow around The Tower of Glen Trollaigh and although the extreme temperatures of the turn of the year seem to be behind us we are still regularly at minus 6 degrees from 5.00pm until the following noon. Of course the ridges and high tops look sublime with deep snow against a sparkling sky, this is attracting loads of climbers and skiers. The only down side is that every B road is jammed with parked cars leading to a lot of pushing and shoving as locals try to get to and from work. This has produced a healthy new enterprise amongst our young folk who now deal in "one owner" wing mirrors of every model and colour in the pub car park.

Most of you will not realise that livestock thrive in these dry conditions particularly as our ration of daylight increases to 10 hours a day; it is the long wet winters that thrill the saints of climate change which do for sheep and cattle. The Glen Trollaigh flocks and herds are looking particularly fit and I am sending regular e photos of my beauties to my bankers, reassuring them that good times are coming in the Spring when the hoi polloi realize that eating Mr T**co's substandard infected South American burgers is a bad idea. I must admit that the cold has brought a few problems apart from the inappropriately clad bums of school children turning blue. My plumbing and joinery skills have been sorely tried fixing pipes and boxing them back in, indeed the whole bally supply froze on the 4th of January for three weeks taking us back to the good old days of collecting water from the well every morning in buckets and heating water on the kitchen range for the shared bath. The only solution was to lay 40 metres of new water pipe at a depth of a metre in frozen unforgiving soil and rocks, this took dearest Dottie quite a few days with pick and shovel. Indeed it gave rise to a new catch phrase as every request to the hooded and muffled navie brought the reply; "I can't hear you, I'm in the damned ditch".
As a mutual exchange of Christmas gifts, dearest Dottie and I summoned the TV man, who with hundred's of metres of co-axial cable, something called a quad LNB and many expensive hours of roof top swinging labour he has thrust the Tower of Glen Trollaigh into a new age of telly watching. Now yours truly can be chewing the mustachios in front of the 50 inch plasma, whilst a totally different programme is being recorded onto the Humax hard drive, and incredibly dearest Dottie can be nursing her blisters propped up in the Great Bed of Trollaigh watching a third, yet not a single Sky subscription to be seen. Now if I can only figure out how to work the Humax remote, we will be laughing. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Once in a Blue Moon.

2010-01-02T09:02:00.000-08:00

Its not often that old cynics can talk of Blue Moons with any degree of sincerity, however this Hogmanay produced the thirteenth 2009 full moon with bells on. Glen Trollaigh was thick with snow topped with a carpet of sparkling frost crystals in our fourth week of continuous sub-zero temperatures, indeed we bottomed out at -16C on at least two occasions during the last weeks of 2009. There we were jigging merrily with our moonshadows cast across the Great Lawn of Trollaigh, a scene akin to the very best of Dr Zhivago, braziers blazing and the monster Great Bonfire of Trollaigh alight. The midnight sky a pale azure as an enormous Blue Moon lit the scene to almost daylight levels of brightness from 4pm until 9.00am on the first day of 2010. In this day and age reasonable bubbles replace expensive drams in deference to the ladies, however we have added a Trollaigh twist by using the empties as hand hurled targets for some innocent blamming when the night is clear. I leave Lachie to do the hand hurling and retreat safely behind the guns as I have a fairly good idea of the sobriety or otherwise of most of our guests. Indeed in the past someone narrowly avoided blowing his boots off whilst checking the efficacy of the selective trigger of an old B25. I have to admit that Hogmanay is one of the few gatherings that I relish and can keep up a good humour throughout the event, something about the sheer paganism of the whole thing appeals, not a bally cleric is sight, just good company, drink and dance. Although this is a little disingenuous as the 5th of January is the true "old" Scots New Year with its sincere hope for good fortune as our northern hemisphere tilts back from the darkest days.

You will not be surprised to learn that despite my good humour I have stamped a degree of grumpiness on our extended household over the festive season, and that involves a ban on "Non Iron" clothes. In these liberal times one can excuse a few nether garments that have not seen the starch bottle; however to follow the hoi polloi in the Malls and supermarkets where not one ironed shirt collar is to be seen is not acceptable. Frankly I do not want to meet my accountant or lawyer in a synthetic zip fronted polo or whatever. Items that are barely acceptable even in a gym or on a yacht will never darken the door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh after 6.00pm. One can allow a little latitude when forced into the great outdoors in this weather, I personally still prefer wool, tweed and leather although I am not too dim to see some merit in all the hi-tech layers that protect the young, which lets face it would look pretty daft below the grizzled whiskers of some old codger from the North Argyll Glens.

One can never have enough torches and I am very pleased to report that Santa, although basically a "foodie" these days, still pops a nice solid torch into the stocking hanging from the end of The Great Bed of Trollaigh. The boot room is a tangle of chargers supporting a fairly useless rank of rechargeable 1,000,000 candle power torches collected from filling stations throughout the length and breadth of the Europe, but basically you can't beat a rubberised Coleman or a sleek U.S. Mag-lite with a couple of hefty Ds up its jacksy. Many thanks again Santa, and and sycophants take note.

Apart from the constant battle to keep domestic water flowing and pipes defrosted, we have so far survived our extended and early cold snap with only a couple of bursts. I do not bother with the conventional measurements of temperature but rely on two locally available indicators. The first is the throbbing of my missing toe, lost while making a rapid night exit from a Girton College window, the painful missing digit starts to trouble me at around -8C and worsens as the mercury free falls. The second is the icing over of the River Trollaigh which brings "the visitor". This is the appearance of a wild mountain ram who safely crosses the 6 inch thick ice bridge to make free with our winsome pedigree ewes. You may wonder why this blighter is not swiftly dispatched by a well aimed 303, for it is the unwritten law of the glens that one must make every effort to return a wandering beast to it rightful owner, however this particular old roughie rascal is quite definitely living on borrowed time.

Hey Ho, we seem to be stuck in winter's icy grip and I can't say that I am too against it. The old Land Rover is the only form of transport as any road under the "care" of Argyll and Bute Council is a bally disgrace and although the Postie battles through any obstacle all other "services" such as re-cycling and wheelie bin emptying have sunk without trace. Whilst politely pointing out this shameful situation to an A&B Council wallah he was kind enough to mention that he would not be doing much about it as he was on holiday until the 21st January! When, oh when, will people realise that the country teeters on the edge of bankruptcy and international scorn; sound bites from greedy politicos will not save us, we must get our combined fingers out, stop believing that Eastenders reflects even a scintilla of the truth and get on with a bloody, hard, honest day's work. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Bye the bye, a very Good New Year to one and all. Donations to the North Wall re-pointing will be gratefully received. The usual Grosse Trollaigh Bank in Montreux will handle all the details of your donation with the utmost discretion.

The Hooligan's Jig.

2009-12-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

Well here we are in December and as it seems that over the last few entries I have only managed to jot down my thoughts once a month, I am now going to make this my standard effort with a scribble reasonably soon after the 1st. Of course those of you who know me will realise I am seldom that organised so almost anything may happen. The first problem with increasing the gaps between publications is that I forgot my password to access the Glen Orchy Kerr's website, requiring a forced march with the mutts across the Long Glen on a fine, frosty day to note the required rune on the back of a box of Cigarillos. Somewhat more time consuming than a phone call however so much better for one, especially as I have just received the annual ear bashing from the local Doc who appears determined to regularly lower the bar on every measurement of one's health from blood pressure to weekly alcohol units, seemingly hell bent on turning one's dotage into a turgid bore.

Speaking of such things I lost three full days to jury service in Oban Sheriff Court, the quicker witted amongst you may wonder why such a sensible spot would drag in the elderly for any reason other than to shelter them in the public gallery from Oban's ghastly climate. Apparently the local jury pool situation has become impossible with half of the 12,000 Argyll voters being exempt from service by dint of profession (briefs, priests, quacks etc.) whilst the other half are ineligible because of criminality or insanity. So there was nothing for it but to waive the rules and round up a pile of pensioners. By golly the courts work slowly, starting at about 10.00, coffee for half an hour at 11.30, an hour's lunch at 1.00 and then a positively herculean effort between 2.00 and 4.00 before knocking off for the day. Much of this time we spent dosing in the jury room whilst the learned chaps in wigs battled over some ancient and tedious point of law, in this case called the Moorhen Manoeuvre or some such. However despite the court officer coming to tick us off for being hearty and making too much noise while the sheriff digested his din-dins we managed to return a verdict. Whilst thanking us all for our efforts at the end of the trial the beak faltered during his well rehearsed homily "and you will be excused jury service for five years" as he glanced along the rows of bald heads and blue rinses, even his lordship twigged that he will not be seeing any of us again, well not outside of the dock anyway. The only disappointment apart from the quality of the lunches, was that my expenses claim was returned with a pittance for a settlement and a terse note asking why I had not used public transport. Well its like this my Lord, do you want me to arrive at 3.00pm and depart at 3.45pm to cope with the rural Argyll timetables? A short day by any standards.

Another day was lost when I was trapped in a cupboard, accidentally I should add. I was routeling around for something or another when suddenly the door slammed shut, incarcerating yours truly and a flatulent mutt in the dusty dungeon. By good fortune there were plenty of Tower of Glen Trollaigh drafts for air supply and the light switch not only worked but was on the inside of the cupboard. After much fruitless banging and loud hallooing I was forced to settle on an upturned box and peruse old copies of The Field magazine. Further examination of my prison unearthed all the usual newspaper wrapped rubbish plus an interesting though inaccurate family tree; and saints be praised a more or less full bottle of Teacher's presumably stashed by some long forgotten party goer. Sad to say I was not missed by the household and it was only tobacco smoke curling under the bottom of the cupboard door that alerted Mhairi to my plight and Lachlan was summoned to release me. "God,what's that smell" was dearest Dottie's sympathetic greeting from behind The Daily Telegraph, I was only able to point accusingly at Haggis our verdigrised elderly Lab, whilst travelling at speed towards the lav having missed two of my scheduled pee stops.

One other spree enjoyed at this time of year is the Friday night dancing class in a loch side village hall, this is strictly Ceilidh and definitely not approved of by the douce members of the Strathspey and Reel Society. Lots of laughter and organised by a pretty suave dancer who is also a joiner; so I rather cruelly refer to the class as "Dances With Builders", however apart from knocking the rust off in time for the seasonal hops, there are sufficient drams to make the noise of one's whiskers scratching on the sheets painful the following morning. So, my dears, when I ask for the pleasure of the next dance this season you know that I am a finely tuned dancing machine, although I advise toe protection at all times! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Wonderful Wedding

2009-11-11T07:16:00.000-08:00

Who can tell me the year of the last Typhoid epidemic in Aberdeen? I cannot recall exactly but it must have been fifty odd years ago that we young chaps were warned by our employers and church elders not to go near the Granite City in the hope of saving the rest of the nation from a horrible, painful end, to say nothing of ruining the surging post war economy depending as it did on a healthy though underpaid workforce. Needless to say we completely ignored the exhortations of the medicos and visited Aberdeen even more frequently for boisterous weekends of beer and rugby, although by then I was at the end of my career in both departments. I do not remember that any chums contracted unexpected deceases in Aberdeen however my easy going attitude to pestilence of fifty years ago does not extent to November, 2009. Now mothers in the Highlands and Islands are positively boasting about their snotty nosed offspring's particularly virulent viruses. They spread unimpeded throughout hundreds of thousands of the Hoi Poloi without a thought given to us Wealthy Well or whatever we are known as, mainly it seems because there is some dispute about what the GPs must be paid to administer a winter vaccine. Certainly many of the folk living in the harsh North Argyll Glens seem to have been struck down by almost every known curse, although I have to say that it seems to manifest itself in Glen Trollaigh as a great reluctance to surface much before mid morning and a dislike of cold, wet weather.

Dearest Dottie and I have been extraordinarily busy throughout the mixed October weather with several tasks ticked off the maintenance lists; Gutters have been replaced and serviced, leaking chimneys capped, patios and bridges washed down, burrams mounded up, water pipes buried, shrubs moved, winter fuel topped up, dung collected to compost piles, showers upgraded, gates widened and winter shutters put up. Although zillions more tasks remain it has been good to get on a bit and the pressure is off knowing that we do not take Autumn game shooting guests, so we only have to entertain rellies until New Year when we then charge a bob or two for an authentic Highland Hogmanay. We even managed to slip away to Edinburgh for a rather fab wedding and I have to admit that every time I visit, the whole appeal of Edinburgh and the East becomes greater. Could it be that I will be the first Trollaigh to forsake the Great Tower of Trollaigh for the East Coast in my old age? Any of my readers with outstanding apartments for sale, do please get in touch.

Another feature of October has been the substantial increase in air traffic using Glen Trollaigh. We have frequent fly passes from forestry and rescue helicopters and we are well used to the occasional Sunday microlight and even the seaplane slightly off course between Oban and Loch Lomond or the Clyde. However military low level jets are definitely on the increase with smokey Brits white knuckling it round the contours, perfectly correct Germans zooming by, now that the nod has been given to their re-militarization by NATO and of course the lovely ruggedness of the Yanks, who fly well below the height limit in jet black screamers, and whose pilots chomp on cigars, they are the only ones to give a tweed clad native a friendly wave, with one eye on the landscape rather than both on complicated avionics.God bless them all, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh

On The Level

2009-10-11T02:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Those Colonsay Nights.

2009-09-23T06:11:00.000-07:00

Many paths have been walked since last we met and to be honest that's my fault as I have had every good intention of scribbling this about three weeks ago, however the "path to hell" etc. We skipped Burghley Horse Trials this year for the first time in simply ages after last year's muddy madness and believe it or not almost every cove I have seen since has cried " didn't see you at Burghley old boy." whilst the holders of the Burghley booze franchise sent dearest Dottie a condolence card assuming that I must have fallen off my perch much to the detriment of their profits. Another bar related problem has been my upgrade to Microsoft Vista which has far too many "apps" for yours truly and the Favourites Bar option caused no end of a problem when it failed to acknowledge "Harry's Monaco" although I have since been corrected, in-so-far as Vista is apparently referring to something completely different. We did make it to The Dalmally Show, which was if anything more wet,wild and muddy than any show I can remember, none the less everyone turned out which is a wonderful support to the society, the only obvious difference from a fair weather show being that although the farming fraternity seem still to be in t-shirts and overalls, all the visitors were sensibly dressed for a solo crossing of the Arctic. Perhaps conditions could be recorded by the level to which the beer tent customers sank in the mud relative to the bar staff who were god like, several feet above them on the original ground level duck boards. I very much enjoyed the bull competition class, tempting me to dream of a few gentle Highlanders grazing in Glen Trollaigh before the prices go any higher. Which reminds me that looking at this year's entries I must have a tilt at one or two of the easier veggie classes next year, I feel that the "three long parsnips" were possibly beyond me, however I must be in with a chance with a "row of fat peas", watch this space.

As sunrise moves to the dark side of 0800 hours BST, thoughts turn to the frustration of all the things we have not managed to finish this year having lost six or seven weeks to poor weather, but let's not be too dismissive of our single handed achievements. The hay may be only good for mulching, the log pile low and our fruit crop a disaster, however we have a good crop of potatoes, our poly-tunnel is 90% complete for next year's veggies and the entrance to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh now boasts a bell mouth wide enough to admit the lorries needed for next year's rebuilding of the hydro scheme which will hopefully reap rich rewards under "FITS" on which I will make no comment for fear of upsetting the hand that feeds us.

We made it to Ceol Cholasa again although time was tight and the mutts surprised to be wrenched from hill stalking to languishing in the comfort of the back seats of the Land Rover. I must say it was very good with Phil Cunningham and Ali Bain, to say nothing of Karen Matheson, Donald Shaw and many others. Even fringe events of Whisky Tasting and Poetry seem to be developing, although one struggles with the over-all melancholy of gaelic poetry, the authors always encountering some immovable obstruction between their ambitions and the enviable life of crofting and dropping dead on the outer isles. The male version takes to drink in the city and having lost his pocket money cannot afford to return home; the female version having unwisely lost what she has to offer instead of pocket money, also cannot return home for the shame of it all. As usual the Isle of Colonsay supplied the most fabulous back drop and only the capacity of the island hall contained the exuberance of the festival. Dearest Dottie and I took the opportunity and tramped over parts of Colonsay, some familiar and some not visited for many a year, the weather was kind and we normally managed to slip under the duvet before 0400 hours BST by hurrying one lot of wardancing visitors away and flicking the lights out before the hard core professional party goers arrived en route to a 0600 swim in the freezing Kiloran surf. All in all a super weekend with exceptional company and good humour all round, over far too quickly. Here's to next year, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Word According To Maggie.

2009-09-02T01:36:00.000-07:00

I am not sorry to see the back of August, a ghastly month of more or less constant rain which dampened the spirits of everyone from frustrated farmers to tourists. Even fishermen, normally a stoical bunch, are muttering about river levels being too high, mind you this makes a pleasant change from levels being too low, or too much sunshine or whatever excuse the fly fisher uses for lack of success. The joint parishes which cover the North Argyll glens have a quaint tradition stretching back into history, of all joining together for one church parade when there is a fifth Sunday in the month, and so it was to St Conan's in Lochawe for August's bash. I always rather enjoy these affairs which are slightly less formal than our geriatric gatherings in the far north of the parish. St Conan's, although I find the kirk itself akin to a frozen film set, did not disappoint with solo singing, lots of children banging away on assorted percussion instruments and youngsters accompanying our best efforts at lusty singing, on well played bagpipes, even a shaft of sunlight bursting through the stained glass during the sermon. The only fly in the ointment was the padre's insistence that we all "learn a new hymn", I can find nothing wrong with the old ones that we learnt when knee high to a grasshopper and my heart sinks when a new hymn is announced from the pulpit. However the high point of these services is a splendid spread of sandwiches, cakes and tea that is always put on after the service, although the habit of one of our ministers, sadly now retired, of leaving a few discreetly placed beakers of vino behind the columns for a surreptitious swallow has gone, one imagines, forever. I dare say the re-introduction of such bad habits would increase the numbers of the faithful attending and make the "new hymns" a little more bearable.

As the poor weather keeps me indoors I find myself wasting a lot of time battling bureaucracy whilst trying to organise the simplest schemes of tree planting or ditch digging and if anyone fancies experiencing a real stone wall approach orchestrated by a fully trained black belt expert, just try persuading Transerv to clear away overgrown scrub obscuring the sight-lines on a notorious Argyll junction. Year on year I simply seem to fail to notice the spread of a multi layered, hugely expensive civil service, every department with its opposing policies to pursue and empires to build. Speaking of public money, I note that one Argyll GP has now attached a registration to his (or indeed her) Porche which reads NHS 200, Dalmally Golf Club bar scuttle butt concludes that the poor number plate cannot accommodate the additional three zeros that would reflect the GP's true annual salary. Those communities who are currently seeking to recruit a new GP and are being lulled by the sweet seduction of "community consultation" beware, one who knows can assure you that the powers that be have long ago decided which individual will receive the generous budget allocated to your surgery, and of course the additional bonus payments for reducing your blood pressure when you discover that you have been shafted. All this largesse with the country's overdraft reminds me of one of Maggie Thatcher's bon mot "The trouble with those who pursue socialism is that they eventually run out of other people's money", you can say that again my dear. The forecasters, after stirring the smoking entrails of some fallen beast, seem to think that our deluge will stop for a while next week, here's hoping. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh,

What's in a name?

2009-08-14T10:40:00.000-07:00

At last a week at home at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh or almost as a day's sailing seemed to get in the way of work. Mixed weather has interfered or delayed most outdoor projects with the lawns looking particularly unkempt and soggy. However work progresses on the Trollaigh navy, which now only suffers a few expensive glitches in the electronics suite mainly caused by yours truly jig-sawing through several wiring looms in the wheel house. Visitors include the unscheduled arrival of an Austrian Jaguar Owners rally who were many miles off course in a down pour, despite a little language difficulty and demands to be shown to their rooms, we over came the reek of damp soft tops, leather jackets and flying helmets to fill the drivers with hot soup and their partners with brandy whilst navigational errors were rectified. After much hand shaking, promises to meet again (I should coco) and the presentation of a pennant with a remarkable similarity to the sort of thing that fluttered from A.H.'s staff car during WWII, the Jags spend off to Inverlochy Castle their intended destination.

As rain showers streak The Great Windows of Trollaigh I have retreated to the library to avoid dearest Dottie while she is, unbelievably surfing the world wide web in an effort to plan a visit to Germany, only hours after we have sworn on the Great Bible not to travel away from Glen Trollaigh before Christmas. I am afraid that I must admit a total lack of understanding of the female mind even after all these years. Needless to say the only way of reaching our target is to rise at 3am, drive to Edinburgh Airport and stand in a long check-in queue for a 6.20am flight to somewhere hundreds of miles from where one wants to be; this honour is only available to you on a Wednesday.That nice hotel recommended to us is also fully booked around the time of our visit. The stand-by plan is to take Otto by ferry, surprisingly when one adds up all the extras of air travel, hotel nights, hire cars etc the cost is fairly similar, with the potential bonus of straining Otto's self levelling suspension with good quantities of provisions and Christmas presents on the way home. The only down side is that I have been warned by chums that hundreds of kilometres of the above mentioned A.H.'s aging autobahn system is being ripped up making driving across northern Germany a very frustrating affair.

My good deed whilst being confined to quarters by dollops of rain has been to help rescue young Bertie Bellingham-Ogilvie from the depths of the Scottish Prison Service. Like the modern day Trollaighs young Bertie is now an accommodation provider for those wishing to enjoy the unspoilt North Argyll glens in the comfort of a crumbling castle, however unlike the modern facilities we offer the Bellingham's guests rely on a septic waste system installed by General Wade. In an effort to keep the creaking system functioning young Bertie has become paranoid about what reaches the tanks, particularly anti-biotic medicines which have slipped past his security scrutiny. Alas for poor Bertie two forceful Scandinavian females visiting as part of The Year of Homecoming caught young Bertie apparently rifling through their smalls, an innocent and easily explained mistake as he was only searching for prescription drugs that could shut down his delicate sewage system. To cut a long story short Bertie was refused bail by the Oban beak whose daughter bertie had somehow offended at last year's Argyll Gathering and ended up in Perth clink a forgotten man. Weeks past, during which the youngster should have been sprung as an EU citizen; eventually after much lobbying by the great and the good of Argyll Bertie has been freed. The official reason for his extended incarceration? His file was mixed up with someone with a similar name! Hey ho, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Day After Tomorrow Delivery.

2009-08-07T07:14:00.000-07:00

The beginning of August seems to be the watershed of the Scottish Summer, behind us now the long bright, hot days of Glasgow Fair hoi polloi and ahead the shorter days with Atlantic jetstreams firing plenty of low pressure systems at Argyll normally aimed at Spitzbergen. This is not to say we will not still revel in some fabulous days, however for every one of them we will now have to endure two wet and wild ones, as the evenings grow darker and darker. Although this is not too happy a prospect for our euro visitors seeking sun and lofty highland landscapes, it is of cousre pure El Dorado for we poor land sports providers struggling to find fishing and blamming for PGs, for wet weather brings Stags down the hillsides and Salomon up the rivers, so every cloud etc.

I hope you will forgive the long gaps between scribbles however we seem to be constantly on the move, no sooner has Mhairi cooked up a storm with "The Full Scottish" breakfast for our ad hoc guests and yours truly has shaken the previous evenings Ardbeg fumes from the Baronial bonce than we must make our excuses and hare off to visit almost everyone one could possibly think of. Recently we have stayed with one of Scotland's Celeb Chefs to be wined and dined around the Pittenweem Arts Festival although his finely tuned sense of humour fairly wound up old duffers like us, just wait for another ten years my boy and it will be your turn to suffer. We also enjoyed a wonderful visit to Colonsay, one of my favourite destinations. Despite its unbelievable mix of land and seascape I could never live in such an isolated community bedevilled with its demographic problems, however what a wonderful spot to visit. This time the Trollaigh Navy stayed in port and we sensibly caught the ferry for four days of non stop socialising, even the mutts were bemused by late nights, howling force eight gales, driving rain, then suddenly Mediterranean beach barbecues with lots of other hounds to chase and romp with. In days past the laird owned everything and with varying degrees of philanthropy looked after his flock, gradually this has changed so that many of the aforementioned flock own their own patch and view with great jealousy the progress of those who sit on their rights in public housing or dare to build, purchase and enjoy their holiday or retirement homes. One wag who should know better than to side against the blow-ins even penned a ditty lampooning the ability of some to "carpet the byre" referring to the change from a cow pat stiffened agricultural work place, to a space for reading and relaxation, one might argue that this is a significant step forward for conservation and civilisation, perhaps the lyricist would do well to look to his own family byre, bereft of an honest beast for many a year.

Hopefully after a furious blast to Aviemore for a wedding tomorrow things will settle a little and the old maintenance list can come back out of the drawer to facilitate the million chores that remain undone chez Trollaigh. A new definition appeared this week for "next day deliver". After many frustrating phone calls to track down an urgently required spare part dispatched from the home counties, a local carrier finally contacted me to say that the long awaited box would not be delivered by the next day as you or I might infer from the description on the package, but rather on the next day he happened to be passing which will be sometime next week; I suppose there is some logic in there somewhere. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Mosswood City Limits

2009-07-12T06:49:00.001-07:00

Back in the dim dark days of the winter of discontent and "sunny" Jim Callaghan, when the government could never make a decision; it became standard practice to allow any old minority interest group to form a QUANGO directed by a board of nutty professors, inept surgeons and broken bankers, whose task it was to explore the burning issues of the day such as wildflowers or VD. At every parliamentary session we are promised a "bonfire of QUANGOs" although all that seems to happen is that their numbers grow, several hundred at the last count, I believe. The organisation that draws my fire this week is what used to be called MOSS, Ministry of Odd Shaped Stones. This was fairly typical of the genre, a board of nitwits slowly climbing the ladder of gongs and honours whilst doing nothing much apart from chewing through a modest £4million annual budget in dusty offices on the shaded side of Charlotte Square. In fact they were quite popular in Argyll, an odd director would attend the local kirk, a field party or two would put up at our pubs and spread some cash around, and of course it is not just anyone who can spot odd shaped stones, so these coves were treated with a degree of respect.

However, time and tide, old boy; so just when we thought that MOSS was going to fade away, a sparkie young colonial in a short skirt and a push-up bra was dispatched by Porche from Whitehall to sort the poor fools out. Before one could say odd shaped stones fifty time the nitwits were out, the office moved to Ashford, Kent with handy connections to the Bruxcelles express, the budget multiplied by twenty and the desks fairly crammed with thrusting bureaucrats. Of course there was the statutory re-branding and Locality Agency, Stones, Crystals And Rocks (LASCAR) was born. Although we miss the cash I am pleased to say that the new lot have mainly confined themselves to Northamptonshire and Oxford, presumably an easy away day from Kent on expenses, to say nothing of jamming the printing presses with policy and method statements plus glossy brochures of every hue.

The point is that some over-eager rambler spotted an odd shaped stone on the braes of Ben Trolliagh and the twit reported it to LASCAR. The SAS have nothing on LASCAR, with indecent haste helicopters whirled, sirens wailed and the A80's 2,3 and 5 were closed to ensure the safety of what seemed like hundreds of clip boards scouring the wild hills of North Argyll. Despite the assistance of local mountain rescue groups who know these hills like the freckles on their daughter's noses, and hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of equipment and manpower thrown into the search, the odd shaped stone was never identified. I could have told them that at the start as the Great Braes of Ben Trollaigh are composed of zillions of tons of scree, sometimes oddly shaped, however I must lack the necessary PhD as I was never consulted. The only chaps I saw smiling were the Transerve squaddies who made a packet manning the roadblocks 24 hours a day, which kept Argyll cut off at the height of the tourist season for three days whilst this nonsense played out. Unfortunately for the wage packets of all the other public servants, they had to abide by the European Working Time Directive (as whole heartedly supported by LASCAR) limiting their working week to 36 hours and forbidding work after dark or when it rains, on health and safety grounds.

One fellow I met who was not too happy was a large Frenchman of Depardue proportions and great Bonhomie who had had his salmon rod and thousand euro reel lifted from a riverbank by neds. As the law was at full stretch clearing helicopter landing sites of ambulance chasers and journalists whilst placating locals who thought they were at the wheel of the General Lee on the Argyll byways in efforts to get home, all the visitor received was tea, sympathy and some form filling chez Dunoon Constabulary, perhaps a visitor to Scotland we have lost for ever; but let's face it we still have many odd shaped stones so there is hope yet. Only remember never to pick one up unless you have read all the LASCAR advice, sprayed some dayglo paint on it and plotted it's GPS position to four decimal places. Yours Aye. Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Fly Past

2009-07-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

I seem to have put my foot in it as usual; for despite my best intentions I confusingly referred to both Bowling and Tennis clubs in my last scribble and may also unwittingly have shown a hint of insincerity in my apologies. I have edited my last twaddle to omit any offensive references which may effect the meaning of some passages, and I wish to make clear my support for The All England Lawn Tennis Club.

All this bad luck is proof, if proof were needed that one should never knock a Vicar off his or her bike, or indeed a Priest, Rabbi or Mullah for that matter. It was all a genuine mistake in the first place as no religious figure has cycled uninvited, the miles to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for may a year and so dearest Dottie was not expecting the dog collared body to somersault over Otto's bonnet while her attention was focused on inserting a Runrig CD in the silly little slot thingy in the dashboard, a simple error compounded by crunching the parish's rusty and trusty four speed Pashley Rural Special under Otto's fat rear tyres. Naturally assistance was quickly on the spot and the Rev was carried hot foot to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for first aid and a substantial restorative. It goes without saying that God's Representative left in Tanya's Taxi clutching a cheque which more than covered the indignity of any loss or injury. The rev has of course made the most of our embarrassment by inviting us onto every bally committee in the county and suggesting every batty scheme that might require our support. Normally one would chew on the old mustachios until the dust settled, however last Sunday's sermon linking the first three steps of the AA pledge to God's Grace whilst engaging yours truly in a holy stare was a bit thick.

Meanwhile a summer heatwave moves the Vin Rouge into the fridge and Mhairi complains vigorously about the steamy conditions in the kitchen, suggesting for the first time ever that her beloved kitchen range be switched off for the duration. I escape to the Scottish Game Fair for a few essential sporting purchases, and sip a cool glass of bubbles at the Adam & Co hospitality marquee, where it is good to see the the tax payer's bank bale out wonga being put to good use. A friend says how wonderful it is to see so many dogs at a show, now unheard of in his PC corner of the Commonwealth, moments before he is whirled away in a melee of snapping, snarling mongrels whose owners shout loudly and dodge flailing leashes. So all in all life is pretty good. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Bearded Bowlers

2009-06-27T00:39:00.000-07:00

I was somewhat taken aback when idly flipping through the hundreds of hopeless channels available on the old 46 inch Plasma, to see some shots of a Scottish Bowling Federation championship. For years I have believed SBF members to be chaps with a proper sense of neatness and authority, blazered, flannelled and clean shaven. Imagine my surprise to see the men as Steve Irwin look-a-likes and the ladies in racy white summer frocks, worst of all beards were very much in evidence. What has happened to this pillar Scottish urban and village life, what next, coloured balls?

The old Governor used to claim that the summer started with Wimbledon and the silly season started with the release of rusticated Oxbridge undergraduates and the recess of The House of Lords, and he should have known as he was very familiar with the former! However it is true that Glen Trollaigh only seems enter the Bog Myrtle scented, Cleg slapping, dog days of summer well after the Solstice and the nights are fair drawing in. This year the poor chaps at the All England Lawn Tennis Club must be in a bit of a spin after spending zillions over several years to fit Centre Court with a tin top, to have seen nary a drop of rain. However the Old Man was a bit off the mark with the silly season which seems to start earlier and earlier with the passing of each year, mainly fueled by charity runs featuring men with underpants on their heads and girls with bras on the outside of their clothing, all very commendable but about on a par with people throwing themselves of large hills on mountain bikes, another manifestation of the silly season if ever there was one.

Talking of underpants, the boundless lunacy of "irresponsible campers," as we now must respectfully call the lads and ladettes who spoil the peace of Glen Trollaigh and recklessly leave piles of poo for the unwary land manager to stand on, now includes tearing off all one's clothes while shouting at the top of one's voice and trying to throw the empty 40 oncer further than your buddies. I am not sure what they wear to get home, or even if they have a home to go to, for the cast apparel is discarded at the campsite along with all the other rubbish. If it were brightly coloured scanties one might be a bit more sympathetic, however it has fallen to me to liberate three pairs of ghastly boxers and two pairs of jeans from the riverbank over the past days, while innocently searching for a fish. Still one can be secure in the knowledge that China will churn out millions of replacement garments in the time it takes yours truly to scribble this nonsense. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

PS. The blog police at GHQ have shopped me to the All England Lawn Tennis Club and I have been asked to withdraw all comments about the new Centre Court roof and point out that it has in fact been put to good use. All-be-it to force Andy Murray to play on till midnight in an attempt to exhaust him whilst sticking to the new rule book. I am very pleased to say that this conspiracy did not dent young Murray's splendid efforts and he has played to his seed level. One can almost hear the howls from the treasurer's office as he or indeed she signs off the largest prize winnings ever won by a Brit, to a Scotsman! A.T.

Cats don't poop

2009-06-15T10:06:00.000-07:00

Thunder and heavy showers sweep from the north giving a more chilly feel than the 18C suggests,at least the breeze halts the progress of those bally midgies that have been making outside work fairly miserable. Unfortunately outside work is high on the agenda with everything from window painting, grass cutting and large scale gardening high on the priority lists, leaving little time to pursue more important matters such as the globalisation of "Troll Treats" our new pet food empire. The original name of "Archie Trollaigh Treats" has been changed to mollify our French partners to whom AT&T means something totally different, some sort of continental disease I believe. However having a few frogs on the board does prove helpful on some occasions such as choosing new cars for senior executives. My gallic opposite number Francoise de Trollee, some very distant cousin, immediately started wittering on about "le scrappage" which I had thought was a rather strict affair to encourage the hoi polloi to trade in their rusty Cavaliers and Mondeos for battery pedal cars. However this is not the case in La Belle France. One ships a couple of untaxed old bangers sans the MOT certificate on the back of a lorry across La Manche, bribe a Prefect or two who will provide the required paperwork then trade them for €6000 each with their UK number plates torn off, against a nice new Merc, Onion Johnnie is naturally even more enthusiastic if it is a new Renault or Citroen and indeed their new cars are much less expensive on the far side of The Channel in the first place. One then ships one's new ride back to Blighty on the back the same said truck, all very dodgy, but I like it.

Dearest Dottie lets slip the news that the sprogs are in a bit of trouble, in fact they may have brought the odd bolt of lightning around the ancient ears. Both offspring have been aboard the European gravy train of the Reducing Unnecessary Grass Care Carbon Emissions Trials (RUGCCET) for some years and it appears that as well as their generous salaries in Bruxelles, the London allowance and the daily living allowance which is more than enough to eat one's self to death in good Belgian hostelries, the sillies have been claiming "second mower allowance" on four state of the art Toro triple gang mowers supposedly housed and used for research here at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh. Regrettably the minxes are well practiced in the forging of yours truly's signature, taught same by some beastly bearded art teacher at school. So it goes without saying that your friendly Baron is up to his neck in fraud and forged paperwork. We quake as we await the arrival of the Euro Fraud Squad who will find nothing more than a couple of elderly Honda strimmers and an Atco LawnMaster circa 1950 all held together with bailer twine, and not a research project in sight.

I am happy to report that as warmer weather spills into Glen Trollaigh, the threat of a euro fraud purge recedes as those delightful daughters did allow me one toe on the bottom rung of the gravy train when their RUGCCET lot produced a lengthy work on domestic animal defecation and its effect on grass cutting. Apparently the euro grass commissioner did not fancy the use of the word defecation and I was offered a substantial incentive, nicely tied in with Troll Treats, to come up with an alternative. It's pretty obvious really: POOP. Imagine my surprise when a terse note shot back from RUGCCET terminating my contract, as every sensible person apparently knows that cats don't poop. Hey Ho, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Free Lunches.

2009-06-13T01:51:00.000-07:00

Back home at last in dear old Glen Trollaigh, and apart from missing the on set of swine flu not much seems to have changed. The Tower of Glen Trollaigh has been looking magnificent in the May sunshine, some three weeks without a drop of rain. The last few years have given us a bonus spring in April/May, this year it seems cooler, shorter and later. However the great garden designer's Azalea bank is looking absolutely fabulous and our proper English Bluebells carpet the ground under Pinus Sylvestris. Although the soil was not warm enough for potato planting and veggie sowing until the end of the first week in June, some three weeks later than 2008, even now we still have a risk of ground frosts in the North Argyll Glens.

Extra locks and security cameras have kept ad hoc guests out of the more important areas of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh such as the wine cellar and my library during our absence. However, Lachie and Mhairi have complained about a fairly steady stream of visitors banging on the Great Door of Trollaigh on some weak excuse or another and blagging a night or two's free board and free fishing. Well my friends you know who you are and expect a frostie reception when next you call, despite your pathetic use of false names in the visitors book, because most of you were caught on the CCTV sniffing around the cellar door.

Herbert "Useless" Trollaigh MEP was actually in residence on our return despite Mhairi's pointed suggestion that he should clear off. Herbert is one of the twenty odd UK MEPs who have chosen to retire at this month's European Elections before they get thrown out for signing into the Parliament every day to collect their £175 daily living allowance, then promptly buggering off to the yacht. The idiot spent all day on his i-phone negotiating a two year salary in advance severance package and then hysterical calls to his colleagues arguing how they could possibly split up the £10 million additional pension pot that they have managed to grovel for. Hell mend them say I. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Yellow Wellies

2009-05-29T23:42:00.000-07:00

Refreshed by a few days of Hedonism dearest Dottie and I settle up the bar bill and catch the free golf buggy ride from the Beach Club to Hamilton Island Marina for the last major blast of our visit to the southern hemisphere. Here we join our fifty foot charter yacht to spend a week cruising the Whitsundays. There is a bit of a tale about the boat as dearest Dottie is unwilling to let just the two of us loose on anything much bigger than thirty nine feet for safety reasons, however only the fifty footer was available. DD constantly gave the monster suspicious glances whilst I was forced to emulate that prat M Winner on telly, the one who endorses e-sure and witter "calm down dear its only thirty nine feet". We had been warned that the northern part of the islands could be crowded as they are within easy striking distance of mainland Queensland for day trippers, divers and fishermen etc, so we head south to visit Shaw Island and Thomas Island which we had more or less to ourselves apart from swarms of mossies when we made the mistake of anchoring too close to a mangrove swamp. After the initial adrenalin rush of joining ship, provisioning at staggering prices and setting sail (venturing too close to the airstrip and upsetting a light aircraft on final approach with our rather tall rig), we had a fabulous time, it was windy however we were surrounded by blue seas and skies with huge turtles and manta rays for company, with the added joy of navigating to new anchorages in spectacular sunsets with the independence of our own vessel. It was inevitable that one must adopt a Master and Commander roll but we rubbed along pretty well, eating lightly and sleeping under the stars in the commodious cockpit.

After a few days we returned to Hamilton Island to ship two guests aboard for the rest of our voyage, we took the chance to moan to the owner of our rather tired charter yacht, who was able with a cheery disposition to sort out some bits and bobs that were particularly knackered. This time when we slipped the berth we did head north to lovely anchorages, bays, reefs and sand bars. We had to abandon our plan to sail around the north end of the islands because of strong winds and adverse currents thereby missing the famous photo opportunity of Whitehaven Beach, however as I understand that one has to queue up to anchor there, I was not too disappointed. So with the comfort of our three double en-suite cabins (one holding tank blocked) and four showers, we turned into the wind for a fairly long haul back to the southern islands where we spent an idyllic day or two emptying the freezer of wine and beer and the tanks of 1000 litres of fresh water. We finally shot back to Hamilton Island on a fresh reach past Pentecost Island and its dramatic "Indian Head". From there it was but another free golf buggy ride to the Brizze Boeing and our hols were over bar a final day or so with family on the range.

What was there not to like about the antipodes? Well it takes a man even more foolish than I to think that our holiday trip was a true reflection of life in Oz, however the cost of living and the friendliness of one and all including anyone who serves you anywhere makes it hardly surprising that the Brizvegas city fathers are planning for an extra half a million inhabitants over the next few years, why would any sensible soul not thoroughly enjoy this cosmopolitan city with glorious lifestyle opportunities surrounding it. Our return by Emirates flying carpet took a worthy 27 hours from check-in at the sumptuous Brizzie Business Lounge to banging on the Great Door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh in the early hours. Could we follow the increasing number of wrinklies who spend a month or two of northern hemisphere winter on the Great Dividing Range within a fart of Point Cartwright and the restaurants of Mooloolaba? Watch this space! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

It's not the leaving of Liverpool.

2009-05-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

Image, if you will, an Orwellian mini state controlled by Big Brother set on an tropical Island Paradise that you might easily get use to visiting, and you have a pretty good picture of Hamilton Island in the Whitsunday group, the only reason the isle is not completely overrun by holiday makers is that it is extremely and I mean by any standards, extremely expensive, this spot was our next Queensland destination. Most of the Whitsundays are a national park with a lot of rules and regs and uninhabited apart from a couple of resort areas such as Hamilton. At some stage a group of wealthy chaps formed Hamilton Island Enterprises and started to spend zillions on five square miles of rain forest and rock, an hour's high speed boat trip from the Great Barrier Reef. Their shopping list was much the same as yours or mine might be, an airport, a marina and harbour, a high street with stores, pubs and restaurants, a few kilometers of sandy beach, apartment buildings, a 300 bedroom hotel and other luxurious accommodation including digs at £1200 per bonce per day (alcoholic drinks extra) and HIE own everything. The whole thing is controlled by central computers so that the Island's private security force knows when you have bought a sandwich in the harbour side bakery (£8) and charged it to your room. It all came as a little bit of a culture shock as we jetted in from Brissie some 400 miles to the south, while dearest Dottie oohed and aahed at the spectacular tropical scenery I kept my eyes firmly shut as there was quite definitely nowhere to land a 737 that I could see. The free golf buggy ride from the airport (staff collect your bags and bring them along later) alerted us to the potentially budget blending two night stay we had planned for R&R after the rigours of our trip so far. Dearest Dottie had selected the Beach Club for B&B, and I must say that it was hard to fault with a bed large enough for three, loo to match and a veranda that opened straight onto Catseye Beach, with an excellent restaurant, the ubiquitous infinity pool and lots of staff of cheery if fairly clueless dispositions. The only gripe was that our visit co-insided with a regular re-grading of the beach by earth movers, it took three complaints to get past the smiling receptionists (desk outside under the palm trees) to find a manager who moved the diggers from in front of our £300 per day patio; they were even daft enough to pull out the old "Health and Safety" excuse, which was frankly pretty patronising. Having not come across the control police anywhere else in Australia it was unsettling, however after the first 12 hours we began to relax a go with the flow, time for sunbathing which was the whole point of the visit.

So will we ever return? Strangely we might although fairly unlikely in real Trollaigh terms. We saw a lot of overseas designer visitors, so HIE marketing must be good and there is simply piles to do to keep you, or your family from falling asleep under the palms. Weddings are very big business, although I can think thousands of more interesting spots at home, and beach weddings in the Seychelles etc. are a bit of a bore. However, everyone to their own. For yachty buffs one of the Hamilton Island owners eventually managed to pour enough cash at a boat to win the Sydney Hobart in 2005, "Wild Oats", so these guys are determined to succeed and with a new yacht club and apartments (start at £1.5 million) and a whole neighbouring island, Dent Island, about to be turned into a new golf resort, who is to say they are wrong, certain not yours truly. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

West of the Woop Woop

2009-05-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

Whilst navigating to Brisvegas airport I switched on the wireless hoping for traffic reports in this busy city, it was a little like standing in a noisy wind tunnel and although there were traffic reports I could not understand the simplest piece of advice because of the speed of delivery and what we would consider the quaint practice of doing the whole item from inside a helicopter. I did hear a lot of rapid fire adverts extolling the virtues of sanitary fittings and floor coverings, it is good to know that such things are readily available in the city when they are a little thin on the ground west of the Woop Woop.

Having fought my way to the airport and booked into Europ Car I was sent off to a lonely car park joined by other lost wanderers on a similar mission, to find our hire car. Oh dear, the car hailed from some far corner of the Pacific rim, I have never heard of the manufacturer or the bland model type, to cap it all it was painted silver with a back seat that must have been the site of some historical biological event, perhaps perpetrated by a small child on a long journey (the car did have New South Wales plates) or someone older after overindulging at a boozy barbecue. When underway I was surprised to find a "low" setting on the automatic gear selector, however its purpose was quickly discovered when approaching the first hill of our journey west, then as the slight gradient increased one also had to switch off the air conditioning to have any hope of reaching the top of the modest brae.

However let us not be too scathing about the ghastly imported motor, as I am pleased to say that it was not Australian and the poor wee thing did manage to carry us to the home of good friends that we have not seen for several years. We had a splendid few days in the glorious farm lands west of the Great Dividing Range where one watches carefully what one steps on and red wine is kept in the fridge. Fortunately the fridge door was opened on a regular basis to release a steady flow of excellent vino and purvey to die for. We were feted around the countryside like royalty and only put to shame by our Bridge skills which were not a patch on the locals. Tree-huggers are a bit scornful of large scale farming in this part of Queensland also home to vast open cast mining operations, however I was most impressed when one of our hosts let slip that he had paid three million for a new irrigation dam, he was particularly proud of the fact that it was large enough to water ski on, however he did admit that it had remained more or less empty since he had built it! Eat your heart out SEPA.

Having found a way of opening the boot of the hire car, sadly the day dawned when we have to head east again, leaving our chums behind, when will we see them again? At least our next leg of the journey was mostly downhill and we could leave the air conditioning on as we headed back towards Brissie, dodging the ever vigilant traffic cops. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Ice With That, Sir?

2009-05-13T23:38:00.000-07:00

Here in the Antipodes as the sun shines and the temperature holds a steady Queensland autumn 23C,national confidence can be measured by learned Australian reports showing that the Antarctic ice is growing and thickening, good news all round. On the other hand the whinging poms take gloomy pleasure in announcing yet another failed, gender balanced expedition costing zillions to put some Cavalry Officer of dubious pedigree on the Arctic ice; the blighter then uses a tool first designed by Shackleton to forecast the onset of doomsday, before being airlifted to safety because his loo seat is broken and they have run out of tampons. Hey chaps, its the northern hemisphere spring any first former can tell you that the ice is melting.

I don't know about you chaps but I am having a bit of a problem with reading matter, it seems eons since I bothered too much about anything other than a few pages at bedtime. Suddenly here in the outback with the old Baronial bottom gently moulding into a veranda deck-chair I am faced with a pile of tomes to wile away the balmy hours before the sun is over the yard arm. I seem to be unable to get my teeth into any serious literature and the 500 page popular sagas bore me shitless. No wonder the elderly prefer a diet of Tatler and The Field, jolly good stuff. One blessing of living on the edge of the rain forest is; No Telly, simply wonderful.

Family weddings can be a bit of a mixed blessing, there are often those Rellies best avoided, however on the other hand there is normally a whole new family of in-laws to be met for the first time, and here in Australia where the baby boomers have created the "blended family" of divorce and re-marriage, one must be doubly cautious if one is naturally gregarious. Hardly a day or two into our jet-lag and dearest Dottie and I are torn from the deck-chairs and whisked off to a delightful kirk on the ranges west of Brisbane to attend the nuptials of a niece. I have prepared a tropical version of the highland kit with kilt, open necked shirt, long socks and deck shoes silently raising a silent prayer in the heat to the Trollaigh commando tradition. Dearest Dottie is simply fabulous in the infamous pink Von Furstenburg wrap with a large straw hat. Because of the risk of loss during air travel the bank would not release some of the classier Trollaigh Trinkets, and in retrospect they would have been a bit OT, certainly apart from the bride not a tiara was to be seen. The service was to be "non religious" however with all the old hippies belting through "Morning Has Broken" and lots of traditional Bridal aires, the whole affair fairly oozed all encompassing joy and celebration. In the super weather it was a pleasure to stand outside and chat while the team photos were snapped, then onward to a relaxed reception at a restaurant whose open veranda gave a view from the Range over the Glasshouse mountains to the ocean some 40K to the east, very special. One simply cannot go wrong with food and drink here as the locals sensibly keep the very best (labelled export quality) for themselves before shipping what is left to Mr Tesco. Wines, meat, seafood, fruit and vegetables are outstanding in quality and value. Cook your own or try any chip shop on the Gold Coast to appreciate what we idiots are prepared to accept back home.

Hardly a day to recover and I blag a lift to Brisbane to hire a car to carry dearest Dottie and I further westward onto the next stage of our hols. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Laugh Kookaburra, Laugh.

2009-05-02T22:20:00.000-07:00

A long trip to the outback "Down Under" has hopelessly interfered with my new found skills in cyber communications. Outwith any city limit mobiles fail and wireless t'internet can only be dreamed of if one is prepared to offer some obviously already rich squatter a small fortune in dollars for a moment or two's connectivity. I was not expecting this as I had erroneously assumed that Australia would be a veritable hot bed of new technology, and so it may be in the garish urban sprawls more akin to middle America than Dear Old Blighty. However here beyond the Woop Woop I am delighted to say that you might as well throw your laptop away and enjoy good company, good food and good drink that cost at least 50% less than those endured by you whinging poms. Imagine if you will the old Baron, tweeds and Borsilino cast aside for shorts and Hawaiian shirts, relaxing on the station house veranda, "a cold one" in hand chatting away to loads of Aussie Trollaighs not seen for thirty years, his only worry being the chilling evening air as the mercury falls below 30C when a woolly top will be required!

Dearest Dottie and I travelled half way round the globe, to attend a family wedding and then to make the easy decision to warm the old bones for a few weeks longer. Those of you who know me will realise that I avoid air travel like the plague, however for this voyage we blew the budget throwing ourselves on the mercy of Emirate Airlines Business Class for the whole 14,000 miles. These chaps swept us from the doors of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh to Glasgow Airport in a gleaming limo, this was all good stuff although our wait in Glasgow's "business class" lounge was a fairly third world affair. Unfortunately one of the chairs booked on our flight to Dubai was broken, meaning a relocation to the centre aisle were I had to endure sitting next to a young American executive who binged on free Champagne for seven hours only to collapse shortly before landing. One imagines that being helped pissed as a fart through immigration into a Muslim country does not go down too well with your average Arab official. We on the other hand secured the services of a gregarious Indian cabbie to show us the sights of Dubai and as dawn rose we marvelled at the development and the buildings of this modern city in a state which cleverly closed the taps on their oil reserves in favour of creating an international financial centre, with the oil to fall back on if the going gets tough. A most impressive place although to be honest not somewhere on our vacation wish list.

Back at the spectacular Dubai terminal 3, we had time to relax in a lounge facility that knocked dear old Glasgow for six or more accurately sixty six, then it was off for 14 hours to Brisbane now known not unreasonably as Brisvegas by the locals. Smart frequent fliers head for Sydney with an internal hop north to Brissie as the busier route boasts more modern aircraft, however we certainly could not complain about the comfort and service we received. Thankfully no drunken Americans, although I would not recommend trying to watch three different movies on one flight, the plots become hopelessly mixed up in the minds of the elderly. Another dawn landing, this time to be met by family and whisked off to the edge of the tropical rainforest with hardly time to get the Raybans on, feel the rush of the warmth, the humidity and hear the Kookaburras laugh for the first time in twenty seven years. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Thoughts In The Monthly Bath

2009-04-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

Ah well, it's Easter and whilst you, gentle readers rejoice in a religious festival of your choice I regret that those of us who dwell in the furthest reaches of the north Argyll glens stir uneasily in the knowledge that hoards of the great unwashed will descend upon us to defecate in our ditches, cut down our trees and scatter their compound litter on every highway and byway. The problem gets worse each year and although we can easily withstand a day or two of discomforting hallooing (loud shouting being the latest, presumably chemical induced craze) at any time of day or night, booming drum and base trimmed with reeking bonfire smoke, the galling fact remains that whilst we, who have bought and paid for our miserable acreage and are bound on every side by miles of red tape and restrictions, then must watch the hoi polloi make free with our land in anyway they wish without the slightest pressure from the self same authorities who hound us. To be fair an effort has been made in the Loch Lomond National Park to weed out the worst culprits at god knows what cost, however this great effort has only moved the problem into our backyard where our nonexistent resources cannot possibly cope, still out of sight out of mind as they say. Personally I blame the lack influence from Baden-Powell figures, who along with the poor old parish priest have been replaced in the home by gigantic tellies belching out complete rubbish to fertilise the barren brains of our youth.

Still one must not carp too much, as I see the Forsythia and primroses are at their very brightest yellow, despite continued negative cash flow I have manged to purchase a toy or two, and to cap it all a pair of Swallows are inspecting the shed with a keenness that suggests they must have been here before, surely the earliest arrivals I can remember. I am busy preparing a proposal to SNH to back a bid to reintroduce three extinct mouse species under their "re-wilding" programme as I am very pleased to report that our new mouse flavoured doggie biscuits are going down a storm , although our moggies are looking a bit on the thin side as we trap every beast we can for the flavour gravy.I can even see a whole new career in mouse breeding and production, even mouse farming opening up before me. This is of course bizarre as I have spent a lifetime trying to exterminate the blighters; excellent.

As part of my Christmas reading list I have just finished "A View From The North Lochs" a compilation of Aimsir Eachainn's most wonderful columns from the West Highland Free Press of the 1980's. I challenge anyone not roll about in tears of laughter at his 1st July, 1988 "Things To Do In Bed". In fact I am considering forcing relatives to read the article as a sense of humour test, only those who hoot and guffaw will be invited back. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

A Slip Twix Cup And Hip

2009-04-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

During a spell of our now regular communication technical problems the weather cleared to allow me to check the levels of our 120 sqm polytunnel site, you will not be surprised to learn that there were certain discrepancies in my original calculations requiring the summoning of heavy equipment to rectify the problems. However I can report that after three expensive days of digger hire and much professional sucking of teeth we poured the concrete founds before the Atlantic low pressure systems swept in on Glen Trollaigh. We are going to leave the tunnel frame until May as the manufacturers recommend that the plastic cover is stretched in mild, windless conditions otherwise the whole bally thing will lift off like a zeppelin. The Atlantic weather also ushered in British Summer Time to the lonely glens of north Argyll, as the years pass this becomes more and more akin to jet lag pour moi, taking several days of shouting at dogs, who unreasonably want to pee at 6.00am to get back some level of time equilibrium. Why can't they just leave it at Greenwich Mean Time all year? Of course the Frogs now insist we call GMT Universal Time Constant to which our spineless government agree, the same bunch who now require me to display a SEPA certificate in the bog to advise guests that The Tower of Glentrollaigh have a registered effluent system in case they would rather not ease themselves in an unregistered loo. Life is too short to get carried away with all this nonsense, however where is it leading us as a nation? Perhaps we should indeed learn from our European neighbours who when challenged on the soundness of their decision to wholehearted embrace nuclear power generation; opposed by their populace the politicos responded that one "does not consult the frogs (sic) when one drains the swap". If only our lot had as much gumption.

With dearest Dottie hors de combant following a Scottish Country Dancing injury inflicted during a lively Strip The Willow on the marble flags of Kelvingrove Art Gallery, whilst enjoying a glass or two of bubbly at a spiffing reception; a long suffering Mhairi is now meeting my demanding standards of innovative dog biscuit design and product development. There seems to be a bit of directorial politics at board level; my recent offering of alphabet biccies that ticked all the boxes of nutrition and packaging "slump" were roundly rejected on the grounds that doggies would be offended by words such as "bitch" or "poop" appearing at random in their din dins. However lots more paid work for yours truly, even if they are all barking and the world has gone mad! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

M

It's Mull Jim, But Not As We Know It!

2009-03-22T10:33:00.000-07:00

Many thanks for messages about Mull and birthdays, particularly to my new Mull Mole he or she has sprung to the defence of the Mull Constabulary who apparently have the added burden not only of looking after Sea Eagles but also road traffic offences. The mainland traffic boys only make infrequent visits to frighten the locals as their delicate high speed pursuit cars cannot cope with Mull's notoriously poor roads. So one should not be too surprised at being collared for double parking outside HRH Prince Charles's favourite chip wagon on the fisherman's pier, or for J walking across Main Street, Tobermory on a wet winter Wednesday by a PC trying to stretch his resources over 200 square miles. I suppose I must have been a bit miffed having just filled the coffers of Calmac and various Mull traders with sums substantially greater than my entire Florence budget, a city that certainly would not bother with a risqué number plate or virtually any other alleged misdemeanour for that matter.

Now that holidays are over it is back to mainland Argyll where snowdrops are fading and daffodils are storming ahead, primroses peep, song birds sing and even a few pigeons haunt the riverside trees. There is a definite feeling of change in the air although any Argyll or Glen Coe hand knows that we can still suffer from winter weather and as I speak the forecasters warn of doom, gloom and snow that will cover the high ground, just when I am keen to pour a few cubes of concrete. C'est la vie! There is however some good news on the employment front, I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that all us country folk are skidding reluctantly into areas of low cash flow that we previously had discounted as unheard of. The naked truth is that we urgently require income to swan on through the coming year, particularly at this point in the critical couple of weeks before Easter. Both dearest Dottie and I have applied for various mundane posts, however in my case my cv and in both of our cases, our date of births have rendered us well nigh unemployable. Even employers normally desperate for manpower to feed the inmates of fish farms or to escort coachloads of silver-back tourists to the attractions of the highlands most easily accessible by wheelchair have turned me down. My personal favourite, an application for the post of a Crinan Canal lock keeper was not even graced with the dignity of an interview with British Waterways. However, good news, I have been approached by a leading dog food manufacturer to research and develop a system to facilitate the equal distribution of the different shapes and flavours of doggie treats within the box of biccies readily available on a supermarket shelf near you. This is a great honour and extremely well paid and one would assume that this complicated matter will take quite a time to resolve, even to an expert in portion control such as myself. This certainly brings back a little confidence to the balance of payments, now where is that flyer from Majestic Wines? All the very best, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.