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Salted Seagulls

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

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

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.

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.

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

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