Monday, November 10, 2008

When Kylie Met Nehru

11/10/2008

Some PhD boffin has been explaining to me that the meteorological conditions during both the Argyll seasons of spring and autumn are now so similar that this can cause flowers to bloom in October, birds that fail to migrate, and indeed I am still flicking ticks off the hounds in November. I am told that this is all thanks of course to our irresponsible allowing cows to fart too often, not forgetting the Argyll rich racing around in their Ferraris at every opportunity. This over dependence on climate change theory has of course conveniently covered the tracks of the true culprits, seals. The population explosion of these sea rats has been encouraged by the bearded ones solely on the basis that smelly seals are actually fluffy and friendly, wrong on both counts. The fact is that bloody seals are swallowing up our entire crop of sand eels thereby forcing millions of wonderful seabirds to starve. Cull seals I say, and bring back the proper marine balance. And while you are at it, hold back on all this re-wilding twaddle, why kidnap hundreds of innocent Norwegian Sea Eagles and Red Kite, when over the years only a very few sorry specimens survive for more than a couple of miserable seasons allowing spotty anoraks to ooh and ahh. Just wait until these avian nasties start carrying off the anorak’s pet moggy in Cheshire, rather than some impoverished Mull crofter’s lambs, to see the true colour of conservationists. All this waffle has been prompted by our survival of a ghastly autumn, full of rain, hail and flood, which at long last has given way to a crisp frosty week with bright, low sunshine and starry nights aplenty.

Needless to say, yours truly missed most of the good weather being cooped up in a classroom whilst my yachtie skipper’s ticket was being “re-evaluated”. The modern world dictates that some youngster must pour over the details of my modest seafaring years, including I might add navigating His Majesty’s Frigate on the Yangtze Chiang under cover of darkness, to check whether or not one should be let lose on a yacht between Oban and Tobermory. Much of this nonsense I have to admit, I bring upon myself by publishing this diary, and bringing myself to the attention of the authorities. Better to circumnavigate the globe in a bathtub unnoticed and uncertificated than try and play by the rules. The good news is that the old fellow’s log now has the required stamps, with dearest Dottie also making the grade although there seemed to be a little too much giggling and gender bias for my liking.

My sister Alice and the twins stay on at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh bringing a pleasant breath of fresh air to the old adobe hacienda, they have fairly put their shoulders to the relentless wheel of estate management with either paint brush in hand or absent mindedly scuffing gum boots through piles of leaves whilst exercising the mutts. Alice insisted on reviving the Glen Trollaigh Halloween knees up, which went do very well with the locals. Dearest Dottie and I appeared; to I felt unnecessary amounts of laughter, as the Viceroy of India and his lady, whilst Alice was an alarmingly life like Eva Braun. One twin sported a complete suit of armour “borrowed” from Inveraray Castle, whilst twin number two appeared as Sir Winston Churchill with the added flourish of a live swan under her arm, whose head and neck popped out of “Winston’s” flies, fairly spitting and twisting. Unfortunately it turned out that our Pandit Nehru look-alike was some nabob in the Argyll RSPCA who flew into a huge rage and threatened to spoil the party. Alice quickly summoned a Belgian Footman who swore on his sainted mother’s grave to immediately return the swan unharmed to Oban bay, from whence it came, The Tower of Glen Trollaigh telephone system seemed to crash so that no outgoing calls could be made to the authorities, and Pandit surprisingly won the raffle (miserable bugger had not even bought any tickets) with its generous first prize of a week’s fishing on the River Trollaigh. Superwoman (Mhairi) produced superb bites for the hundred odd guests and as usual the Trollaigh cellars took a pounding, the whole thing was a great success full marks to Alice, and personally, strictly between you and I, I thought that the swan thing was a complete hoot; should really have gained the prize for the “Best Dressed” which surprising went to Mrs Pandit as slightly saggy Kylie. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

Monday, October 27, 2008

Living Next Door To Alice

10/27/2008

It is a strange thing that in the midst of great events small details stick in the mind, the colour of Jackie’s gloves at the grassy knoll, a discarded toy at a divisive family Christmas long ago; perhaps even the butterfly on a police cell window following an unwarranted arrest at Twickenham. And so as the world economy crumbles, the rich image of crimson on the turning cherry leaves impaled upon stilettos of the twin sculptures in high heels sticks in my noggin, all four heels support taught slender pins standing before the Great Door of Trollaigh opened by Mhairi answering a persistent rap, a deluge scent of burnt sugar pouring from the Great Cercidiphyllum of Trollaigh fills the air.

The arrival of the four slim pins herald the anticipated, however unexpected arrival of my sister Alice, whom I have not seen since the sixties. In 1968 the kaftaned sibling hurled cobble stones at the CRS in gay Paris when a ricochet caught the Count Aix en Cachones et Chateaux Neuf du Pape a glancing blow on the napper, the rest as they say is history. The Countess Alice now seems to leave the poor old Count to his assorted chateaux and lives with some style on the left bank, the four sprightly pins belonging to her striking twin daughters, my nieces, Vaga and Bond.

The Count’s four black Citroen DS form a suitable backdrop to the matching Bill Gibb suits that adorn the nieces, as burly Belgian footmen emerge to help the weakly waving countess from the back seat of number two car, whilst numbers three and four cars appear to support nothing but Louis Vuitton trunks. Our household are seldom fazed by such ostentatious arrivals and so we embrace our guests; although Mhairi’s eager attack on the burly Belgians seems a little over enthusiastic. Dearest Dottie has Alice swiftly at ease in my mother’s south facing quarters and the burley Belgians despatched to an Oban B&B. Whilst the heating and water boilers are fired up I retreat to the library where, after several days of unbelievable sloshing rain I enjoy a splendid view of the blazing red sunset behind sharp western peaks, supersized Hendricks in hand. Vaga and Bond have taken over the drawing room above and I hear Lachie being seduced into springing a bottle of my best Pouilly Fume for our feline guests, who have already spotted the Wii, I suspect the first of many pin point attacks on my precious cellar. Later dinner is a slightly stilted affair despite the comfort of the roaring dinning room fire and a particularly special menu of venison filet with three home grown veggies, potatoes, green beans and root artichokes, followed by orchard apple crumble. After coffee the oldies retire and as I drift off with dearest Dottie’s succulent tootsies warming in the small of my back, even I can clearly hear the distant screams of laughter from Mhairi, Lachie, Vaga and Bond deep in a needle Wii tennis match, as I suspect my 1952 Remy has been broached. After the garden artichokes one can only hope that a duvet lifting fart or two may be mistaken for the distant roaring of a randy stag. Here’s hoping! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.