Saturday, April 26, 2008

Courage, Confidence and Coconut.

04/26/2008

Dearest Dottie has always given her various motor cars names; these have ranged from the obvious “Van Morrison” to the obscure “Poop”. Therefore it was no surprise that when I returned home with a sturdy German gentleman’s carriage that the poor beast was immediately dubbed “Otto”. Not withstanding the name, I am pleased with my purchase which is exactly the sort of mobile drawing room that I have been looking for; however every control is unfathomable, although thankfully some wizard electronics have set most things to automatic. Locals have not agreed with dearest Dottie’s nomenclature and rather unfairly refer to this honest bodile as “Grandad’s Car”. Otto transported us around during our recent visit to Dorset were we visited the St Edward’s arm of the clan Trollaigh, their surname stemming from their claim to be direct descendants of Edward the Martyr. This is a little unlikely as the poor cove was bumped on the head by some fond relative before his reproductive performance could have been tested. It was good to reacquaint oneself with the aged relatives though some of them were frankly barking including the Capo St Edward who whilst touring the Dorset tourist spots including the immodest Cerne Giant, continually interrupted his i-audio guide with a sharp “Tell that chap to shut up”.  Part of the plot was to visit some highly recommended pubs. We were not disappointed with the excellent Lord Poulett at Hinton St George where, to our routine enquiry as to whether the Scallops were dredged or hand caught by divers; the kitchen promptly replied that the molluscs had been mechanically dredged, as it was too cold for the diver! Another pub ticked off the list was the Square and Compass at Langton Matravers, said to have been in the same family for many generations, altogether a much rougher spot with bags of atmosphere and a fine range of Ciders.

On the subject of food and drink I have received a batch of American Girl Scout cookies that are sold as fund raisers in the US. One must suppose that the cookies were baked by the girls themselves or at the very least by a supportive mom and hopefully a cent or two finds its way back into the scouting movement. Scouting in North Argyll has fallen on hard times, so I was particularly pleased to see the images of enthusiasm and flag waving on the cookie packets along with the excellent stirring motto: Courage, Confidence, and Character.

Here in Glen Trollaigh milder, damp weather is with us and two House Martins have arrived, at least ten days later than last year. Cuckoos call and weeds push up as the snow starts to recede on the tops, all up to remind us that lazy winter days are behind us and a few urgent hours must be spent each day in the garden to tame nature’s unruliness. Doubtless the diesels will roar in command to some master plan of the Great Garden designer whom I watch from the library window as she strides across the policies with notebook and pencil. Upon checking last year’s diary I note that I was in my shorts at this time, just before the rain started which did not stop until one weekend in October. Let us hope for a better crack of the whip this year. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

The Hills Are Alight.

04/13/2008

Apart from the tradition of liberating the Tower of Glen Trollaigh Christmas Tree in December, only April provides any sport with “The Forestry”, when we yokels set about our traditional muirburn. Regulars will know that this ancient fire raising allows us to clear away un-grazed “white” grass and encourages fresh new shoots to appear, timed to avoid disrupting ground nesting birds and provide fresh bites for lambs and calves. For some reason lost to me, Prof Ernest Guy PhD and bar, objects strongly to our wielding of the mega power blow torch on the Bens and Braes, indeed he sets up a commando operation to keep us in place. This is a bit rich from an industry that for forty years has sent hill ploughs through every ecological and archaeological site in Scotland, however ever one for a challenge we have completed our muirburn on schedule, often burning at night fuelled by Something Scottish or aided though our new tactic of sending the bucket and spade brigade in the wrong direction. One only has to phone Fluffy Stuff HQ with a reported and frankly unlikely siting of some avian rarity. This guarantees a wave of beards in small green vans in eager anticipation of a clip-board moment shooting off on the required compass bearing, whilst we criminals pocket the Swan Vestas, don sturdy boots and head for Tom na Trollaigh Ridge.

Dearest Dottie’s splendid pair of pins have been exercised on the Austrian pistes along with a jolly group experiencing our first ski party town, where groups of chaps wearing matching funny hats and rude T shirts, slowly succumb to large amounts of booze. All harmless enough and the locals are delighted to take their loot. Our week of mixed weather was enlivened by good company and good food with the occasional visit to watering holes where fascist sing-alongs seemed to be the order of the day. Always one to find out something useful, I was taken from the jostle of Innsbruck Airport to the nearby Tennis Club to wile away an hour or so of flight delay eating and wine tasting. This club is now a Trollaigh Top Travel Tip almost compensating for the terrors of using this quaint tho’ dangerous Airfield.

Returning from the slopes and a family gathering in Dorset I spent a minute or so in the sunshine catching up over coffee with unread issues of The Oban Times. I think their sub editors must be given special licence to conjure up their headlines. I feel sure that I would never get away with the tongue in cheek “Lochaber Police Disappointed in Levels of Violence” or the quoting of a well respected Argyll Councillor following his chairing of a contentious planning meeting, where the committee and officials were booed from the hall; “Although the majority were disappointed, the meeting was held democratically.” Mr Sub Editor, I know not who you are, however may you live forever and keep fuelling the Trollaigh chuckles.

Hooting Owls accompany the nocturnal dog walks, Black Birds, Cross Bills and Oyster Catchers join the morning rambles. However it remains cold in the dry northerly air stream, not much sign of spring apart from nodding Daffs and Tulips. Hey ho, hopefully better to come. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.