Sunday, January 30, 2005
Wheelbarrows
01/30/2005
Overnight the wind backs westerly, southwesterly, a breeze springs up to give us very light drizzle early and late, very mild at plus ten degrees. We join the Kerrs, including Fred Lang, Jono and Heather for a brisk trudge at Bridge of Orchy, where John has had some business with Anne Marshall. A light lunch at Arichastlich, where I learn that I will be appointed the new technical director of Diana Drummond Ltd. This a great honour, although I will bring a wealth of experience to the post. A small celebration breaks out, and dearest Dotty kindly drives me home. To clear the head we manage some hard work in the garden in the afternoon. I spend much of the time thinking about the design of the wheelbarrow, although the Trollaighs cannot claim the original patent, over the years, we have made several significant improvements, including the addition of the pneumatic tyre, separate tubular steel chassis and plastic body. I am now tinkering with a design for twin wheels and a composite chassis, to improve stability and help lift more weight without more effort. I was hoping to attract plenty of sponsorship, possibly from Ardbeg. Their response to my original enthusiastic approach was, I thought, rather flippant. I felt that Ardbeg would see this as part of a launch of a range of garden hardware, promoting their most excellent product to a new leisure market. I was somewhat hurt when, with a little mirth they suggested that the product name might be “The Great Garden Trolley.” Somehow, the Islay single malt is not so seductive this evening. So a glass or two of cellar red suffices. No fire required tonight it is so mild, a good read and then the Great Bed in good order. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Girls will be girls
01/29/2005
I almost think that Heather the Weather has been mistaken as I draw back the curtains on a frosty morning with thick, thick mist. However, it looks as if it should burn back. I bring dearest Dotty the traditional Saturday cup of tea in The Great Bed of Trollaigh, and a brief but pleasant murmur reaches me from beneath the duvet. I am outside as soon as possible, because today I can ignore the telephone, only checking in at coffee time, then no responsibilities until Monday. I challenge Lachie to a log-chopping contest and despite a certain smirk, he lets me win. At coffee, whilst mopping the Baronial brow, I phone round the glens, finding the Kerrs hard at it in the garden, expecting the sun to break through at 11.30, which is spot on for Glen Trollaigh too. They have several family visitors this weekend and are very excited about their daughter-in-law and granddaughter arriving from America next week. It must be wonderful to have such a close and happy family. I regret that Dotty and I only produced two girls. As they are complete “no hopers” who dissipate what little is left of the Trollaigh fortunes in Upper Street, Islington, I have decided to be the last Baron, although technically I can pass on to a Baroness I am not of a mind so to do. The girls do produce a team of young men who distract the ghillies and stalkers in August and September, but they are chinless to a man. As we are related to most of the families of Europe and our family tree must divide, I am at my wits end, perhaps e-bay? It is significant, although unnecessarily rude, that my eldest, named after that matriarch of another ship owning family, should be referred to in Lady Camperdown’s salacious diary as “The Falls of Laura”. Nevertheless, to-day has been a fine one, and thoughts of my wasting assets do not dishearten me, as I walk back to the Tower in the gathering dusk, smelling the smoke from the fires half a mile away in the clear air. Contentment will be Arbeg shaped. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.