Saturday, January 08, 2005
Traditional Ways
01/08/2005
What a relief to wake to a slightly better day, although I feel for the poor sods to the South of us who seem to have caught the full force of Heather’s predictions. It is Saturday and Dotty and I have been invited to shoot at Cornfield, so we set off for the hour long drive in high spirits. There is a fair amount of snow on the hills again, colder at 4 degrees, a strong Westerly with squalls of snow and hail. However, we get a blink of sun, the first for days that is very heartening. The motor gives us some trouble on the way; at least the fourteen year old brake pedal does not flop to the floor as sometimes happens in moments of crisis, this is part of the price of still insisting on a British built motor. We pass a lot of flooding, with Dalmally Golf Course under water, although we are not delayed. The shoot is a great success, we are well entertained, fed and watered amongst many old chums. Even at my age, with a bit of luck I manage to add to the bag, although Dotty’s dogs behave badly. Gone are the days of my youth when I would only have dreamnt of shooting in August or September waiting in Hill Butts with a good pair of guns and at least one trusty loader. Now at Cornfield my heaviest gun is a 16 with light shot, then I can normally manage a full day in comfortable Tweed, Leather and the Borsalino crammed on the pate. We dine with the Connors who, realising that a late night return to The Tower of Trollaigh is not wise, kindly put us up. Several Ardbegs in great comfort, but we are utterly exhausted by their stories of world travel and busy, successful livestyles. My sleep is somewhat interupted as dearest Dotty constantly complains of draughts and the hellish noise of thousands of mice above our ceiling. But what generous hosts. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Friday, January 07, 2005
The forecast is worse.
01/07/2005
That BBC 1 Amazon, Heather the Weather promised that our ten day long rainstorm would moderate “after midnight”. But I still awoke in the early hours with the elements besieging The Tower of Trollaigh. The Alt nan Tigh pulsed past, lapping our southern foundations, The rain hissed off the slates reminding me of prosponed summer maintainance, the westerly gales roared through the forest trees ending by singing round the castilations and chimnies. This haunting, but sleep denying melody is known in the family as “The Brownie’s Flute” in deference to that splendid wee chap on Carna, may he preserve us. I will admit that the middle of the day was a fraction better,the hillsides white with spate, visibility finishing at 1000 feet in a torrent of dashing cloud, but perhaps longer gaps between the rain showers. I burned off a few calories with an attack on the pass with the dogs. They were reluctant to leave The Tower, but keen to relieve themselves. This requires careful handling as, for my beloved, Dotty Trollaigh,the formal garden is a labour of intense passion and any defilment by hounds is severely critisied. The pack must be encourged from the Boot Room Door to the Hill gate without any desicration. As I close the gate behind the rabble I noticed movement in the drawing room, we are under surviellance! Plenty of furtive small birds in the windbreaks, but the larger birds of prey seem bedraggled and hungry, they have my sympathy, but not the Heron, who with every meal reduces my chances in years to come of those magical August evenings of cunning against the silver Salmon in the Loch Pool. The dogs look for any signs of an early return indoors but I trudge on. I am dishearten to see the condition of the livestock. Our Euro Masters at CAP insist that we keep 1000 Ewes on the hill at this time, and who are we, mere sevants, to argue. I am no great fancier of sheep, but the grazing has gone to pot in the rain and all the beasts look uncomfortable. In sheep years the handful of hill Tups are my contemporaries, they have finished their diligent impregnation of the ewes and in this weather will not recover as they cannot eat or take shelter. Two have already fallen, so a burial party must be organised. I wonder at their last thoughts and hope that as they succumb they see the noble heads of the advisaries they have vanquished, in their nostrils the fragrant scent of their many ladies. I muse at what might be my last thoughts, but I will certainly make sure that I am well scrubbed as although a Blackfaced Tup is well hung, he certainly has the strongest of odours on either side of the great divide! Back to the paperwork and the telephone. The Kerrs tell me that the Glen Orchy road has been impassible overnight and they have changed their plans of an Oban day to one of make and mend after some roof leaks and problems with the water supply. Erica is so pleased that early bookings are coming in for the Old House, including Christmas week. Mail orders for Diana Drummond are flowing once more. No rest for the wicked on either side of the pass. Blackmount claim three and a half inches of rain in the passed 24 hours. Heather the Weather assures me that more appauling weather is on the way, with rain, snow and 90 mph Westerlies! The Brownie’s Flute will keep me awake, but with an Arbeg and good Dotty beside me in The Great Bed of Trollaigh I will at least be cosy tonight. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.