Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Quiet weather, dramatic times
01/26/2005
Missed my entry yesterday as I did not make it back to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh until the early hours. Our weather remains settled. Tuesday was cloudy, dry and plus two degrees. To-day the pressure is still high, so no rain, blue skies and plus four degrees with brezze from the east. Heather the weather is back on call and she promises more of the same. I have been deskbound for two days with hardly an momment to lift my head from the ledgers, what a bore. Lachie has hovered solicitously, At last I had to send him out with the pack and I watched in terrible envy as he climbed up the Alt Trollaigh towards the Clach Dubh, with a cannine tumult at his heels, towards the snowline. The dogs obviously enjoying the faster pace of the younger man. Such is loyalty! Mhairi fretted about with coffee and foody treats to contain me in the office. I sneaked out towards the Arbeg, but she acted as prison warder, intercepting my cunning attack. Dearest Dotty, meanwhile has been to Glasgow with Erica to the Highland Trade fair, which I used to enjoy so much in Aviemore twenty five years ago. Then they seem to have been whisked away into a noisy Burns Supper. I have spent some time on the phone with John, who has become an innocent witness to a botched poaching episode at La Mansion du Berger. This is all doubly difficult as accusation and conter-accusation fly around Glen Orchy. These local dramas are such a pain, but so difficult to sort out without generations of vendetta. But my heart goes out to La Berger, who has suffered most terribly for the past two years and is very vunerable without the support of her family. I am reminded of the time when a cousin named his first born son MacIain, apparently unaware that the MacIains had raped his great granmother and burnt the Fourth Baron’s Tower, known as the Wee Column. My Grandfather retreated to the north stair and muttered there for several years, before dispatching the innocent MacIain on a sucide command with the Diamond T. All this drama reminds me of the most wonderful joke about a female Hungarian hurdle champion at the Moscow olympics with a craving for vitamin E, but I could not possibly repeat it “on air”. I wonder if Mhairi is still on patrol? Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trolliagh.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Matters of principle
01/24/2005
An overcast Monday morning, but at least it is dry and cold with light frost and the air still flowing from the North West. I usually spend Monday morning on the phone going through a list of people who have not returned my calls in the previous week. It is regrettable that my position does not protect me from this new level of rudeness. If one promises to return a call, it is sheer bad manners not to do so. My blood pressure rises during the morning in proportion to the outrageous excursuses offered for failure, normally blame is passed from person to person, the fall guy is usually maimed, injured, lost or just hiding. The phrase “In a meeting” is still used in Argyll, although it has been laughed out of court in the rest of the country! I recall the day that my father challenged an Oban planning officer to a duel. The planner refused on the grounds that he did not possess suitable flintlock weapons! My father offered a loan of the third Baron’s magnificent Spencers, eventually the planning department called the police and there was one hell of a stushie. My incoming telephone line offered several lottery wins and opportunities for exotic holidays, but annoyingly a call from the Golf Club Secretary carried an anonymous complaint from a member about dearest Dotty allowing some of her Lab/Collie crosses to disturb a needle match, ending in a game being abandoned in a melee of barking and shouting. I suppose a challenge of honour is not on the cards, although the Spencer’s are always ready! A letter of resignation is in the post, but what a silly fuss. A restorative is called for and I shall cheer Dotty up with witty yarns in front of the Great Fireplace, Ardbeg in hand, and buttocks to the heat. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.