Thursday, February 17, 2005
“The Muscle”
02/17/2005
As forecast, we see a brighter day to-day, not much breeze, with a temperature of 5/6 degrees and dry. Plenty of clouds about but they stay high, and we get one or two glimpses of the sun. I am slumped with a very large Ardbeg in the library, emotionally drained and quivering in my number one tweed three-piece suit. I felt that the day was starting well but it was interrupted early on by my eldest unmarried daughter, Dorothy, calling from Glasgow airport inviting herself and “Bernie” for lunch. I was ever so slightly miffed as to-day marks the start of Golf at the Isle of Seil Golf Club, with the first medal. Nevertheless, rising to the occasion I gave up my starting time, even though Dorothy has not graced the Glen with her presence since attempting to shoot here last September. Lady Camperdown referred unfairly to Dorothy as “The Boat of Garten”, However I secretly agree with her ladyship as I pace the Long Gallery, waiting, as the couple speed north in a hired car. Needless to say dearest Dotty and the entire household think this is all the most stupendous wheeze and the fatted calf is slaughtered and roasted in double quick time. Lachie even ventures a red wine choice for the feast, I am not quite sure where he is practicing, but his suggestion is spot on. It is difficult to think of Dorothy giggling, but she is doing her best as they arrive, Dotty almost faints as “Bernie” is introduced to all as “my muscle”, even I fall back a step to discover that “Bernie” is perhaps the biggest prat that ever left a reclaimed Essex marsh. Bernie claims in a shrill voice to be something in marketing with Heinz (baked bean taster?). This total disaster has moved in with “The Boat” and they are now “An Item”. After Bernie has the temerity to ask Mhairi for a sight of the wine before it is opened, I leave the table and head for the North Stair, clutching a bottle of said châteaux. Dearest Dotty is pale and distraught, but neither of us can voice our opinion in this modern age, but what an unmitigated disaster, worse they threaten to stay over the weekend! Yours in terror, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Wet Weather and Fears For Foxes
02/16/2005
It is a change to-day with low grey skies and a mild Atlantic drizzle sweeping in. It never really rains, but it is damp all day. Temperature of plus 6/7 degrees, with a zephyr from the south west, still white above 1500 feet when we can see that high! I spend most of the day in Glen Orchy, fulfilling my role as Technical Director of Diana Drummond. We have many tricky decisions to make about business projections for this coming year; this takes most of the day. In the afternoon I tour back to Glen Trollaigh by motor, it is too miserable, and I am too tired to hoof it across the high pass, although the Lurchers are as keen as mustard. On my return I complete a couple of minor tasks for dearest Dotty, who has nipped off to Glasgow with The Countess of Marsh, as they both need some sartorial knick-knacks for Saturday’s Colonsay do. I manage up the Alt Trollaigh at 6 o’clock with enough light to check the water system, halfway there I realise that I am foolishly wearing my garden wellies that are far too slippy, but only the dogs witness my struggles. There is a lot of news to-day about the challenge to the hunting with dogs ban in England. I must admit to a problem with this, and I am worried about the long term Town versus Country argument. Along with most Scottish landowners, I am not a supporter of hunting with dogs per se, but I do recognise that there is a need to control and manage wild animals when they clash with farming and land use. Well-trained gamekeepers and high velocity firearms can carry out this control more humanly. Having said that, I also support fully the individuals right to carry on with any traditional pursuit if they so wish. As a countryman, I am offended by townsfolk playing football and shopping on a Sunday, but I support their right to do so. There seems to be a basic misunderstanding about the difficulties of survival in remote areas. Oh well, I shall mull over this vexed question with a “very young” Ardbeg, and for god’s sake do not mention Seals, cheers! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.