Monday, February 21, 2005
Bitter Winds
02/21/2005
A long rest after only a few hours sleep on Saturday night pays off as we awake refreshed to a couple of inches of snow around the Tower of Glen Trollaigh. The wind has veered to the North East, probably our bitterest quarter, but it is a blue sky, alpine dawn. The temperature barely tops zero degrees however; we have a wonderful display of eastbound jet trails against an azure sky. The sun touches the Tower by 10.00 and stays with us until almost 5.00. Being Monday I go through my “people to phone” list, almost all of whom are not available, out of the office or closed for some local holiday, hopefully most of them will take the trouble to phone me back tomorrow, we will wait and see. Needless to say, because of the presence of fluffy snow, our wheelie bins are not empted, this omission is food and drink to grumpy old people like me. Argyll and Bute Council are very enthusiastic in pursuing the payment of local taxes, but mostly incapable of providing the services funded by these cash collections. I often argue that it would be much better to allow small, self-sufficient communities to provide tailored services for such things as, for example, recycling in exchange for a reduction in tax, or if we must pay, then some grant should be provided to cover our costs. However, this, in some way does not fit the bigger picture. The news is full of the health scare of the week, in this case that we are doomed by a food ingredient called, suspiciously, Sudan One. Do I detect a spin? By midday I round up the eldest daughter and she drives me round to Glen Orchy were we help the Kerrs clear away storm damaged trees, the eldest surprises me by volunteering to bring the quad and trailer up the hill to collect and stack firewood, rather than spend time yakking in the kitchen. I wonder if she might stay until lambing, when an extra pair of hands will be most welcome. I hike back into Glen Trollaigh over the high pass, alone, about 5.30 and I am treated to some spectacular colours when a snow squall blasted through at my back and the sun sets behind Cruachan. The ridges are white, back lit by blood red shafts, a dark grey sky above, higher still it is perfect blue with fast moving small white clouds. If only a painting could capture it, perhaps the pleasure is that no painting could do it justice! A cold night in prospect, so the fires are lit and a good book, an Ardbeg and an early bed seem to be the order of the evening. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Essex Toe-Rags
02/20/2005
I awake wondering what on earth is driving past the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, to realise that I am in room 240 of the Glasgow Grosvenor Hilton, overlooking Great Western Road. We had the most fabulous Colonsay Gathering here last night, meeting up with lots of old friends, eating, drinking, chatting and dancing the night away. The main topic on the island is that the Hotel has shut again and there are all sorts of wild imaginings about getting it going again. Even Kevin “de” Byrne is in the frame, watch this space. Many young islanders of both genders contributed greatly to the music and dancing, the young lassies flashing past with fashionable tattoos akimbo was a heartening experience for me! Our return to the glen today was delayed by various factors, including a puncture, which was a damned nuisance, especially after getting the Land Rover jammed under a beam in the multi-storey. Our weather has been fair but cold, still that northerly breeze and the odd flake of snow, giving a maximum temperature of 2 degrees. When we eventually got home, the Tower is quiet, as expected with Lachie and Mhairi taking a day off, but we were immediately aware of a thin wailing noise and found that the cause was our eldest daughter, Dorothy, weeping in the Drawing Room. Apparently, the Baked Bean Taster has bolted, taking the hire car and Dorothy’s mobile with him. I suffer a fearful verbal attack, and am referred to as an “Interfering Old Bastard”. I ask my eldest for her credit card and I am slightly surprised to be handed six, nipping through to the office, I cancel the lot. I suspect (correctly) that the Baked Bean has been availing himself of the good name of Trollaigh as well as the virtue of the heir apparent. Dearest Dotty and I bundle the eldest into warm togs and we force the pace up the high pass in a sea of grateful dogs. We all huddle in the ruins of Airigh Chailleach avoiding the bitter wind. I deliver a lecture that I should have delivered twenty years ago about the value of the family as a support unit and how pride in all my family is my personal lifetime achievement. The atmosphere thaws and as mother and daughter hug, I am downgraded to “Silly old Duffer”. I whip out the mobile and call the Baked Bean, I have heard most of the language used before, even the whiney Essex accent, but I am glad that the girls could not hear the toe-rag. The car has been seized, his credit cards rejected and he is wet and hungry as he thumbs it down the M6. No more will he roam the streets of North One. I am over the moon, we all skip back to the Tower with a high grey, herring bone sky, and with a wonderful winter moon, a few days off full, well up to the North East. Oh joy divine! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.