Thursday, March 17, 2005
Blackbirds and Black BMWs
03/17/2005
First thing this morning, and that means around 6.00 to 6.30 as we move into longer days, I am up and about, however I cannot see much as we are inside a cloud of misty rain. When I look straight up it is almost blue, but it is murky and damp all around me. The temperature rises to an unbelievable fifteen degrees, with a brisk southwesterly breeze. The pressure is about as low as it has been since the mid January storms, but the higher temperature means rain and showers rather than gales. I wander about the outside of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh in wellies and Borsalino enjoying the absence of several layers of winter protection, forever checking the fabric of our relic of a building. Chaffinches are crowding into the beech trees, many more than I remember last year, a flight of fat pidgeons flee before the dogs, Mrs Blackbird worries about the kitchen garden where Mhairi normally leaves left-over porridge and as a beautifully stage managed event, three good stags appear outlined on a ridge about 1500 feet above me. Lachie and the constant ringing of the telephone bring me hurrying back to my responsibilities. Around midday, after Gordon Brown justifying his pointless and blatantly dishonest budget on the radio has bored me shitless, we have a fabulous burst of full sun. Equally dramatic is the arrival of two black BMWs swooping into the courtyard. One contains members of the MET and the second, three swarthy South Americans asking, politely after the South American Cousin. Suitably primed by David I am able to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, whilst evading the questions (taking a leaf out of Gordon Brown’s book). The three Columbians look a little dispirited, the members of the MET look furious. I imagine that they will all enjoy their night at The Manor House in Oban as they wait to return south. The plot thickens, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Wandering Tups
03/16/2005
Mild low-pressure weather rolls into the Argyll hills and glens, and that only means two things. The snow melts and it starts to rain in earnest! This is accompanied by a strong southwesterly breeze, on the up side it is a dizzy plus twelve degrees. A phone call to Arichastlich brings news of the first Glen Orchy lambs, a bit early as usual, and a sighting of a lone grey wagtail. Although there are numerous birds signing away, I have not heard an oystercatcher in the glen yet. I have heard them elsewhere, but not here. The snow is stripped of the hills and the river Trollaigh roars into full spate. I seem to be stuck indoors with paperwork; however, I do manage an all too brief ascent of the Alt Trollaigh with the dogs to investigate something that has been catching my eye as I scan the policies each morning. It turns out to a large, smelly dead tup, not one of ours, but one that has wondered many miles over the hills from the other side of the A82. I leave it as fodder for birds and foxes and wonder about the sights and smells he must have encountered in his journey, probably taking up to two years. Thoughts of foxes reminds me that one of our less pleasant tasks, as our lambs will be due soon, will be to cull the fox numbers. I like all wild animals but why must the fox insist on confronting man by coming rampaging through the lambs and chickens at the farmhouse? Where is an animal psychologist when you need one? Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.