Saturday, May 21, 2005
Handy Hoch Mit Lederhosen
05/21/2005
An improvement on yesterday, a dull start that clears for most of the morning, sudden heavy rain and even hail at lunchtime clears again to a glorious evening with sun and the most enormous white clouds towering tens of thousands of feet, some with dark grey bases. Full Trollaigh regalia last night to greet our guests, firstly a German couple, Hans and Loti Hoch ("just call me Handy”, unexpected sense of humour, for you historians.) in lederhosen, presumably misunderstanding the etiquette of “Traditional Dress” which I feel sure does not extend to short trousers, leather or otherwise. Secondly, the Countess Mayfield and her cadaver of a husband, James, next, Charlie and Cynthia McAllister sporting friends of my QC David, and finally Celeste Rue, some list Z celeb friend of the girls in London, with her lesbian lover, whom I thought was introduced as Arthur, Admiral Daiseybank although she seemed definitely female, despite the uniform. God knows who holds on to whose ears in that lot but I fear for the state of their East Turret apartment by Monday. I manage to escape most chit chat by directing Lachie and Mhairi, immaculately turned out as butler and maid, for one of Mhairi’s Herculean efforts over a superb dinner, I had only to make a few senseless muttered grumbles and grin inanely, whilst availing myself for most of the drink! Today was an equally simple subterfuge as I hid in the bushes with a glass and cigar, while Lachie ghillied for James, “Arthur”, Hans and Charlie on the river. The girls all bonded together making marmalade with Mhairi, cooing over some of the more alarming antique kitchen utensils still in daily use here at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh. I fear that I will be called upon to perform better tonight, judging from a terse note left by dearest Dottie in my dressing room where the Great Kilt of Trollaigh and the Blanco-ed spats have been laid out. I must have a word with Lachie about a constant supply of young Ardbeg. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Archie’s Hols.
Day four, Scarista to Lochmaddy. Despite our apprehension, Scarista and the Martins come up trumps, a comfortable country house style hotel, lots of hot water and comfort. Our only surprise is the appearance of “Father Tom” a Dominican Friar when we gather for pre-prandial G&Ts. Our dinner is outstanding, our bed most comfortable, with a background of rising wind and surf. We are greeted by a grey stormy morning, views of St Kilda, smoked salmon and scrambled egg for breakfast. Dottie manages a few words of Gaelic with George the Maitre D as we settle the biggest bill of the trip. After a short breezy walk, we take the ferry to North Uist. An absolutely fascinating crossing of the Sound of Harris, amongst shoals, rocks and reefs, a whole chapter in itself. After a picnic lunch and windy walk on Berneray, We spend the day wandering around North Uist and Grimsay, here again we find new wonders, the development of Kallin Harbour, the wildness of Loch Eport and the sensible development of Taigh Chearsabhagh, with the wonderful darts match for territorial control. So much money, so well spent, an absolute joy. We also appreciate the extent of the damage suffered during the January gale, when life was lost, houses and communities threatened, causeways built to last reduced to pebbles in hours, it must have been very scary, to say the least. We retire to the Lochmaddy Hotel, a basic commercial/fishing pub, but clean with bar food by Brakes, well cooked. To bed early, to rest before the first ferry to Skye tomorrow. Doctor John MacLeod kindly phones offering to entertain us, but we are already tucked up in bed, a great pity to miss him, so kind of him to make the effort. Yours Aye, Archie.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Wet Friday
05/20/2005
Friday dawns with changeable weather, showers, rain, wind and even the odd partial break in the clouds, although the mountain tops remain shrouded in swirling hill fog. Another pile of mail keeps me glued to the office desk, but Lachie and restless dogs drag me out for some property maintenance, and for the dogs, plenty of idiotic “charging about and barking” practice. Replacing a broken spar on the garden gate, we discover some pink paint on the woodwork. I immediately telephone a report to our community police officer, that a Pink Smart car with “Bernie The Bandleader"s registration number (carefully noted by Lachie while pulling up his trousers), has failed to report an accident and left the scene of a crime. Our long-suffering bobby listens in silence and then tactfully suggests that I “shouldn’t push my luck”, well maybe we should take his advice on this occasion. Dearest Dottie seems to have invited various dolts for the weekend, as the rain has brought the River Trollaigh up, and there could be some fishing. Mhairi has been instructed to make sure that my dressing room is full of all the clothes that such events dictate, hairy tweed by day and full Trollaigh evening highland regalia by night. I beg permission to opt for tartan trousers, as a kilt does nothing for my once noble legs, I am awaiting a reply from Dottie who seems to be organising a full-scale country house weekend. Hey Ho. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Archie’s Hols.
Day four. Ard Asaig to Scarista. A lazy start to Sunday starts with another full breakfast, Katie’s speciality being a local venison sausage, strongly recommended. Talking to Katie I begin to understand what has been unsettling me in Harris, unlike my native North Argyll all the usable land is croft land and appears densely populated with houses everywhere. The high moors and mountains are not used and the roads do not, for the most part, run through these areas, therefore I am not seeing a sparsely populated, lonely landscape but rather a landscape of many houses, new, old, abandoned, ruined or renovated. Crofting tradition has a culture all of its own, even down to language with a unique history over land ownership and land use, I think I have failed to grasp that the Western Isles are very different to the Scotland I know at first hand. I have a big adjustment to make. We attend church in Tarbert, Harris. It is a solid well supported service, without music or congregation participation, not even the Lord’s Prayer or a collection. The Rev Hamish MacVicar uses his one hour ten minute sermon to explain in detail the exact meaning of the gospel passage that is being read in every other Church of Scotland kirk this Sunday. The completely traditional service is both simple and uplifting. Perhaps we have drifted away from the roots of Presbyterianism, I for one will return to the Rev MacVicar. Dottie and I then set off on the long wonderful drive down the “Golden Road” on the East Coast of South Harris, absolute magic, all the way down to Rodel. Being Sunday everything, absolutely everything is shut. An emergency bottle of the Baron’s Chardonnay is broached for picnic relief. At Rodel, we see the restored Hotel (closed on Sundays) and St Clements Kirk. On to Leverburgh then back to the West Coast beaches. These are spectacular, but strangely disappointing, although we enjoy a long walk to Macleod’s Stone overlooking Taransay and all the beaches one could ever wish for. At 6.00 we check into Scarista House. The most famous Hotel in the Hebrides under the previous owners, the Johnston’s, now Tim and Patricia Martin offer us hospitality, as the weather closes in and the view from our room is of a large hole for a new septic tank (dear to my heart although Dottie thinks it may be a new swimming pool), an old bus inhabited by travelling urchins, a huge skip and a busy main road. Will we enjoy it? Yours Aye, Archie.