Saturday, July 23, 2005
Station Trollaigh Turn
07/23/2005
The summer stays with us, but it is odd to think that we are well past the longest day, and that we must cherish our sunny daylight as each sunrise and sunset takes us further towards winter. God! what a depressing thought when we have so much to celebrate. The Bushman Burner, bought and paid for at Hampton Court has arrived, this strange and heavy oven, based on those used by bushman in Africa, but cunningly made from furnace cement in England is fired up to chase midges and provide outdoor heat on winter days, and of course, it is also a bar-b-que. Having nipped down to the Alt Trollaigh three small, but fresh Brown Trout are lured to test the system, delicious! About thirty or forty swallow chicks are swooping about the Tower of Glen Trollaigh practicing their flying skills, always such a pleasure to watch, one moment fluttering and hesitant, the next fearless as they join their parents to harass a passing Buzzard. This reminds me of the early RAF training in Tiger Moths, when “follow my leader” was order of the day. My great great aunt Hetty “half way station” Trollaigh, one of those half-man equestrians with whom I have never felt comfortable, volunteered in ’14 to join the Army Airforce and became famous for deflowering several future Air Commodores. Of course, her coup was the Station Trollaigh Turn, which I believe is still used in training fast jet pilots. Regrettably, Halfway Hetty was only to survive for another few months when her attempt to join the Mile High Club with “Rotary” Johnnie Apple V.C. failed in flames and vertical impact. Oh dear, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Bike Racks
07/23/2005
A wee patch of fair weather keeps us in a summer mood and a northerly breeze keeps the midges at bay. We sit for cups of tea on the old stone terrace overlooking the sacred lawn, almost Brideshead Revisited apart from the scale, swaying Scots Pines, rugged ramparts and the view of dearest Dolly abseiling down from one of her specialist repair jobs on the guttering. A long list of tasks to catch up with still haunt us but some light is at the end of the tunnel. Out of sheer desperation, I telephoned SERAD (Scottish Executive Rural Affairs Department) to see if any of their 5000 salaried and pensioned staff could offer any advice on buggers poaching my salmon. I was calmly and solicitously told that they were not “my” salmon, but were part of the heritage of Scotland, however if I was to insist on pursuing my elitist agenda, I should sit on a deck chair pointing a broom handle (presumably unloaded) at the poachers, who would take fright and run away. What complete and utter useless, pointless bollocks. I read somewhere that 1 in 3 Scots are now Civil Servants (to massage away the total loss of proper manufacturing jobs sacrificed to President Blair’s Third Way), these chaps and their spouses are the new elitists, good salaries, cars and clean children, with a enthusiasm for complaining in supermarket queues. Their driving technique has brought them to my attention, they favour mid sized, and brightly coloured people carriers or Audis with bikes strapped to the back. Mum and Dad in the front, short hair, three quarter length trousers and expensive specs, three children in the back memorised by VDU monitors, they sweep along our narrow roads with total disregard of other road users, blinkered save for the road ahead, on-board computers monitoring distance, fuel and destination. They seem to be comforted by their status as nurse/doctor/forestry commission executive/tax collector or whatever, quite content to believe in the political correctness of a broom handle, but not in God, bloody fools to a man. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.