Saturday, August 20, 2005
Septics-Are-Us
08/20/2005
My last entry seems terribly depressing and after a glorious Saturday of blue skies and fair weather, I feel a lot more positive. We can still expect a few weeks of good weather and we have many guests to look forward to. I think that being bound to the bloody desk has lowered my morale; however, to-day I spend almost all my time about the policies and working outdoors always lifts my spirits. I have been unable to tramp over the high passes where I can hear the breeze sighing through the heathers and grasses. But I have struggled with honest labour in the garden where much to my delight our surge of guests has brought a considerable surge of back pressure in the number two septic tank, so I was able to spend an peaceful if smelly afternoon plunging and scooping tank residue, whilst redesigning and improving the soakaways, Ah the simple pleasures. A few inches of rain have not improved the fishing; however, I have heard the odd gun shot, hopefully outwith our boundaries for not only are our deer stocks plentiful, but also they are in good condition and no culling is required for a week or two. I hear good news on the radio as the Body Mass Index so often quoted by my GP is now meaningless. Apparently, we must consider our girths, 40 inches for a man, and as the baronial tum reaches only 38 inches, I am once again a fit chap. Dearest Dottie was a little alarmed as I called for a tape measure while relaxing with a morning cuppa in the Great Bed of Trollaigh this Saturday morning, I may be imagining things but I feel she was a little disappointed with my explanation. Of course, my only remaining vice is the enjoyment of strong drink, which does contribute to the fuller figure, but what the hell, cheers! Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
PS. Hail to that arsehole Tewkesbury, our paths have crossed many times before and I well remember when you were in charge of paper clip counting at the D.O.T. Surely you cannot still hold the seven and sixpence “misunderstanding” against me? Do please note that your incompetence follows you, for by harrassing the poor “Mr B Trollaigh”, you have stamped the wrong file agian. I welcome your visit to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh to yarn away some hours in the Gunroom. Trollaigh.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
The Mad Swallow Family
08/17/2005
The Scottish summer moves towards autumn, in the misty mornings I count fifty or so swallows and house martins balancing on the telephone line, but almost hourly their numbers seem to drop around the Tower of Glen Trollaigh as they head south to be slaughtered by the Wops and Frogs of Europe. The burns start to run white on the glen side for the first time for almost a month and I seem to remember that there was a month of dry weather before that, so all in all a dry, if cool summer with the odd glorious day, a great improvement on 2004. By now we seem to light the lights in the Tower more frequently before bedtime and the Glen Orchy Kerrs tell me that their holiday guests have the central heating set at full blast. My rule of thumb is that we shall not turn on the heat until the midges have deserted us, still some weeks away. My only regret is that this has been the summer that never was. Try as I might I cannot grasp a memory of summer, it flashed passed so quickly, but I do recollect our wonderful trips to Devon and the Outer Isles in the spring with great pleasure. Another sign of the season’s change is our annual visit from the mad swallow family who briefly roost in the front porch for a night or two and terrorise Lachie, the dogs and cats in the farmyard by swooping past attacking fearlessly man and beast at head height. The post is light to-day, for which thank the Lord, as the end of season feeling makes me reluctant to cross swords with my many, and often pathetic correspondents. Here’s hoping for a more challenging day tomorrow. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
PS. A map reference will be furnished for those ignorant or stupid enough to fail to find Loch Trollaigh, perhaps the most principal of west coast lochs to have avoided, so far, the attentions of the vast army of over-class and prats whio have absolutely no conception of survival in the harsh reality of rural Scotland.