Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Leaky Tubs
08/09/2005
The cool breeze has been gently calling me, whistling over my favourite high pass, which I have not managed to visit for weeks; I can see the sunlight and the odd cloud shadow playing over it from my desk, the desk that is tied like a millstone around my neck. Imagine my joy when that batty Rear Admiral Peters-Gibson clanks up the drive in his ancient Mk10 Jag, he hoots indoors to embrace dearest Dotty and in a healthy bellow demands my immediate assistance to recover some diving apparatus from the bottom of Loch Trollaigh. The old fool, whom I normally avoid, has been reminded about his old junk while reading reports of the valiant Scottish submarine rescue service saving the lives of seven Ruskies in far waters. My only hope is that the Rear Admiral, turned sheep farmer has not also abandoned his crew in a momment of absent-mindedness. Lachie, Peters-Gibson and I arrive at the Lochside to discover a leaky punt, some rope and what appears to be a rusty 50-gallon drum with a small porthole. I am assured that the drum is a first rate diving bell designed on the Lefortune immersion principle and has been extensively tested by the Rear Admiral who will command the punt while Lachie, in a well patched frogman’s suit will escort the barrel with me inside to the bottom of the Loch. I am very relieved to discover that the water at the dive site is only some fifteen feet deep. All goes well until I hit the bottom in total darkness and both my feet go straight through the base of the blasted tub, freezing water rushes up to my tweed plus fours and stops, I can just make out the startled face of Lachie in the porthole. There follows a few moments of silence, after this I sense a few tugs on the rope attaching me to the surface, some heavy splashing and the bloody punt floats down beside me. More silence, distant screams, and then the well turned ankles of number one daughter kick past, the rest of her appears to be clad only in the skimpiest of undergarments but I throw decorum to the wind as the water level reaches my waist. Within seconds the drum is on the move as three Trollaigh woman heave together to rescue their master. Lachie releases me from my tin tomb on the shoreline and has the sense to administer a stiff Ardbeg from a flask for medicinal purposes. As I rise to my sodden feet, I note the saturated form of the rear admiral prone at the lady’s feet, lying where he has been poll axed by a furious Dottie. The Trollaighs march as one back to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, where for once I am content to return to my bloody desk. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Willow Warblers
08/08/2005
Pleasant summer weather over the weekend, dry, sunshine with northerly breezes. The temperature has not been high; however, I quite like that, as years in Glen Trollaigh have tuned my systems for cold rather than heat. It is very satisfying to see that our plans for wildlife have worked well this year with a good crop of chicks from our summer visitors, the swallows and house martins filling the skies around the Tower of Glen Trollaigh eating an unusual diet of flying ants that have also appeared this year. We have seen willow warblers, flycatchers and redpolls for the first time for some years, a good-looking young buzzard fills the air with cries for its mother who has stopped feeding and the youngster is finding the change to self-reliance a bit hard. Stags have moved nearer the Tower in the new long grass areas that will cause some friction when dearest Dottie stands in front of the guns when the season clicks in! The only disappointment has been the lack of water for fishing; certainly, I have seen fewer fish than normal and there could be hundreds of reasons for that. Hard work keeps me pinned to the desk gazing wistfully out at Lachie toiling in the sunshine, I would love to join him, but stern glances from Dottie and Mhairi keep the nose to the grindstone. With the girls here, we did have plenty of the young around the Tower of Glen Trollaigh on Saturday and Sunday, laughter filled the house, although they do watch some strange Telly. I noted the loss of poor Robin Cook; his accent had certainly changed from the early days as a councillor in Bellshill, but he stuck to his principles and stood up to President Blair, more that most of the ninny MP’s would do. Talking of the President, there are some very odd rambling sound-bites issuing from his holiday residence. He seems to propose that if I send a fiver to a Palestinian children’s charity I will end up in gaol, however if a Palestinian pops over here on holiday and persuades a chum to slit my throat, he gets away scot-free. I am sure he is well intentioned, but he does come up with some half-baked rubbish from time to time. He will be spending a few weeks in Tuscany hoping that no one has spotted the odd dodgy cleric slipping through his fingers. Hey-ho a dram and bed I think. Oh and to Old Sea Salt; Yes. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.