Saturday, October 08, 2005
Roaring Rutters
10/08/2005
Having cursed the weather we enjoy three almost dry days on the trot, my hours have been filled with the autumn garden clear up, Lachie and I labouring together to prepare for the hard winter weather. Acres of long grass and rushes have been topped, field drains cleared, tracks repaired, shrubs and trees pruned and the borders tidied, divided and protected. All this work has been delayed until now by poor conditions, however, it has been a pleasure to get to grips with it at last. There is a lot to see and hear outside at this time of year when each day we watch the colours changing. Already the bracken is brown, the Birches and Willows are yellow and gold and our majestic Beech trees are on the turn with strong gusts of southerly wind starting to strip the leaves, and not a midge in sight, although curiously enough a brightly coloured parrot flies northward. The constant sound both near and far is the roar of rutting Stags; this is akin to cattle in distress and goes on throughout the day and the night. In darkness, the Stags become more brave and move with shot of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh windows. The roaring disturbs the deepest sleep, I leapt from the Great Bed convinced that the Gun Room alarm was sounding only to spy a fine Royal standing proudly on the sanctuary of dearest Dottie’s sacred lawn. Several times Dottie has nudged me awake to complain about my stomach rumbling, when it is plainly the rut on a distant hillside. Although I mutter about the noise of the rut, I secretly rather enjoy its connection with autumn and wild highland glens when the tourists are gone and urban urchins safely back at school. Most of the large estate lodges are closed up now and will remain empty until New Year or even next Easter as their masters and mistresses have returned to town. I wonder how many of them wish they were as lucky as us to live in the glens all year, as they battle the rush hour traffic or wonder which of their swarthy travelling companions is about to blow himself up on the tube. I certainly know where I prefer to be, even if we have several miles of gutters to clear and hours will need to be spent in cramped and confined roof spaces tracing leaks in the blasted Tower of Glen Trollaigh, to say nothing of the annual firewood chop and split, a job that is never done. Of course, my ancestors kept any number of serfs to do all this sort of thing, however, Lachie and Mhairi are the only full time serfs I can afford these days, so my old muscles and joints will need to creak and groan along side my patient workers. I absent-mindedly reach for the young Ardbeg as the lists of “things to be done” extends onto the second recycled back of an envelope! Cheers, Your Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Hello Old Salty Dog, I am afraid I deleted a message from you without reading it whilst dealing with an assorted bunch of porn peddling nose pickers bombarding my comments page. I regret that I will be shutting the comments facility down next week as I cant be doing with timewasting tossers. However, do keep reading my diary and I may have the pleasure of your company over the festive season. God Bless, Archie Trollaigh.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Curse Of The Sunglasses
10/04/2005
As I contemplate the sodden landscape from the windows of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, I have to admit that I have been fooling myself into thinking that we have had a good summer. The early part was dry and cloudy with average temperatures, however, on the 1st of August, it started raining and blowing gales, only the most ardent Argyll optimist would claim that we have had even half a dry day since then. What is even more galling is that much of the rest of the U.K. has basked in warm sunshine for months. The reason is plain enough; it is all because I bought a new part of sunglasses. I rarely wear “shades” however; I am an ardent collector of the latest style that always end up on a dressing room shelf, never having had to deflect a single UV ray from the baronial eyeballs. This year the must haves were Clic Sports from the states, which I am assured are all the rage and changing hands in London for hundreds of pounds. These nifty numbers have a magnetic gismo on the bridge, where they split or clic, allowing one to put them on without taking one’s Borsalino off, excellent! I have not seen blue sky since I bought them for a tidy sum eight weeks ago. It all reminds me of an expensive purchase of a pair of Oakley Frogeyes in 2001 the day before I set off on a yachting trip to Benodet. Within 36 hours, we were sailing in appalling conditions off the south coast of Ireland, 70 mile an hour gusts, driving rain, huge seas, almost impossible to keep the Ardbeg in a glass. These conditions remained for a fortnight until my cruise was over. I must make a note to purchase new wellies and a heavy field coat next July hoping that the weather Gods will punish me a with glorious 2006 summer! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.