Saturday, December 31, 2005
Hogmanay
12/31/2005
Weather remains stable with high pressure sending us clear frosty days, with a light sprinkling of snow on the tops. Occasionally hill fog drifts in, but overall it is fresh, clear almost Alpine weather. Then, just to remind us of the season, a couple of days with snow down to the floor of Glen Trollaigh, drifting against the Tower.
The young, who have made us so proud and entertained us so well over Christmas, chose this time to head back to the fleshpots to celebrate the New Year with vast crowds of like minded revellers. Some arse naked in Piccadilly, others simply freezing their arses in Princes Gardens, swaying to the timbre of some third rate Scottish folk group. Of course, then, to wonder for a day or two whether the hangover was worthy of the cost, or did they really let that gormless oick podger them in a cold, drafty close. Of such great regrets are New Year’s resolutions born, for it was ever thus dear reader.
During the endless rounds of gatherings in the glens on short winter days, I am constantly amazed at the number of double-barrelled Campbells starting to appear. It now seems fashionable to relate oneself to the bastard clan who shafted everyone from the twelfth century and continue to do so to the present day. Now we have Campbell-Beatons, Campbell-Smiths even Campbell-Oldams. Their main obsession seems to be with rights and titles. I assume that most of these people have drifted back against the tide of diaspora to claim their heritage, however they are becoming a bit of a pest, challenging everything from the Crown Estate’s right to the seabed to “droit de signeur” for all I know. The best thing is to own plenty of ground and one automatically has all the rights one could conjure up, rather than return to Argyll as Campbell-Starfish LLB, and start to throw one’s weight about over one’s right to bother a goat on a quarter of an acre building plot in Dalmally.
Our local snowfall has allowed me to indulge in a favourite pastime, that of tracking animals. It is a joy to walk out on a snowy morn without the dogs and study the tracks that reveal our nocturnal visitors. This morning I easily find Red Deer, Fox, Weasel and Pine Marten as well as a multitude of birds. I am glad to say, not a Rabbit or Hare in sight, although over the years I have spotted Lynx, Blue Ice from a 747’s shite tanks and even an unsoiled condom resting on the snowy surface without any other mark for hundreds of yards in any direction. I have always believed that this episode was a “wind-up”, but one never knows.
Lachie and Mhairi are off to-night in Edinburgh, so that only dearest Dottie and I wander the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, we will be up to greet the coming of 2006 perhaps with a modest bonfire. You are all most welcome to “first-foot” us, over the next 24 hours, after that forget it! Cheers! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Hard Frosts
12/26/2005
A Merry Christmas to one and all! No White Christmas in Glen Trollaigh, but the next best thing with sub-zero temperatures and all the trees, shrubs and grasses covered in inches of hoare frost, absolutely like a Christmas Card scene. A little zephyr blows down from the north and clear blue skies give us sun from midday to four o’clock, complimented by the brightest of stars by night.
A tot up of cards received shows about three hundred, considerably more than we sent out, many thanks to you all. I even received some e-cards, many pretty appalling, however, I did enjoy the charity ones that were so insecure that one could search and find out how much the donation had been, not much in most cases! Thank heaven “newsletters” have fallen from favour following some years of adverse publicity, even our most dedicated hot air merchant sent a humble card without even the tiniest of messages. Although we have subsequently heard that the Mother of this superhuman family has been appointed an English magistrate, so in years to come we can enjoy news of humility, humanity, justice, an OBE, enhanced pension rights and a free car parking space in the centre of a major English city.
The drinks party season is in full swing and I notice a deplorable habit emerging of serving nothing but “bubbles” at these affairs. A tip is to excuse oneself on arrival on account of the chilly weather affecting the old plumbing, then when away from the crowd to try to scout out the contents of the drinks cabinet. On returning to the fray and being proffered a Cava, one firmly asks “Any chance of a Hendrick’s and Tonic, Old Boy?” It works every time, although there are still a few old codgers in Argyll who keep their cabinets locked and the key firmly in the waistcoat pocket, now one is scuppered and forced to swallow the Iberian Antifreeze.
The girls have been trained up to give me a supply of ammunition ever year for my Christmas present, all I have to do is leave an order at the gunmakers and the girls organise the rest. However, it is becoming more and more difficult to do this because of all the bally regulations and licences; even mail order is tricky because the carriers are refusing to handle explosives. On my last visit to the Clegg’s shop, I suggested that they sell gift vouchers for all the bits and pieces that go with sporting firearms, this idea seemed to go down well, but they have done nothing. I have been speaking to someone in the book trade who rubs their hands with glee at the mention of gift vouchers which seem to account for some huge percentage of their turnover, then half the punters never come back to redeem them! Reminds me of the heady days of Bearer Bonds in the Far East banks, which if one held on to for long enough where worth a fortune, but most oafs seem to light cigars with them and lose the lot. Of course, I have received some wonderful presents over the years, many of great expense, and many simple and beautiful gifts from my children, reviewing one’s journey through the years is my greatest joy at Christmas and I can recall many highlights. I suppose Lucinda Graham-Edwards takes the biscuit for her gift in 1951, in those days I did not know that was possible! I wonder what ever happened to the dear, I remember that her father was fabulously well heeled, but the duffer could not tell a Green Hackle from and Ali Shrimp, such a waste. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.