Sunday, December 18, 2005
Organic Free Range Turkey.
12/18/2005
Glen Trollaigh produces its mix of winter weather from clear crisp cloudless days, through to dank, dark and moody drizzle. The daytime temperature rarely rises above two degrees and on a number of nights has already fallen to minus six. The baronial figures have been suffering severe cold because of the strange genetical gift that Baron Hector left the Trollaighs all those years ago. However, I have found some wonderful new “Sealskin” waterproof gloves, which although devilishly expensive help a lot. Because I frequently forget where I have put down my gloves, and in view of the ticket price, Mhairi has fashioned a wonderful long skein of wool that attaches the gloves to each other via the sleeves of my tweed jacket. For some reason this seemed to raise a smirk or two in the Oban Tesco. Some people are bloody batty if they cannot recognise a jolly good idea when they see one.
With only a week to go before Christmas my supplies of quality food and wine are beginning to arrive from the south. I would never dream of buying meat or game other than locally, however, Scotland, or at any rate the west, is a desert when it comes to fruit, vegetables, decent plonk and above all the organic, free range turkey now demanded by dearest Dottie. I had to hide the fact that last year’s bird worked out at almost eight quid a plate, so I have furtively contacted some cove in Perthshire with only a mobile number to his name, who has assured me that he can supply the very thing at half the price. “Billy” seemed a little vague about the organic side but was confident about the bird being free range, as presumably he will be personally chasing the poor brute around some neighbour’s field under cover of darkness.
Supplies from Fortnum’s remind me of a great tale about old man Nicholson who bought the Shiants from Compton MacKenzie. Nicholson’s greatest pleasure was to spend the summer months there in hermit like isolation without any facilities save a most basic bothy. One year he arranged for a Lewis fisherman to drop him off with his regular two cases packed by Fortnum, as the boat pulled off the shore the skipper agreed to return in ten weeks to collect our castaway. Over a couple of days Nicholson heaved the supplies up to the bothy and carefully opened the first case in eager anticipation only to find a note of apology that Fortnum had been unable to supply the order for boxes of matches! The same Nicholson wrote an interesting essay about the relative merits of different species of seaweed when used as loo paper or toilet tissue as I believe we must now call it. Come to think of it, I should bring this to the attention of Diana Drummond, who must be having a Christmas party soon. Cheers, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Round Robin Christmas Letters.
12/14/2005
The weather is changeable, but what is new about that? One day it is wet and misty, the next dry and sunny, but every day is short and pretty cold, although weathergirl Gale tells me that it is milder than normal for this time of year. I have spent the daylight hours working away in the mud, engaged in the great garden project, and in the evening, after my muscle easing bath, I have been busy with a task completely new to me; writing Christmas cards.
For years, as Chairman of Trollaigh Shipping, I have enjoyed the services of some terrific PA’s, organising Christmas card lists, signing and despatching same, has naturally been their responsibility. Now that I have fallen from grace, this task is mine and it is such fun, I have been able to commission a wonderful winter scene of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh in a modest A5 with a bright red ribbon holding an inner double leaf embossed with the family crest and suitable Christian message, much more satisfactory that a boring old super tanker. I have cheated slightly and Mhairi has helped me with computerised addressed envelopes and a digital signature, so all I have had to do is scribble the very occasional person message on a few of the hundred or so that I have dispatched, hopefully they will be falling through your letterboxes next week. I have deliberately avoided the seasonal round-robin letter insert, as you can all catch up with my gossip here. I have always been suspicious of these things where parents heap praises on the efforts of their spotty offspring who may achieve minor degrees at some red brick university and take time out to travel, and then make no mention of the same young paragons being arrested for drunk and disorderly in Piccadilly Circus, and catching VD on the aforementioned travels. The wind has been somewhat taken out of my sails as dearest Dottie has drawn my attention to the background of my otherwise stunning winter scene of the Tower, where there is the small figure of a bloody poacher whose trousers are down and two rosy cheeks are aimed defiantly at the camera. Hey Ho, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.