Sunday, January 22, 2006
Thrush’s Spring Song
01/22/2006
We have to take the weather one day at a time it is not as good as the spell we enjoyed in December and early January, mostly cloudy, wet with snow on the hills, high rivers and burns with the temperature at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh hovering around plus 5 to 9. The media is now trying to justify its gloomy prediction of an extreme winter brought down upon us sinners by ozone depletion, global warming, excessive livestock methane emissions and the slowing of the Gulf Stream. By screeching that it is coming next Thursday on the dot of 10.00 am, an ice age of easterly gales, minus 30 degrees, and bottomless drifts of snow. It seems odd that both Heather The Weather and the lovely Gale McGrane make no mention of this major event, indeed they forecast a reasonable, if cloudy week ahead. At the tower, I favour the weather girls; here dearest Dottie’s wild wood animals are snugly hibernating in the outbuildings, only foraging by night to collect large numbers of my favourite Rich Tea biscuits strategically left on window ledges. On the last two mornings, I have clearly heard the Thrush’s spring song from the highest branches, whilst I have wandered the policies with the mutts. I feel that the Thrush may be exhorting us to get the bloody garden re-modelling finished. Work, which I regret has fallen behind schedule because of the wetter weather, costs are also getting out of hand as heavy plant languishes on site. I have spoken sharply to my plant man, however this small, toothless unintelligible troll laughs wildly pointing a grubby finger at the small print on a contract with what looks suspiciously like a forgery of the Baronial mark at the bottom of the page.
I was here for the winter of ’47 as some officious Rear Admiral on the China Station considered that I should spend an enforced leave ashore over some easily explained misunderstanding with his horse faced wife and daughter. In those days, my parents sheltered a considerable extended family on grace and favour following the difficulties with Mr Hitler. Their presence made the savage winter all the more bizarre. We had the luxury of a staff of six on the farm and in the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and as the weather worsened, we all moved into the tower. My father took on the role of a Winter General and organised work parties with various responsibilities, Lachie’s dad and I had to keep all the fires going day and night together with regular snow-shoed expeditions to shoot anything edible that moved. All those working in the wind scoured Artic glen thoroughly enjoyed our two weeks of isolation, together with the mysterious recipes that mother conjured up from the dubious ingredients delivered by the shooting party. However events did produce some strange behaviour from our guests, I remember one old dear who took to having a cold bath in the early hours, “to warm herself up a bit”, then an uncle who unexpectedly attacked father’s limited supply of claret, fortunately the Old Man managed to wean my uncle onto drams just in time. Hey Ho perhaps a cold snap would be quite fun. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Snow On The Tops
01/18/2006
Saturday provided “The” super day of the week with Alpine winter conditions that allowed uninterrupted outside work and it was certainly possible for even these old eyes to read out of doors at 5.30. It is a delight to feel just the slightest lengthening of the days, although it is frustrating when one’s gaze wanders to the snowy ridges and tops, would it not be marvellous to be up there rather than grinding through an never ending list of “things to do” at the foot of the glen? Much of the rest of the weather has been pretty mixed, from wet and mild to black and wild, frequently with some spectacular sunsets, partly due to the full moon. I cannot yet see the severe winter that we have been promised, the pundits only have a few more weeks to shake a stick at it, if they are to be proved correct. I have read my Scottish Ski Club Journal and I do hope that the forecasters of doom are on the ball so that I can dig out the planks, sharpen the edges and head for The White Corries, regrettably now leased by some cove that made his first thirty million out of selling dodgy premium line phone numbers. I am told that this rather bulky gent now has a wife and family, so he cannot be all bad, however, he must seriously consider dishing out some free passes to butter up his neighbouring landowners. I served my time learning to ski in the 50’s and 60’s clinging to the blue ice sheets of Glen Coe, although dearest Dottie serenely telemarked her way through the deep powder of Chateaux d’aix in a long tweed skirt at about the same time. As I write, sepia photos of those wonderful days, which hang still on the great library wall, bring a stirring to the old proverbials.
You, my readers will be pleased to learn that despite the poor Baron’s endless toil, his blood pressure has reached boiling point on a few occasions over the season of good will. It does not surprise me that West Dunbartonshire Council employs thousands of people, half of whom do not bother to pay their council tax, or indeed that “two jags” Prescott, that overweight, jumped up Cunard steward, does not see fit to pay his own council tax. However, I cannot quite understand how the multitudes who make up Customs and Excise and The Inland Revenue, can now combine to form a new “super” department of Customs and Revenue, or somesuch, yet still expect yours truly to file returns, self assess and fill in every form known to man, taking hours and hours of time. While there are literally hundreds of thousands of these civil service bastards sitting on their arses in modern offices marking time until they draw their final salary pensions in their fifties. I am now filling in my Disability Benefit forms that several Harley Street medicos will endorse, if they know what’s good for them, and will shortly be in clover, with a free parking pass and two handy aluminium walking sticks. Watch this space! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.