Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Ashrams And Ice Climbers
02/21/2006
A week of trials. I am sorely tried by a summons to London where my daughters have decided to turn the Highburgh house into an Ashram and I suffer several nights dodging orange clad figures and inhaling a heady mix of raw vegetables, strange herbal smoke and spices. Eventually my London legal chum, David, manages to evict all the undesirables and dearest Dottie and I persuade our tearful wasting assets to get back to their PR jobs and shun the spiritual twilight that has taken all their time and money over he last few weeks. One hopes that their hair will grow back with all speed. Mind you, Highbury is not what it was and ours is not the only million pound Georgian townhouse to radiate the aromas of the mystic orient. Although much of our time was spent negotiating with reluctant offspring, at least it was wonderful to walk a few yards from Highburgh Corner to enjoy a decent cup of coffee. Not forgetting the luxury of a window table at Gill Wing’s with a good glass of red and an uninterrupted view of one of the world’s best lingerie shops on the other side of the street.
To-day I have escaped the Great Tower of Trollaigh to climb up onto MacDonald’s ridge. The mutts cavort in the snow as I look down the 2500 feet onto the floor of Glen Trollaigh and gain an Eagle-eye view of the wonderful garden works developing around the Great Tower. I bump into a group of ice climbers at the head of the Corrie of the Deer. These Gortex athletes seem a little non-plussed at meeting a tweed clad old codger with gun on shoulder and Alpenstock at hand, surrounded by a wild band of hounds on the athele’s favourite sunny snowfield. Indeed, they are rude enough to ignore my hearty greeting, choosing to mutter at their boots or stare towards the sky as I speak; whose bloody mountain is it anyway!
On the way home, I glace back at the sunset turning the snowy tops pink and feel that I can discount all the depressing news headlines of fingerprints and single parents transmitted at me throughout the week. It is just so wonderful to be alive and fit in Glen Trollaigh in fine winter weather, with the Robin’s wonderful spring song filling me with hope for the year ahead. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Steve Wright and the Chamber of Horrors
02/12/2006
I sit with a decadent glass of 1664 at midday surveying a damp, misty Glen Trollaigh, as I try to work up the enthusiasm to heave on a few layers and get outside, mainly to exercise the mutts, but also to keep the log pile up to snuff, perhaps just one more glass before I get cracking.
Today’s Landward on BBC One, a must for the countryman, had a fairly depressing long range forecast for next week with plenty of rain and a particularly stormy Wednesday. The good news was that a bull at the Perth sales reached almost £40k. The bad news is that SNH, Strathclyde Police, The Crown Estates, Uncle Tom Cobly and all, want the great unwashed to count the native oysters on their foreshores, inform SNH and then inform on their neighbours to the Police, who in turn will pounce, on behalf of The Crown Estates on anybody “stealing” things from the shoreline. How long will it be before poor Diana Drummond is hauled off in chains for organising the traditional Carragheen harvest that has been carried out on the Argyll coast since the middle ages? There is little science attached to these multi-agency attacks on the freedoms of UK citizens, it is purely greed, as our government looks at absolutely every activity and frets over any possible way to tax it, bastards.
Talking of the great unwashed, while waiting for Landward, I was forced to listen to a moment or two of Steve Wright’s “Sunday Love Songs”. What absolute gibberish, this surely is the dumbing down of decent society, a highlight was a soppy message for 93 year old Vera followed by “Steve’s” choice of record, yes you’ve guessed it; “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone”, what a complete tosspot.
Speaking of bad taste, John Kerr in Glen Orchy sent me over a DVD of “Bad Santa”, possibly the best film I have ever watched. Every red-blooded male in Argyll spends a whole lifetime striving to attain half the lifestyle and attitudes to vital moral issues of the hero. It was interesting to note that dearest Dottie seemed less impressed than I, but I did hear an occasional giggle as we watched by the flickering light of the Great Fire of Trollaigh. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh