Sunday, April 16, 2006

Pole Dancers of Tobermory

04/16/2006

One can only describe the weather as miserable, a constant soaking drizzle with low grey cloud and, for mid April, it is too cold, still struggling to reach double figures. Much of the snow has been stripped below 2500 feet and when occasionally I get a decent view as a good gust of westerly wind blows through, I can watch the squalls rush in a wintery fashion up towards the northern head wall of Glen Trollaigh. Lambing is now upon us with a vengeance. Lachie and the entire household are on patrol, on the lookout for difficult deliveries and all the suicidal antics that otherwise only vaguely mad ewes get up to at this time of year. The kitchen floor is scattered with cardboard boxes each containing lambs both temporarily or permanently orphaned and that require regular bottle-feeding. I well remember an old grieve of my father’s comment that all orphaned lambs invariably “die in debt”, how right he was.

Amongst the usual rubbish that Postie delivers today is the news that I have been expecting, the withdrawal of my “K”, on the grounds that I unwisely donated £20 to my community council to support their campaign to add an extra room to the surgery to enable confidential consultations amongst the black, one-legged, lesbian single mums of the parish. My wonderful list MSP Jamie McGrigor warned me that President Blair had issued a dictat that all honours offered north and east of N1 were to be cancelled, but I must say that I am bitter. Dearest Dottie doubly so as together with her legitimate “Rt Hon”, she could have become Lady Dottie, rather than “Baroness Trollaigh” which she has always found a little too Scottish. For my part, it is just a terrible shame that my celebratory bash planned for the member’s terrace at Westminster has to be cancelled. This splendid facility paid for by the taxpayer and that can be hired for a modest sum, still sells reasonable bubbles for under twenty quid a bottle, however it is most terribly underused, perhaps on another occasion.

Lachie and I have been spending our spare time renovating an old garden bench sent over from Arichastlich. This is the famous “Earl’s Bench” which used to support the not inconsiderable bulk of the Earl of Breadalbane when he fished the Orchy. It has been a great challenge taking it to bits and returning the bench to its former glory. We have even managed to repair the damage caused when George Houston hurled the bench at his friend Neil Munro in either 1912 or 13, an incident retold in Para Handy’s “Pole Dancers and Green Tea in Tobermory”, penned by Neil Munro in 1920. I am considering having an inscription added detailing some of the bench’s fascinating history.

Church parade will be in Dalmally this Easter Sunday, the only other option being Crianlarich, and that is not really on, for in the absence of our dear Rev John Sheddon services in Stathfillan veer between numbingly boring and down right dangerous. Dalmally will also have the attraction of dear old Mrs Shuster bringing her dogs to the church. This darling ancient chatelaine will be inspecting her Glenstrae outliers having travelled from the usual Gloustershire megafarm. The Catholics have some very strange ideas about animals and religion, however, in Argyll the rest of the congregation find dogs in church odd, as, to a man they would never loosen a brute from the back of their pick up’s other than to gather sheep or bite tourists. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

The Sabbath

04/11/2006

I watch three weather-beaten ladies of a certain age launch the Green Party manifesto on dearest Dottie’s newly acquired library 52-inch plasma TV. One could describe them as either; bitches or witches, but where their policies are concerned, the words “fart” and “spacesuit” spring to mind. Surely, the politicos must realise that no middle class footballer’s wife in her right mind is going to give up her school run gas-guzzler so that pensioners with two walking sticks will be able to have free public transport and free eye tests with which to view the burgeoning wild bird population. I can hardly contain my laughter as The Scottish Executive now claim that bird flu does not exist and that the one confirmed case was some passing German swan. Apart from this being a total lie the science is completely flawed as the guilty Hooper Swan over winters here and then flies north in the spring to breed, indeed I watched an Easter tourist taking a snap to-day of a dozen bally Hoopers which have spent the last few months with us on Loch Trollaigh. Death to swans, ducks and tourists for that matter.

Numbers of tourists are rising with the school holidays and our weather has been able to provide plenty of healthy outdoor exercise for all ages; skiing, cycling and canoeing being the best of the winter, although Mhairi’s mention of “water sports” over the communal morning coffee in the kitchen always sets the blood racing. Communion Sunday did present a bit of a problem for old sabitarians like the Trollaighs, as a few good friends choose to call on that day. After spending several hours with church matters, dearest Dottie and I had to pretend that we have been working in the garden as they arrived to put them at their ease. Fortunately, for our souls they left before sundown on Palm Sunday allowing the household to spend a couple of hours in sober contemplative prayer after our kind guest’s departure. I understand that the souls of the crew of the MV Loch Portain cannot be spared after their appalling Sunday sailing on the sound of Harris at the communion season; surely, they will be doomed forever. However as Sunday has is safely behind me, I can safely raise a glass to you all, dear readers, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.