Friday, April 07, 2006
Dry Martinis
04/07/2006
Strong North Westerlies bring the wind chill tumbling and snow and hail showers remind us that winter still has a sting in its tail at a time when we should be seeing temperatures creeping up and the straw colours of winter edge towards green. Our first lambs are appearing two weeks early as Lachie, never too hot on the facts of life must have let a couple of healthy tups out a day or two before tupping day in November. Dearest Dottie finds these births in this weather very distressing and she continually scans the parks for new and potentially vulnerable arrivals. However, their mothers are bred for rough weather and they seem perfectly capable of sheltering their young from the worst of the wet whilst Lachie and I watch for crows and foxes.
Over the last couple of weeks I have discovered a new gin, “Miller’s”, there is some guff about using Icelandic Water, however, the main point is that it is forty five percent proof, making a marvellous dry martini. I have been experimenting with the formulation over a couple of lunchtimes, which has resulted in some rather lazy afternoons, but if you see it anywhere, I believe Harvey Nics are a stockist, grab a bottle and send one on to me for the tip. The point of this digression is that whilst slumped at the library window after said DM, I spotted our first Wheatear as clear as day. These shy meadow birds are only here in their summer breeding season and arrive ahead of our Swallows from North Africa and Europe; the blighters are presumably riddled with bird flu, surely, only the dimmest of you will have missed its official arrival yesterday. My personal mole in the RSPB, “Sandy” an archetypal grizzled Yorkshire man with hiking boots and clipboard tells me that bird flu has been detected on bird reserves up and down the east coast for weeks past. However, the RSPB have been desperate to avoid the first “case” being found on RSPB land, in case that the millions of myopic retired teachers who support the charity with their donations should take offence. Things had got so bad that a dead Swan was scooped from the Vane Farm reserve on Loch Leven, where one can apparently walk across the water on the backs of dead Tufted Duck, and, under cover of darkness, it was then dumped in Cellardyke harbour to be reported by an RSPB activist. Huge sighs of relief all round as the responsibility passes to the Scottish Executive, who are, of course on holiday to look after their ghastly infants as the schools are closed. And ultimately to that pompous fool, Ross Finnie, allegedly the only man in history to have failed to realise the purpose of a visit to a brothel on his stag night.
I have issued the strictest instructions to Lachie that he and I will shoot down every Swan, Duck and Wildfowl that ventures into the glorious air space of Glen Trollaigh in accordance with the royal charter granted to the Trollaighs in 1638, and that every trace of bird flu will be flushed into the North Atlantic via the sea lochs. We Trollaighs accept the challenge of this new scourge of euro pestilence, and in accordance with our risk and biosecurity assements, advise you that the Great Tower of Trollaigh is now closed to uninvited visitors. Good luck to one and all, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Six Good Men nd True
04/04/2006
As I thought my week has rushed by, add the effect of the time change and I am jet-lagged. Various folk have been complaining of all sorts of ailments, most tracing back to contact with hospitals, or at the very least medical centres, and I think I have contracted most of them. I learn from the television that all can be remedied with good bacteria, however I will trust in the medicinal effects of The Young Ardbeg, in double measure.
Spring seems to have been delayed once more with an extra dose of chilly easterly breezes and a dusting of snow, hard night frosts, but some lovely sunny spells during the day with a glimpse of what might be with us in the next few weeks. It is wonderful to be back in Glen Trollaigh after the frantic travelling of the past ten days, Lachie and I plan the execution of our most pressing tasks including the installation of a new fuel tank and the construction of the ubiquitous “deck” which is to be part of the Great Garden Plan. Dearest Dottie has been calling for a man to be brought in to construct the deck, however, if Alan Tichmarsh can do it, all be it assisted by some bra-less amazon, then surely Lachie and I will master it at a fraction of the cost.
With great sadness, I attended the funeral of yet another dear old friend. This was a rather lovely traditional rural burial and I must admit that I much prefer this to the antiseptic high-speed cremation. We all gathered in the peaceful kirk overlooking the green, enjoyed a charming service and progressed to the graveside, followed by tea, buns and a couple of drams in the village hall, so civilised and peaceful. The hallmark of chaos at interments is the often bizarre selection of the six pallbearers, an honour bestowed on close friends of the deceased by the family. These stalwarts are often drawn to represent various interests of the dear departed, relatives, golfers, sailors, farmers or doctors and so on. Despite careful planning this always produces six good men and true ranging in age from eighteen to eighty and in height from five foot to six foot five. Last week’s event was no exception and there was many a giggle from the congregation to lighten the atmosphere as the six struggled to heave the seven foot coffin and its sturdy incumbent from the kirk in a dignified manner, a particular obstacle in this case was the narrowness of the awkward doorways. One ancient was left hanging by his collar on a lobby coat hook while his opposite number, recently home from a triple bypass, had to pull out leaving the remaining muttering mismatched four to accelerate down the slippery outside steps. However, all was well and the deceased arrived at his resting place only a few minutes behind the rest of the party. Apart from the obvious sorrow, a lovely day. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.