Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Highlanders And Amazons.
06/21/2006
Changeable, stormy weather heralds the middle of the month, this is really the start of our rainy season that can last for a few months and always includes such standards as water sodden Wimbledon Fortnight with assorted RHS Flower Shows rained off. However, we Brits always hope for dry weather when we need it, just as we still think that we may have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the footie World Cup, yes I know it is “still mathematically” possible. Midsummer’s day brings a bit of surprise with a full force 9 gale and torrential rain for 24 hours, creatures great and small scatter for shelter as the River Trollaigh becomes a raging brown torrent and there are renewed calls for the heating in the Tower of Glen Trollaigh to be started up yet again. I earnestly believe that an extra external layer of wool and an internal stiffener of The Young Ardbeg are all that are required to overcome the slings and arrows of the Scottish weather in any season.
I have enjoyed a wonderful combination of experiences over the past few days. When, at last, after a break of some months I have been able to take a most enjoyable trudge over the long glen in wild conditions, and look down into Glen Orchy from on high, with mighty Ben Lui still dominating despite his shroud of thick swirling cloud. One definitely has a feeling of walking in the footsteps of some majestic, if slightly damp Highlander in these desolate spots. By contrast, I have spent some time trying to extricate myself and hounds from the stairwells of the Buchanan Galleries carpark having discovered that the lifts were kaput. I fear that I have no knowledge of engineering, or indeed, of the bally designer of the said carpark, however, you may believe me when I say that the stairwells are a nightmare of misinformation and at least forty-five minutes passed between locking the motor and settling into Sarti’s with a dry white. All this nonsense seems to spill over into my dreams where a goal is in sight and there is endless time in which to achieve it. However, goo and haze seem to hold one back, and more recently it was a question of defeating the obstacles by shouting useful abuse at the ranks of amazon enemy; “false finger nails” floored them, whilst one’s allies turn into sleeping blocks of shiny chocolate coloured steel. Nature conquers the old in all these pleasant drifting dreams as the overpowering message is, “get up and go to the lavatory”.
A visit from the Glen Orchy Kerr’s brings a hughmungus game of ring-a-ring of roses with Mhairi Katharine, who also rides the 17th Baron’s rocking horse whilst drinking water from the last remaining 16th century sherry crystal glass. The fires and heaters of Arichastlich roar to keep guests comfortable as unused showers splutter back into live. However, who would have it any other way. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Trollaigh Swapping.
06/14/2006
After baking the old bonce almost black in the hot sunshine of the past few days, I am pleased to say that things have cooled down to a seasonal 18 to 20 degrees, with a few sunny periods and even a shower or two. The down side is the arrival of our summer curse, midges. As soon as any breeze drops below a steady puff, we are surrounded by clouds of the buggers. I try to let them have a good chew of my wrinkled hide at this time of year so that I might build up a little resistance by the opening of the season on the 12th Aug. However, yesterday I had great difficultly avoiding the crazed hopping about and swiping stage, when I spent an hour or so getting the last of our potatoes in. Just the very mention of them has me scratching as I write.
A phone call confirms the triumphant return of the Glen Orchy Kerrs from their family wedding in Ireland, and a fine time seems to have been had by all concerned. The weather was perfect and the expensive reception a great success, although rumours are circulating that some Scots were startled by the creationist nature of the vicar’s address. It is odd that the traditional Christian values of good old-fashioned guilt seem to be back in vogue. The hair shirt brigade have not penetrated the Argyll glens, although I did find a pamphlet asking “Are You Ready To Die” nailed to the gate post by some evangelist from Connel too timorous to approach to double oak doors of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh. Come to think of it, the Connel branch of the Later Day Saints probably still remember the time when the 17th Baron made one of their number sit in a barrel of cold water in a waspy corner of the Rose Garden, to prove some point on stoicism that the said evango had been proposing on the front step.
I found myself to be the butt of several tasteless jokes at the recent Oban Charities Day, of which I am normally a significant supporter. Apparently, as our tourist season gets under way; many upper class English twits are thoughtlessly stocking up with nibbles and Chablis in the Oban Tesco en route to their restored butt and bens on Mull, Tiree and Colonsay. They have brought with them the new craze of “Trolley Swapping” from the Chelsea Harvey Nicks or some such. Whereby if you spot some tempting item on the pile of groceries coming through the checkout behind you, one simply swap it to your own pile, thereby denying the pleasure of a pat of butter or a can of beans to your plebeian neighbour. There have been heated outbursts at Tesco’s over this heartless practice, so that a beefy faced Oban Rotarian asked me what all this “Trollaigh Swapping” was about, Bastard. I will be buying goats for the blind of Namibia from now on.
Anyway, dearest Dottie and I extend all our good wishes to the newly weds, Jono and Heather, who apparently started on the long road of marriage with a blow-out at One Devonshire Gardens, a suite that I could not possibly afford, keep spending Jono! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.