Monday, July 10, 2006
Hymn 133
07/10/2006
After seven days of khaki short’s weather a bit of a change blows through, fresher 17 degrees, blustery southerlies and a few heavy showers. The tweed breeks are back on and the baronial Borsalino is crammed firmly on the burned bonce to keep the rain away from the bi-focals. A change is as good as a rest and although the knees are burnt and the physog well bitten, my reaction to the rain is to glance towards at the rod cases as the Alt Trollaigh rises, and wonder whether or not an early cast in the hidden pools might be worth a gamble.
Sunday saw the end of Wimbledon and I have to admit that I enjoyed watching both the Men’s and the Women’s finals on TV, although Nadale’s grunting still puts me off. I caught a glimpse of dearest Dottie sitting behind “the rev” Margaret Cook in the VIP box, our girls had apparently flogged their tickets and were boating on the Thames. The sight of Margaret reminded me of the day that she watched our girls playing on a friend’s court in Richmond and pronounced that our pair were “not the shape for serious tennis”, the barb struck with our lot, however I am pleased to say that the sneer has now stuck permanently to Margaret’s lopsided coupon.
Sunday morning saw church parade at Bridge of Orchy and I can only say that things have gone from bad to worse in the vacancy caused by John Sheddon’s skipping off to the Spanish sunshine. A most genuine chap kindly led the congregation of twelve in an enthusiastic fifty-five minute service, twice the effort we are used to, including five hymns. The low point must have been the choice of hymn number 133 by Frank von Someone, none of us knew it, and so droned and whispered out of any tune for a few buttock clenching moments and then ground to a halt. Thank God for the Lord’s Prayer.
I am off to Oxford for the rest of the week to meet up with dearest Dottie for a few days of culture before carrying my beloved north to Glen Trollaigh and the Great Bed of Trollaigh. And a tentative start to our sporting season with accompanying guests, some hopefully “paying” rather than “chance”, let us see if we can swell the coffers over the next couple of months. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. PS. Mobile number remains 07917 818 950, although the hounds have swallowed at least two phones since dearest Dottie left for Henley.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Swallows And Pirates
07/07/2006
The news of Tom Weir’s death reaches here to-day. I remember him, as a frequent visitor to Glen Trollaigh in the 50’s and 60’s when he kept a “grace and favour” bothy on the farm for his chums. Of course, he went on to much greater things than conquering Glen Coe in a bobble hat and ex-army boots, leading hard climbs in The Alps, Nepal and Africa in the days when the ghost of Mallory must have been at his shoulder. There is some talk of renaming The West Highland Way, The Tom Weir Way, and I support that, a sad day for North Argyll and Scotland.
We are lucky to have a great number of young birds about the policies as recent good weather has hatched plenty of bugs to feed them, and there are several rarities proving the success of our winter feeding programme. However, the clown’s prize must go to a fairly batty pair of Swallows who considered long and hard about their nesting spot, starting to build at least three nests before plumping for one over my favourite boot room doorway. Much to my delight, they have produced at least three nestlings, and long after their peers are swooping after Mum and Dad in a display not unlike a WW2 Squadron Leader tenderly nursing snotties through the finer points of aerial combat, the batty pair has taken to attacking the Baron every time I emerge from the doorway. This drives the dogs mad, however I rather enjoy the rush of the near misses, and I only hope the pair will not neglect their feeding duties in the process.
The Trollaigh womenfolk remain at Wimbledon, we three left to guard the Tower of Glen Trollaigh must seek diversions. Lachie, Mhairi and I decided to extend our shopping trip to Oban to take in the UK premiere of “Pirates of the Caribbean – Dead Man’s Chest” with a dinner in “Coast” restaurant before hand. I have been wary of Coast as it is housed in an old joint stock bank building. However, we did have a good dinner, to be honest I felt that the iciness of the front of house was thinly veiled and the colour scheme threatening, perhaps I was pipped by the fact that none of the servitors recognised me. However, if one finds oneself in Oban, Café 41, The Manor House, The Waterfront and Eeusk are all better. The Cinema was a blast and full of recently released Oban High School Pupils who stamped and farted throughout two and a half hours of Walt Disney nonsense. When the lights went up I was not only delighted to see a few pillars of Oban society, but also that the said RROHP’s were harmless and poorly dresses with hair dyed in various shades of red, my hat goes off to the bunch in the back row dressed as Johnnie Depp look-a-likes. I was glad to be back at the Tower of Glentrollaigh for a stiffener and bed by 1.00am.
All good fun, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.