Sunday, September 24, 2006

Dark Thoughts And Windy Gordon

09/24/2006

Nonagenarians seem to be the theme as I ponder my scribbles after a beautiful autumn day, all be it as a passing shower blasts the castellations. Why ninety year olds I hear you ask, well apart from feeling that age myself having shifted a few tons of top-soil for dearest Dottie, then a few tons of stone for The Best Dry Stone Dyker in Argyll, followed by another few tons of woodchip for dearest D. It seems, according to the media, that those in their nineties have been behaving appallingly over the last couple of days. Our Community Policeman was summoned to the Dalmally Hotel in the early hours by the management after a ninety year old bird, medication abandoned in favour of several large brandies, was running naked the length of the corridors. Sensibly realising that his shift was almost over, our trustworthy PC retreated to the ample arms of his beloved, leaving the eastern european hotel staff to subdue the Barnsley Banshee with drams and brooms handles. The following morning, her modesty covered by a Highland Heritage travel blanket, the Oban SWAT team removed grannie, whilst she complained mightily of police brutality and pressed her claim for a refund of her hotel bill, which the management had wisely taken in advance. Such behaviour has not been restricted to the fairer sex, as allegedly, vice squad officers apprehended a ninety five year old gent during a swoop on curb crawlers in Inverness. The great granddad from Dingwall was negotiating a rate with a lady of the Inverness night, as plod raced to arrest him with nightsticks extended. I am greatly heartened by this story, as it seems there may be hope for the old Trollaigh yet, although perhaps it may be wise to avoid the Bridge Street area of Inverness. Perhaps lying about one’s age may also deflect the media spot light.

The tail end of Hurricane Gordon has dominated our week’s weather, with strong winds and at one point, 24 hours of heavy rain. However, it has stayed unusually mild with nighttime 15 degrees being common and 20 degrees in the odd sunny spell, almost 10 degrees above the seasonal average. The River Trollaigh rose to a great spate and fool hardly canoeists flew passed a few brave fishermen trying their luck in the brown torrent; I even spotted a campsite or two, although no one seemed to stay for much more than a day. The damp days drove me to the pub for the weekly quiz night for light diversion, I am normally welcomed to a team there because of my extensive knowledge of the history of right wing politics and popular music. The quiz always finishes with a written question, this week’s being “name twenty thing to be found in a Post Office”. One reply which eschewed the traditional; “a pencil, an envelope, a vehicle tax application form, a TV licence payment form etc” read; “four Muslims, three single mothers, two pushchairs, three pensioners, four walking sticks, two immigrant Polish workers, one tramp and one fully employed white church goer waiting twenty five minutes to post a letter”. I wonder whose entry that was. It failed to raise a laugh from our po-faced quiz mistress, although three local stalwarts stood me sporting drams. This answer seems to sum up our mood at present, has the summer gone on too long? With the equinox behind us, perhaps we subconsciously welcome the cold dark winter ahead where we might hide from the horrible reality of the world around us. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Damp Winnings.

09/18/2006

The past two weeks seem to have surged by, the first few days spent at Burghley and every hour of the second week spent with long standing chums who needed to be entertained with constant physical activity and long cheerful dinner parties, during which the “achievements” of the day were assessed in detail. I was exhausted, I am not sure whether it was the long walks on Ardnamurchan, or the detailed dissection of each footfall, but there certainly seems to be a sea change in my contemporaries who now seriously embrace the aggressive, healthy lifestyle that I had hoped would remain firmly in our children’s generation. A misty, autumnal weather pattern covers the glen with mellow fruitfulness, and a few showers have tempted the River Trollaigh into good condition. Night temperatures of 5 degrees or so have produced wonderful starry skies and secretly brought dearest Dottie’s electric blanket into play.

Our seasons must be a bit awry, as one family of swallows remain about the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, at least two weeks after all their peers have departed for the Sahara. Yet, the first stags are starting to disturb our sleep with roars and bellows a good three weeks early. We have splendid berries on all the Rowans and an exceptional plum crop from the old orchard, although strangely the new fruit trees are poor. Several old soaks from the village claim that these are all signs of a hard winter ahead, although it would appear that, they are at odds with the expert profits of doom and gloom who claim we will all drown in our beds and the humble tomato will fruit at Mickelmas, all because of American SUVs or somesuch. I think I will trust the old soaks and stock up with logs, coal and kerosene.

Although there is no betting allowed at Burghley, a few side bets can be taken with the odd down at heel aristo. We all had a very jolly time and managed to win a bob or two. Dearest Dottie is inclined to celebrate her success at any hour of day or night; unfortunately, the dear is never at her best after a glass or two, and nearly met with disaster when visiting the member’s lavatory still clutching a modest wad of winnings. While sitting controlling her summer frock with one hand and clutching the loot with the other, she was overcome with an overwhelming desire to sneeze, probably something to do with those ghastly things that squirt powerful unguents into the air every few seconds. With great dexterity, she juggled her responsibilities, grabbed a tissue and coped with a right Trollaigh of a sneeze, then casting the tissue into the potty she relaxed only to realise that she was still holding the tissue, but the loot was in the loo. Several servitors looked strangely at me for the rest of the day as I proffered damp, bluish fivers in exchange for glasses of Pimms. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.