Sunday, October 01, 2006

Rat Bags and Rangers

10/01/2006

What a wonderful autumn day, a misty chilly start that had The Baron well tucked under the duvet of The Great Bed of Trollaigh. However, by seven am the mists rolled way, surprising a roaring and ruffed stag in dearest Dottie’s garden sanctuary, to give us a lovely sunny day of light winds and an Indian Summer high of seventeen degrees. This ends a week of changeable weather with at least a shower or two every day that has not suited The Best Dry Stone Dyker in Argyll who mutters in the mud but does not want to show any sign of softness amongst the dykeing fraternity. The Bracken is turning and Birches yellow and drop their leaves giving a perfect foil to the lush ruby Rowan berries. Our new grass cutting regime is almost at its best with verdant paths and strips contrasting with the longer mature grasses from browns and sand to gold. It is all even more satisfying when I crossed the County March towards Tyndrum in search of a post box, to find rain and leaden murk on their side of the hills. On that sortie I was a little concerned to be asked where “The Hidden Valley” was (some thirty miles to the north west in Glen Coe), by two pleasant young hikers, I worry when such enthusiastic youth takes to the hills at this time of the year, as the days shorten and poor weather is quick to catch one out. The presentable pair asked for any advice on “good walks” so I pointed to Glen Trollaigh on their recently purchased map. At least if they get into trouble, they will see the lights of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh and be sure of a blazing fire, a sporting dram and £55 each for B&B.(double beds only available on production of a marriage certificate).

As the season draws to a close, we are into the “Old Codger Brigade” of weekend guests, and whilst they are low maintenance on the hill because they do not walk far or shoot terribly straight, they can be very high maintenance in The Tower. I only managed a couple of hours by myself on the upper swirling pools of the River Trollaigh, where a traditional cast is useless, only something resembling a Bedouin lassoing a camel will bring the fly temptingly towards its prey. I knew that my time was up when I spotted white smoke puffing from Mhairi’s kitchen range, indicating that I had better hurry back to base instanter. The drama had been caused by the arrival of Henry Lambridge, an Old Codger if ever there was one, always good for an indiscretion or two over dinner. However, he has arrived with a lady in four inch heels, thirty years his junior, although of a certain age herself. This dame upsets Mhairi and dearest Dottie by calling for room service and Egyptian cotton sheets. It is left to me to explain the principles of a country weekend, as that blighter Henry is hiding somewhere in the turrets. Henry’s siren accepts my quiet words with a sour face and a “Corfu next year” as she swishes away, roll on next year I say. Lachie is hovering, smiling sweetly at the retreating rat bag, and informs me that the Glen Orchy ranger has crossed our boundary and is poaching in the long glen, strictly against dearest Dottie’s express wishes. I wearily reach for the Schoffel and whistle up the mutts, thoughts of a Hendrick’s stiffener evaporating. However, for once the good lord is on my side with a great clap of thunder, the heavens open, Henry’s siren shrieks in the distance, and I think of the ranger getting a damn good soaking. There is no point in both of us getting wet, so a Hendricks and Tonic it is, chin chin old chums. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trolliagh.