Monday, November 06, 2006

A Different Landscape

11/06/2006

My talking tour of the WRI’s has taken me eastwards across to Angus and Aberdeenshire, allowing me to expand to the ladies of Forfar, Brechin and Methlick. These dears normally like a religious theme and I stuck to the tried and tested “The relevance of Christianity in rural Scotland”. Perhaps it is the influence of the Iraq war, however my audiences where much larger than in past years, and a good deal younger, I even spotted a Prada handbag amongst the young matrons of Methlick.

One has to recognise the fundamental difference between Argyll and Aberdeenshire, and that is one of land ownership. Here, in the glens of north Argyll, only a few own vast tracts of the unforgiving rocky highlands, leasing poor land to extraordinarily tough hill farmers. However, in the east families cling to excellent farm land for generations and shiny Jaguars share stables with modern Tractors, guns are blasted for sport, rather than the weightier weapons used in the west to control vermin and wild animals threatening the limited grazing. Angus claims to be the birthplace of Scotland, and so it may be with an accent of its own, in Aberdeen one if frequently hailed as “Fit Like Loon” and must not take offence at this cherry greeting. There is also the confusing habit of adding “ie” to the end of every word or name, I particularly like “gutterie” meaning muddy, but pray how does one pronounce “The Prop of Ythsie” and indeed what or where is it?

My travels have exposed me to many packed halls of coughing customers, so each morning I have to consume many a pill prescribed by dearest Dottie to fend off the dreaded lurggie, now that our surgery deems us ineligible for a free flu jab. One of the preparations is Gingko Bilboa that will improve my memory; however, I always forget to take it. At least I seem to be avoiding pan Europe power cuts (surely a sign to pull out of all things euro) and all the spin that surrounds public pronouncements. From the timing of the Saddam verdict to the socialists collecting 17.5% tax on all the pound coins punted by the poor on the lottery and siphoned off to build stadia for the 2012 London Olympics. This tax regime smacks of the Sheriff of Nottingham, however one must assume that President Blair reckons that he will not be carrying the can in six year’s time! The weather is exceptionally kind as I pack my bag for Edinburgh and the Borders, with a short break before battling to Yorkshire and back to Glasgow. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trolliagh. 

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Muir Of Ord On A Saturday Night

11/02/2006

I am not certain if it has been the sight of yet another Curry King sporting a Scottish tartan kaftan, this time Charan Singh in the modern Kerr tartan snapped at some charity do reported in Scotland’s answer to “Hello”, the “No 1”magazine. Or the subliminal admission of our political masters that inflation is actually running at the 8% increase published in their fat cat annual expenses. However, I do feel winter coming on. A wonderful clear full moon is on the way, frost nips the extremities of our young guisers and northerly breezes blast down Glen Trollaigh, tumbling the blasted wheelie bins beyond the reach of Argyll’s finest scaffies.

I have returned to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for hot bath and a change of smalls in my grand speaking tour of the WIs, so far I have bored the pants off the lovely ladies of Deeside and then Strathpeffer. The great delight in this otherwise irksome task is the opportunity to overnight with distant relatives whom I only visit once a year, mainly because many of them keep their heating thermostats firmly set at ten degrees C, and one’s only protection is a good pair of cashmere socks and a winter weight nightshirt. The visits are doubly painful, as most of them seem to be using something called Lidl as their wine merchants. I was upset to find one former trencherman nibbling on rice cakes and sipping Soya milk on the instructions of his medico in order to reduce the poor blighter’s cholesterol level. The old cove had completely missed the point that his GP gets a £10K bonus if he hits a government target to get his panel of patient’s health up to certain trigger measurements. So while my elderly chum spreads Olivio on bran crackers, his GP is off picking out the colour of his new BMW.

I have also learned that rural Scotland is certainly changing, during a visit to Muir of Ord. This innocent spot now boasts a murder or two, regular riots on a Friday night, fireworks fired at passing cars from the primary school playground, and even more interestingly; Ladies of the Night. Presumably, pole dancing can only be just round the corner. All this was reported to me by various aggrieved residents of Beauly, with one wonderful tale of an elderly elder of the kirk who stopped to offer a scantily clad girl, obviously having missed the last bus on a wet night, a lift into Inverness. The poor fellow completely failed to grasp the meaning of “I’m working”, and only after it was explained to him in the most graphic terms, was he able to proceed alone and red-faced to the highland capitol.

My more observant followers may have noticed that those saints at defreeze have tinkered with the format of my scribblings. Mainly this has been to placate those demanding the right of reply. I should add that all this has been achieved at considerable personal expense, and those of you who may wish to defray this are encouraged to do so in the usual manner. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.