Thursday, January 04, 2007

Noctural Nonsense

01/04/2007

Tomorrow, the fifth of January dawns when tradition dictates that all decorations and traces of the festive season must be lowered, packed and stored before the sixth. I hope that the pantry has also been cleared of “leftovers”, for although I do love to gnaw on a range of cold nibbles, one does not want to become over familiar with goose risotto, even if its procurement only cost a cartridge or two. For us country bumpkins, the fifth is also the “old” Scottish New Year, dating one assumes to pagan days, a little before even the very first Trollaighs laid claim to the glen. This celebration gives us a final wee excuse to raise a glass or two to 2007. The girls have opted to delay their return to Highburgh and invitations are out for any passers-by willing to risk roaring fires, good company and free purvey in exchange for a “turn” or two. Those lingering until daylight will be coerced into hard labour about the policies.

I feel sure that I have already retold the “wives” tale about the fifth of January, whereby it is said that one can read a letter, outside, at 5.00 pm on the fifth. It must have been under ideal conditions or perhaps written with a bold hand, for I was struggling to read my wristwatch at 4.20 pm today. However it is good to think of a wave of dates sweeping northwards with the tilting of the northern hemisphere towards the sun, signalling a desirable change in the season, from the conventional New Year’s Day to Vikings burning each other in Shetland on the twelfth of January.

Last night my dreams were pleasantly filled with yachts, sailing vessels and deep-water crossings. Perhaps the news of a fourteen-year-old crossing the Atlantic single-handed sparked it off, or maybe the constant heavy rain drumming on the old slates of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh with the answering roar of a rising Alt Trollaigh influenced my nocturnal nonsense. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that the girls’ excessive use of hot water after midnight, taxing our ancient plumbing, might have had something to do with it. God bless ‘em! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.