Sunday, April 22, 2007

Bogs And Boggers.

04/22/2007

A few days of building easterly gales brings the temperature tumbling to 7 or 8 degrees with a wind chill factor that leaves the Bermuda shorts in the dressing room and a hand hovering over the long johns. By cunningly keeping the Great Fire of Trollaigh blazing for sixteen hours a day and casually casting aside the tweed jacket, I have managed to avoid turning on the heating which I secretly switched off ten days ago, I have spotted the womenfolk feeling the odd radiator, so my bluff will be called if the bally spring does not heat up soon. The Swallows that a summer make are tucked up in a barn, sightings are scarce.

Dearest Dottie and the Great Garden Designer have been at it again, following a winter tour of grand European and UK gardens, a few changes are on the cards, particularly galling is the decision to create a pond and bog garden where there currently sits a small hill of approximately 30,000 cubic metres, affectionately known by one and all as Donnie Munro. One must take some solace from the thought that the GGD was not tempted to emulate the super new water features at Alnwick Castle Garden inspired by the Duchess of Northumberland of which Walt D would have been justly proud. Those of you who are familiar with rumbling earth mowers will realize that digging the mountain away is not even the half of it, one has to think of somewhere to transport the spoil, find trucks and build the odd road or two. Now you might think that a Titled Gent with 50,000 acres in hand would not have too much of a problem building a bog or two, particularly as 90% of North Argyll is already covered in the bally things, but you would be wrong. Apart from the obvious need for bottomless pits of wonga, one requires planning permission from Argyll and Bute Council. The Councillors are well intentioned to a man; however appear to know nothing of bogs, therefore the issue is also wafted passed the Nation Parks Authority, who in turn require an environmental impact assessment. The gravel in front of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh starts to host hordes of Ford Foci as SEPA appear to check that we are not going to toxify Scotland, Scottish Water to demand a payment and licence for water “containment”, SNH to insist that an Archaeologist is retained for the duration of the bog build to search for Augustine relics or some such. The Fisheries Board biologist calls to warn against interfering with Salmon spawning grounds, even the Forestry Commission threatens to check our title deeds to prove that we own the bog, all these wollahs require fees for their efforts totalling £10k to date. Then the RSPB phoned for a chat, purely to advise as they are not a “Statuary Body”, hotly followed by Historic Scotland who shout down the whole scheme on the grounds that yours truly is not a morally fit person to build a bog, as I have allegedly promoted violence and extreme right wing views in this very organ and must be declared an unfit person to bog build. You will understand that I have been sorely tempted to knock a few heads together as the weeks roll by, however the trick is to remain tightly under control and give the baronial mustachios a thorough chewing to stop foot in mouth, whilst keeping the Adam & Company cheque book at close hand and making sure that the pen is well Quinked at all times. The hardest cut came from my new advisor in such matters, Dr Ernest Beard PhD, “The trouble is, Old Salt, that none of these chaps see you as a conservationist”. I find this hard to take as I and my forebears have been nurturing the North Argyll glens for several centuries before these blighters were into short trousers, but that counts for nothing in the Brave New World.  All future Trollaigh bogs will be started at ground level rather than half way up a mini-mountain. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Shorts Weather

04/15/2007

I have been scribbling a few words of nonsense over the last few days to tell you about our Easter weekend family gathering, however I have just deleted the whole bally issue and must start again, for in the dawn hours of this morning while I was letting the mutts roam the policies, for which I now dress in plimsolls and khaki shorts following Christopher’s advice about the pleasure of dog fur against the shins as one grows older, and C is spot on, it’s rather jolly. However I digress, as the sun sparkled on the light frost, its beautiful beams marching across the floor of Glen Trollaigh, I spotted what I thought was a Skylark fluttering over the home farm steadings, but no it was our first Swallow! On Friday the thirteenth, now what could that tell us about the year to come? The mercury soars to 18 degrees, the sun shines from a cloudless sky and the hounds clog every shady doorway chewing on the rugs, hoping the gentle westerly breeze may sooth their still thick winter coats, Lachie wisely moves the Schweppes from the larder to the fridge, mould is swept from canvas outdoor cushions, bumble bees drone against the tall library windows and Red Admirals flutter on the skylights, fresh from their winter quarters in the Baronial dressing room. This is the joy of a proper spring that hundreds of thousands of English believe can only be enjoyed in some crumbling Greek goatherd’s grotto or perhaps a equally crumbling concrete condo on the Costas, but no, my friends, we Tollaighs have stretched our weary winter bones to this God given re-birth in Glen Trollaigh every spring for generations, and there is nothing to beat it from Artic to Biscoe Sound.

Although we had three dull days at the start of this week, our month-long spell of cracking weather continues. I always dread an Easter weekend of good weather as it brings out the campers, this year broke all records with about 150 extra inhabitants in Glen Trollaigh. They were to a man, out their trees on dope and booze, the new vogue being to use the countryside as a safe opium den, however to give plod his due I was very pleased to see a police mobile patrol sweep through just to remind those taking advantage of The Land Reform act that it is not all beer and skittles. God knows what the townie’s new freedom is costing us all in tax dollars as Argyll and Bute Council and the Forestry poured welcome resources into keeping North Argyll clean, while Strathclyde Fire and Rescue ploughed trillions of man hours into beating out many grass fires started in the main by the dreaded disposable Tesco barbeque, an invention of the devil if ever there was one, for when used its too bloody hot to carry away home, and when left behind the aluminium container has a half life of a billion years.

We had a super family Easter bash including church parade which was a few minutes late when the Padre arrived at the wrong Kirk. Daytime entertainment is tricky in this “off” season with virtually no chance on the River Trollaigh apart from knot practice; however we managed a reasonable crow shoot. We have improved the presentation of these crafty crovoids by trapping them in Larsen cages and releasing them a la clay pigeon to the guns at the last moment. I had to disqualify the top shot, Dr Ernest Beard PhD, of the Wet and Marshlands Trust. For although his PhD is in the unrelated “Tension and Stress in pre 1910 Golf Clubs”, he was not properly dressed, failing to be supported by a loader carrying the required Easter decanter of Ardbeg, cigars and long matches. I have a suspicion that the girls set this serious fellow up in waders and Aran woolly top sans dram. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.