Sunday, July 29, 2007
Waders and Wine
07/29/2007
Prayers given up to the almighty from the side of the Great Bed of Trollaigh concerning water levels needed for fishing have been answered. Suitable overnight rains have swollen the River Trollaigh sending our paying guests cavorting to the river banks clad in rubber and neoprene. Rod tips have bent, lines have tightened and the red bearded Ghillies have been stuffing generous tips into their ample cleavages. Fortunately we presently have a mixed party, as “boy’s” weeks tend to bring out the very worst in a chap, burning the candle at both ends, competitive sulking, leaving rooms in a state, demanding food at odd hours and worst of all stomping about the rod room’s five hundred year old Oak floor in spike shod waders. Where men bring well trained river bank dogs, the downside of womenfolk is that they are accompanied by completely uncontrollable Pugs and Terriers that cause havoc in any well ordered house. It is best to take care the moment the Range Rover tailgate drops and darling Coochee Coo leaps into attack mode, favourite targets being one’s trousers, and any other reachable domestic pet or farmyard animal. It is essential for future harmony to chew hard on the mustachios, avoid hysterical laughter, resist the overwhelming temptation to boot Coochee into the long grass, and then have a well rehearsed cheerful throwaway remark ready whilst one deftly removes the remains of the prize cockerel from Coochee’s foul jaws. This is all an overture to an appalling display of bad manners, eating at all hours, begging at the table, muddy paws on furniture, upstairs and on beds, so all in all no different from a boy’s week!
Many fishermen enjoy making free with our renowned wine cellar, however the trend for yuppies to favour the New World with lots of bubbles means that many guests send cases of wine ahead of their arrival for their personal consumption and a touch of wine snobbery; “found this on the SOUTH side of the Yarrabong in ’02 when I hiked across the Waga Plain with that crazy old guide Macpherson, you remember darling, it just lacks that double cream nose of the station on the north bank”. I received a call from a wine merchant in Upper Street who had an advance order for a couple of cases placed by a guest and enquiring about the shipping address. Now in the North Argyll glens we are well used to excess carriage charges because we chose to live in the country, it all started were a ferry crossing was involved and became known as an “Island Surcharge” although it now applies to all of Scotland north and west of Perth. However this Upper Street wine cove point blank refused to send the plonk when I carefully and clearly explained the locus of Glen Trollaigh, as the twit claimed that it was an “antisocial address”, one feels that wino kid did not quite mean to use that exact phrase although it paints a poor picture of any wine buff trading south of Watford. Stick to Sainsbury, dear guests, who will deliver anywhere FOC, although you will have to withstand the daily non PC e-mails thereafter exhorting you to swill it back and buy some more. Chin chin my dears, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Monday, July 16, 2007
That Old Dead Mole
07/16/2007
I know that summer and the Glasgow Fair have arrived when some spotty oick brazenly bangs at the studded Oak doors of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh to complain in a thin voice that “a poor wee sheep is being eaten by wild dogs” in some nearby ditch. This is patent rubbish as no well fed; self respecting Glen Trollaigh hound would go near a dead sheep. Foxes and Badgers certainly would enjoy such an al fresco feast. I often wonder if the “Crisp Bag Throwers” that poke their noses into all things rural would understand that Foxes and Badgers are free to eat dead sheep, an excellent disposal system from our point of view, or do the CBTs baulk at foxes et all red in tooth and claw or indeed red and riddled with TB and Lyme’s disease. It is high time that all school children smelt the whiff of rotting cadavers and saw at first hand the lice and ticks crawling upon them to understand that it is all part of the food chain. Although I doubt that those who happily launch their empty cans and wrappers from the car have any concept of the roadside Food Chain apart from a fleeting anticipation of their next double flame grilled whopper with cheese (wrappers thrown to the winds at a lay-by near you).
I hope, dear reader that you will forgive a certain degree of grumpiness from yours truly, as while you have all been flash flooded to buggery, Glen Trollaigh has remained dry. One might not think of this as a disadvantage; however our first large party of paying fishing guests arrive today expecting a willing Ghillie, tight lines and dearest Dottie and I dressed to the nines and in full pre-prandial flow. However I will be at my wits end to find water for them, the girls have arrived to transform into red bearded Ghillies and to help Mhairi with the hospitality. God bless them, as Glen Trollaigh desperately needs the income flowing from our guests this season. I am seriously considering the fall back option of Starling shooting, a tricky little blighter the Starling who is obligingly swooping about The Tower of Glen Trollaigh in some numbers at present (Glasgow Fair Fortnight). However a shoot by bored anglers swinging low and fast close to the old adobe hacienda is a bit of a heart stopper.
My natural shyness makes dinner conversation with total strangers a chore. At times the group of TS do not really want one’s chat; on the other hand frequently they expect to be enthralled from stiffener to lights out. I seem to find myself buffering on about the latest political conspiracy or what really happened in Cairo in ’43 while dearest Dottie glares from the other end of the Great Table of Trollaigh and a red bearded waitress pours water into my lap. I have faired little better this week with a over heated and unpopular opinion on climate change, producing a dead mole over dessert and being sent for an early bath for loudly insisting that I should be allowed full points for “envi” (Auld Scots) during after dinner scrabble. Life is not always easy, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.