Thursday, August 23, 2007

Stewed Venison

08/23/2007

One imagines that dearest Dottie has had many admirers over the years, some have achieved positions of considerable influence and you can bet your bottom dollar that yours truly makes the most of their largesse. I have learned via one such mole, highly placed in the Elysee Palace that Beastly Brown personally contacted Le President to warn of an intentional “designer” release of Foot and Mouth virus down the lavvy pan of a government laboratory. On behalf of GB.co.uk he allegedly offered to drop the pursuit of zillions of euros of outstanding French fines in exchange for some Entente Cordial and a very time limited reaction to the F&M outbreak. It is simply unclear why The Beast should embark on this crazy strategy, French conspiresists speak of settling some old school boy score or simply that he was struggling to come up with an excuse to abandon his family to their ghastly though politically correct Devon summer holiday camp and return to his crumpled suits and bachelor freedom in his capitol at the expense of a few Tory voting farmers. Once more, the London centric government of this proud nation have failed to grasp that in their rush to control a handful of Surrey hobby peasants; their actions would ripple outwards to seriously affect the livelihoods of honest sons of the soil in the Scottish highlands and islands.

Just as the low profile tyres of our first paying stalking guest’s Chelsea Tractors crunch the gravel at the Great Door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh our postie staggers in weighed down by piles of contradictory instructions and threats from what seems like twenty different agencies spurred into Foot and Mouth action plans. One pile shouts that land managers must adopt “line in the sand” bio-security; whilst the other pile threatens a visit from the police should we deny access to the hiking booted Crisp Bag Throwers. However the sting in the tail is that if we are “sportsmen” slain animals must not be transported to a butcher. This seriously limits our stalking, for although we are fond of a spot of venison, once a whole beast and its bits have been roasted, boiled, fricasseed, risottoed, curried and consumed, one does not really want to immediately start on another one. Our girls, God bless them, who have come back for the season, have a much more relaxed attitude to entertaining frustrated shooters and have introduced nature rambles, all night parties, mountain top photo opportunities, even giving me an evening off and carting a Land Rover load or two off to enjoy the thick sticky mud of a Runrig fest at Drumnadrochit, I am told, greatly enjoyed by one and all. I was surprised to see Mhairi hosing off dearest Dottie’s Hunters and muttering about Red Hot Chilli Pipers, best not to ask. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

Sunday, August 12, 2007

First Frost.

08/12/2007

The dogs have been restless through the night; eventually I struggle from the comfort of The Great Bed of Trollaigh to settle them. The problem was that the moon was shining through the boot room window, this in itself would not seem to be reason for canine shuffling, however this is the first clear moonlit night for simply months and in keeping with our unseasonal weather patterns we only avoid a ground frost by a degree or so. The sky is still clear at 7.00 when I hoist up the breeks and release the mutts for their morning constitutional, so that I see the sun edging over MacDonald’s Ridge to bath The Tower of Glen Trollaigh with warming light, again the first time I have seen this during the whole summer, and thank God for the sunshine as dearest Dottie has been hinting about the need to turn on heating to save the shivers of some of the old relics who are currently rattling around the corridors, occupying the library chairs and rumbling away behind their Daily Telegraph. For this is the fortnight that we entertain as many Trollaigh cousins as we can muster before it is all hands to the pumps to prime the bank balance with paying guests after the 12th, which the observant amongst you will have spotted falls on a Sunday this year giving the PGs an extra day to polish up their matched pairs.

As well as seeing the Moon, Stars and Sun, I have also seen the 4.30 dawn this week, all be it whilst groping around in the mud of some isolated island harbour trying to unfangle a thick rope from the propeller of Diana Drummond’s motor boat. This poorly planned passage was my responsibility and included very stormy seas, poor visibility, a blocked sea toilet; several temper tantrums, wheelhouse lockers awash and a very good birthday party, after which the skipper had to be helped into the dinghy and his vessel was unsportingly attacked by the mooring rope.

As the rain returns I have been making a great effort to catch up with correspondence, form filling and fending of officialdom as best I can. A new box has appeared on many an important return, after the routine name and address namely; “Usual Salutation”, one wonders how many write “Hey u Jimmy” or somesuch, I certainly admit to scribbling “My Darling” in frustration at a fifteen page tome urgently required by yet another new interfering Quango. It all reminds me of one cove trying to deny responsibility for some minor yachtie collision who wrote “Act of God” whilst countersigning the aggrieved party’s insurance claim and promptly received by return a communication from the insurers addressed “Dear Mr God”. I hear the call of Messieurs Hendricks and Schweppes so must sign off and administer stiffeners to my worthy kinfolk, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.