Sunday, September 23, 2007
Silver Darlings.
09/23/2007
The western sun hangs high over a wind swept Minch as I sit with a chilled glass of Chardonnay in my half of the Bridal Suite at The Inver Lodge, Lochinver. A pleasant port on such a stormy day where we are enjoying a day or two’s fishing on the Inver and the Kirkaig. Dearest Dottie and I have made a pilgrimage here for many years as guests of the Vesteys, however the invitation was not forthcoming last year so this year we have had to put up in the pub. Here we have cheery staff and excellent grub and so it should be, as it is best that one is seated when the reckoning arrives. However despite many hundreds of wonga per snooze the building could do with bit of an upgrade as bedroom furniture is definitely on the creaky side, bathroom fittings disintegrate in one’s hand and the quaint practice of battling fellow guests for enough hot water for bathing remains alive and well in Sutherland. The quality of Inver Lodge staff is a breath of fresh air after some of the insults we have suffered at the hands of servitors over the past few days. Anyone working in a petrol station is now specially trained never to smile, whilst talking inanely to anyone other than the customer and surely a plaque must be unveiled in Ullapool to all who work there and have developed to perfection a degree of surliness on the verge of rudeness which I thought had disappeared with 1980’s British Rail ticket clerks.
Perhaps if I was to be picky about our hotel it might be the secret system used to place guests at dinner, the mystical rotation of tables was explained by the need to allow everyone to enjoy the splendid views, however our party spent all our evenings at the back of the dining room, next to the kitchen doors with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons blasting the left lughole, while several loud toffs, footballers and minor celebs hogged the aforementioned vista of Lochinver’s cosmopolitan fish quay. Conspiracy theories were strong amongst our jolly band, firstly we thought that spending in the bar might be a factor in the positioning policy, this was quickly discounted when it became clear as the nose on one’s face that we were outpacing the opposition by at least ten to one in that department. Secondly I might have upset chef by spurning his Sea Bass when I discovered it was farmed rather than fresh, a totally different animal and all a bit silly within spitting distance of one of Scotland’s major fishing ports. Thirdly a further challenge to chef was the fairly obvious doggie bagging of breakfast sausages and black pudding for our vast tribe of mutts. Generally in the end it was agreed that the weight and newness of your motor and a sizable bribe wins over title, tweeds and tie, it was ever thus. However rod tips bent, doggies frolicked, healths were toasted and dearest Dottie and I very much enjoyed a long slow drive home via Applecross winding around many a western sea loch. Back to The Tower of Glen Trollaigh and the Baronial responsibilities including 360 e-mails, thank God for Cloudmark, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Gossip.
09/12/2007
At almost any moment a veritable stream of gossip flows through the Baronial cranium, many a reader may consider much of this to be rubbish, however the skill of the diarist remains the ability to pan a few nuggets or at the very least a pinch of gold dust from the bonce with which to entertain. Imagine then my complete surprise when the front page of the September 6th Oban Times supplied more than a tumbling highland burn of nonsense from which to glean the shining nugget required.
Top left: A proud skipper is snapped proudly before his £15million lighthouse support vessel. He should be standing in front of the hundred Clydeside welders and shipwrights who lost their jobs when the contract for this vessel was placed in Poland. Any fool knows that Gdansk rubs their palms with pleasure when a UK government contract comes up because they quote only for the price of steelwork, the Polish government will pick up the tax and labour bill. As the ink on the contract dries Gdansk will point out a translation blunder in that they have tendered in Euro rather than the required £sterling so the tender price must increase by 40%, which is handy to cover the other bits and pieces like engines etc. By which time the Clydesiders are already on the dole and no civil servant will risk ridicule by admitting responsibility.
Top Right: A photo scoop of a pixie vomiting.
Below the Pixie: More whitewash about the Oban Airport fiasco. The start of “lights” though I assume they have dropped the “f” will be delayed until next year. Many silly reasons have been given for this debacle; however the main cause is the lack of fire engines, which although available cannot get into their garages as the door openings are too small. Instead of admitting to a bit of a cock up Argyll and Bute Council are suing the fire engine people which will doubtless end in tears and considerable expense. One might take a cynical view of the councillors who accepted a golden handshake and left at the last election, and who are now below the parapet as the whole question of an inappropriate multi million overspend heads for a National Audit Office investigation.
Below the Proud Skipper: A heavily edited article about the obscene cost of “out of hours” GP cover in Argyll. Many of you will know that I am subject to a judicial injunction and must not express opinions about, or even mention the names of the tribe of Doctors in suits who control primary care in Argyll. The main defence by UberGPs in Argyll seems to be that it costs more to have a doc snoring on his camp bed in the Oban nurses’ hostel, than having a keen medico fairly whizzing round “three or four call outs” in a Central Scotland. This is blatant balls, the overriding question remains; who controls the Argyll budget, and allegedly in whose pocket does a good slice of this sizable sum end up?
Bottom left: I spy an advert promoting a chance win a “camp” bicycle. An image is conjured of bright yellow wheels, a pink frame with oddly shaped saddle. However closer study reveals that the prize is a “comp” mountain bike. Quite another thing, or so I am informed. I must get my eyes tested.
Three cheers for The Oban Times. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.