Sunday, October 21, 2007
Trollaigh Swine
10/21/2007
I have to eat my words or at least my Turbot after our visit to the Seafood Temple in Oban. I have been highly critical of this eatery’s booking system; however having battled for six months to finally reserve a table we enjoyed a superb meal served by cheery young staff. Despite its success this spot does not feel tired in any way and a chat to John Ogden, the proprietor/chef convinces me to pop a visit here onto the “highly recommended” list. Mr Ogden not only knows his business but also built the shop, starting by heughing and sawmilling his own timber, having offered up the structure and fitted the kitchen he turned his attention to the tables and chairs so one has to be fairly keen on heavy woody bits, to say nothing of the hand made door furniture. I say God bless all who sail in her, particularly as our bill for two with booking deposit (£20) deducted and a complimentary bottle of wine came to an unfashionably reasonable £18.80. The wine choice is limited but all one needs with an average price of £11.95, sharing the small establishment during our visit were some of Argyll’s “Armani” set as well as a local fisherman, who knows his fish, with his crewmen complete in yellow working wellies. If I can ever get a table again dearest Dottie and I will be back.
As Field Fayres fight over our holly berries and Mr and Mrs Blackbird brave open spaces to grub about under the fallen leaves my musing turns once more to the yawning gap twixt town and country, prompted by comments made on some half listened to radio programme. The presenter was waxing lyrical about his large Home Counties house filled with extended family and every pet from rodents to ridgebacks. His rolling acres were filled with sheep, horses, cattle and two pigs when he dropped the bombshell that the pigs were simply wonderful for polishing off the household scraps and windfall apples in the orchard. Every country man knows what this upgraded barrow boy plainly does not, namely if you offer swill to porkers the Euro Swine Feed Police will be abseiling from their Blackhawks and culling one’s priceless porcines within milliseconds. Gone for good are the contented sows wallowing behind every village pub growing fat on old beer and chips, now only accredited feed pellets can satisfy the half empty tums of British Pigs.
Similar concerns bubble up over yet another attempt to introduce, or as SNH would have it “re-introduce” Beavers to Argyll. The countryside Ober Gruppenfurhers withdrew this flawed scheme some time ago, and shuffled quietly sideways when the tide of popular opinion turned against them. However they have regrouped and contracted out their PR so that the new application is being made by The Scottish Wildlife Trust and some Zoological body. This all adds gravitas to the hiking boots and bobble hats, while the government agencies can hide behind their Sitka Spruce plantations and leap forward to bask in the limelight if the scheme gets the nod. I only have one question; is there a natural predator to control Beaver once they become established? I think I already know the answer and any Beaver that buggers up my beloved woods, burns and rivers in Glen Trollaigh will need a lot more than a few Euro Directives to save it from becoming a Baronial Bunnet.
I had noticed that dearest Dottie and Mhairi were furtively tutting and totting up behind the doors of The Great Kitchen of Trollaigh; however imagine my surprise when I was rounded on by the household females and accused of being a “dangerous drinker” as defined by new government guidelines. Apparently I had used up my weekly allowance of “Units” by Tuesday night and must endure an alcohol free day thereafter I must drink a glass of water for every tipple. The former left me sleepless for an entire night; the later had me trudging back and forth to the kazie all night. On researching this nanny state advice I am delighted to report that it only applies to the middle classes, thank God I will be able to enjoy a good night’s sleep once more. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Autumnal Advice.
10/04/2007
I blame the 1940’s design of our trusty motor, or more particularly its small but solid seats for a sharp attack of cramp whilst driving into Oban for the messages. The old quack, now replaced by a highly efficient popsie, assures me over a midday stiffener in the Golf Club that my pain has nothing to do with the car seats, but rather to excessive consumption of red wine, and advises a limit of two large daily glasses, six days per week, presumably one can top up with a bottle or five of white, so I intend to follow the medico’s advice to the letter. Nevertheless my thoughts turn to replacing the old auto just in case medical opinion is squew wiff. Enthusiasm for my patronage seems to vary from garage to garage, however salesmen’s attitude to potential customers is on the surly side and all the talk is of the cost of co2 emissions, this of course is balls and yet another stealth tax, as any idiot knows that 99% of particulates belching from cars are due to batty pensioners over revving and slipping their collective clutches whilst inching into and out of the disabled slots at Tesco.
The mention of pensioners forces me to recount a tricky tale which has caused me to keep a low profile over the past few days. Good, clear weather brought a hard frost overnight when, as part of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh clothes moth eradication programme the drawing room furniture was carried out to the terrace for a bit of moth egg deep freeze treatment. Regrettably yours truly omitted to spot that ancient Auntie Minto was occupying the Great Sofa of Trollaigh at that precise moment. Armed only with a glass of Port and Lemon, two layers of silk (one sincerely hopes) and a mouldy fur wrap Auntie M showed true grit by surviving a chilly night on the terrace, although I did wonder what was rattling the French Windows and stirring up the hounds at 3.00am. Naturally the fickle finger of fate points at me in the blame department and one must assume that Auntie’s fabled diamonds will no longer be heading for the Tower of Glen Trollaigh.
Glen Trollaigh is looking splendid as the autumn colours start to show, eagles soar against the red hills, leaves fall, owls hoot, bats whiz and shaggy stags roar in the rut. We nip into Oban tonight to sample the Seafood Temple; this converted public convenience with a bay view has eluded me all summer, the one previous occasion we were granted the honour of a table we did not get past the door as they had “double booked” and we were turfed out. Having accepted our booking this time, they phoned back to demand a £10 deposit per cover as they are “having trouble with our bookings” hardly surprising as they never answer the bally phone. This eatery will really have to impress before it gets any more of my dosh. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.