Sunday, December 16, 2007

What’s In A Name

12/16/2007

I can scarcely believe the number of Hills in Scotland, by which I do not mean the geological variety, rather that clan born three or four hundred years ago of a chap with a high sperm count living at some elevation. Almost every committee and Quango seems to be padded out with a Hill or two, be it Mr, Mrs, Ms, Master or Doctor H. For some unexplainable reason this pride in the name Hill extends beyond the normal direct lines into the unreliable realms of double-barrelledness. I continually fall over references to Balfour-Hill, Roberts-Hill or indeed Hill-Roberts; it seems we are not entirely blameless with our own dear aunt being a Mackenzie-Hill who also seem to specialise in the Hill’s love of shortened Christian names, auntie being “Mingo” (recently featured frozen on these pages) although I also hear of a Matty Mackenzie-Hill who if one is to be believed is making a great success of importing oak game larders from Hungary. It is inevitable that amongst the tribe of name shorteners here should be a “Piggy” Mackenzie-Hill a high priestess of the noble onion in the Fens of Norfolk that unlucky area which the beardie wierdies now promise will be sub sea at any moment, presumably the same day that hell freezes over. Of course others have hills named after them, Mount McKinley for example, although I have always thought this sounds like a military command, or at least a cry at a Rugby School rag. We Trollaighs have Ben Trollaigh though strangely this lofty peak is not to be found in Argyll, but it is the ninth munro in the fisherfield group on the borders of Wester Ross and Sutherland, although one has to acknowledge that munro status is still disputed by some of the more rotten mountain mounters.

Those of you with a bit of savvy will realise that this nonsense has to be brought to you via some pretty spiffing wireless technology as the services provided by that great organ British Telecom stops some twelve miles short of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh along with all other terrestrial signals. It will not surprise you, dear reader that we have a bit of a thing about new gadgets and we love all that silky touch screen stuff, though frankly the native Tom Tom bongo is more use in the North Argyll glens than its electronic antecedent and i-phones fizzle out far south of The Highland Fault Line. Techno thoughts have been prompted by the heavy thud of a legal document on the coconut matting, this multi-claused rain forest basher has been whipped from the ether by word processor with many an error and presumably at £150 per page. My heart goes out to tweedy legal eagles everywhere that surely look on technology with horror, trusting only the wiff of Quink and a scattering of Amo, Amas, Amat may heaven preserve them. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

UHT Goes Bad

12/05/2007

November departs leaving us cold, raw and damp. Burns tumble, the snow level edges down the mountainsides the only relief being a couple of gales from different compass points. Squally rain disturbs my slumbers battering on the drafty window frames of the old Governor’s east wing quarters whence I have been banished after criticising the extravagant use of resources needed to heat dearest Dottie’s steaming Glen Trollaigh infinity plunge pool. This contraption with many an aggressive jet and surging wave is an absolute must for female equanimity; though apparently it is deemed churlish to complain about the high pitched scream that comes from the electricity meter when the bally thing is fired up, to say nothing of the dimming of street lights across Argyll. The dogs seem to favour the airy climate of the eastern tower, although I do note that none stir until a glimmer of our winter daylight appears at 8.30 am when I am forced to hop across the chilly stone flags to the icy kazie, even then they deliberate at the boot room door between a speedy piddle on the gravel or take the risk of a soaking, though glorious gambol across the parks and hedges.

Thoughts of speedy piddles and plumbing calls for some comment on the many public conveniences that I have been forced to visit throughout my short trips in November, including two trips to Ye Olde England, then the north of Scotland followed by Inverness and Perth. One has to say that in general standards continue to improve even in the hard pressed motorway halts, presumably due to the large numbers immigrants willing to keep polishing the porcelain. However apart from the most private of pissoires one cannot avoid that fear that the whole receptacle will overflow onto one’s boots because some silly chav has blocked the pipe work with a wad of gum. One of my London trips was to take lunch with a Senior Royal celebrating sixty years continuous membership of a mutual gentleman’s club though I don’t suppose HRH has ever had to stump up a sub. Here one could be sure of the plumbing although security was quite another matter as every one of the seventy odd geriatric military gentlemen present was supported by at least one walking stick, any one of whom could have felled the Duke with a single blow and might well have done so after the liberal toasts.

By far and away our best jolly was a last minute forty eight hour pass to Colonsay, where despite wild east winds and a “doubtful” ferry crossing, cares and woes were stripped away on joint cracking, limb stiffening coastal tramps. As guests in an island house one can also catch up with all the gossip and both sides of many a political tale, however fear not my dears you can rely in the absolute discretion of yours truly. Home again in Glen Trollaigh and surrounded by the reassuring bulk of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh we can turn towards Christmas and hopefully tick a few chores off the list before siblings and cousins appear for the festivities. As I search for a suitable Seasonal Spruce I must try to block out irritating world news that seriously tells of an attempt to slice a few pence off Mr Tesco’s electricity bill by banning sales of all but UHT milk. Or perhaps the proof that much of the world outwith Glen Trollaigh remains in the middle ages as jihadist teddies dominate international politics, come on chaps let’s sweep all this nonsense off the beaches! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.