Friday, January 21, 2005
Stuck in the office
01/21/2005
Dotty and I awake in the Great Bed of Trollaigh in disbelief. Clear, dry skies, a light wind and a touch of frost. It gives us a day of change as Dotty can work on her garden and the sun shines more or less all day. It’s almost Alpine with snowy ridges against a blue sky and a top temperature of 3 degrees. I am tied to the office desk, for this is the time of year to complete the accounts, and spend hours on the phone with accountants, woodland and agricultural advisors, planning the year, and most importantly planning the April fifth tax return. At my age I no longer have great ambitions about income, but it is so important to keep the place up, and to be able to hand it on to the next generation without too many problems. I can see Lachie fretting outside the office windows hoping to tempt me out on a spree. I do manage a climb with him and the pack, up the Alt Trollaigh to inspect the water supply which has taken a beating in the spates, so we must plan repairs and improvements. Here too, we dream of a new hydro power scheme. We chat together about logs and fuel and Lachie shows me his excellent work. He strangely disappears with the dogs as I tackle my other outdoor chore, stripping to the waist to sort out a blockage in one of our septic tanks, equally strangely, Susy Smith the Editor of Country Living Magazine never mentions this frequent and pongy rural exercise in her editorial “First Words”. For more generations than the Trollaighs care to remember, all pipes led to the River Trollaigh and as a result, the river was one of the best Atlantic Salmon spawning grounds. Now SEPA insist on a complex and unworkable system of cleansing tanks which have ruined the spawning grounds and subjected The Baron Trollaigh to unhealthy plunging plumbing. A deep hot bath in Dotty’s boudoir (she is still in the garden), and to hell, a strong Ardbeg for detoxification! Your aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Glasgow visit
01/20/2005
Once more I have an early start to my day, I find this difficult as the natural rhythym is to hibernate until the gales subside, or at least to sleep ‘til daylight. I rattle to Glasgow in the estate van to collect supplies and parts that are only obtainable there. I am fascinated by the number of engineering workshops, metal smiths, wrights and proper joiners. I visit these old fashioned places and watch in wonder at the skills of the craftsmen. The Trollaigh fortunes stem from the Clyde, first as early coppersmiths, then shipbuilding and finally ship owning, the blue and white “Diamond T” house flag has flown proudly for three generations across the seven seas.Why do we not value manufacturing and manual skills anymore? Who am I to talk, my van is assembled in Portugal, my wristwatch in France and at least fifty percent of my casual wardrobe comes from China. Heaven forbid a natural or civil disaster that makes Britain survive on its own. We would go hungry, have nothing to wear, have no fuel or spare parts for our transport systems or power generation. I am sure that as a nation we would use our great ingenuity to overcome our difficulties, but why are we not planning for it now? Why must we accept watery bacon, produced in a country where animal welfare legislation is ignored, when it’s easy to farm pigs here? Because, Tesco can make more profit and it’s advertised on TV. My business is complete by lunchtime and with some difficulty I resist the temptation of a white tablecloth and silver service luncheon, and turn north. My thoughts as well as my bones are assaulted on the terrible ten mile stretch of the A82 between Tarbet and Ardlui. This road, a major gateway to north west Scotland, would be a disgrace in a minor Balkan state. This area comes under the control of The National Park Authority which was to streamline, manage and protect the infrastructure. Is this the “New Britain”, a handful of sub-contractors with shovels in white vans, on top of a pyramid of thousands of worthless quasi civil servants in Authorities, Agencies, Quangos. They interfere in everything but their own salaries and pensions, on which 99% of the project budget is spent, whilst the road surface is a spring and axle breaker, covered in floodwater and surrounded by disgusting piles of litter. Welcome to Bonnie Scotland. I toast the health of President Blair in an early and much needed Ardbeg. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.