Thursday, February 07, 2008

Teeth Marks

02/07/2008

If memory serves me right there used to be a saying amongst the temporarily accommodated ghillies of North Argyll that “If the caravan’s rocking, don’t come knocking”. Alas the trailer rocks not for me, however loud nocturnally Albanian groaning and giggling copulation renders sleep well nigh impossible at Camping Les Pines, east of Montreux. It goes without saying that I have managed to engage the fairer gender in cheery conversation during my Swiss ramblings, however inviting even a disreputable Countessa back to a metal box in an isolated plantation of Christmas trees fails to offer even the most limited of charms. The lakeside now presents a pleasant spring climate with geriatric generals sipping tea on the terraces whilst the higher mountains are still in the hard grip of winter and I do try and spend as much time away from the dreadful trailer as possible. Monday saw me in Zurich where those good sports at Adam & Co have set up a line of credit with DBS thereby circumventing the efforts of the girls to curb my spending. During the grilling from my new DBS relationship facilitator I discovered that her name was not “Team 3” as per her I.D. badge but “Geneva”, upon friendly enquiry I was curtly told that the name stems from “the city of my conception”, how silly of me for I know of the odd Chelsea, even an Oban or two although I am somewhat worried about the fecundity of the isle of Islay or the gaelic Isla which seems to have a lot to answer for in the honeymoon overload stakes, one must fear the worst for Benbecula or heaven forbid, Bridal Suite Les Pines. Another visit took me to Chateaux de Chillon (final scene of the last James Bond) and onwards to Gruyeres, where those masters of the salty plastic cheese are chortling over the helicopering of two of their number to St Kilda at £zillion per millisecond to give an expert opinion on the landing of Spanish rats by identifying the incisor nibbling on cheesy baits. The fromageristes cannot believe their luck as any fool knows that General Franco banned the embarkation of rats of any political persuasion on Spanish vessels eons ago.
News from David the QC is upbeat as it seems that the Oban Procurator Fiscal has thrown out all charges of “Wildlife Crime” against me as there are currently no Beavers in Scotland that I can offend, even the reduced conspiracy charge is uncertain now that she has realised that the smelly straw bale resting in her private Drimvargie Road parking place is in fact the organic, compostable unisex urinal of The Albany Street Wildlife Camp. Council Operatives are considering their options for its disposal, however they better be quick whilst her honour the PF has to pay for parking adjacent to the court offices. The Oban Tesco Manager has also formally complained to the police about the wildlife campers as the normal stock loading towards pizzas and frozen oven chips has been thrown in the four winds as every gram of organic, gluten free, vegetarian purvey has been grabbed from the shelves by a grungy crew constantly complaining about wheelchair toilet access. So things are looking hopeful for repatriation to Glen Trollaigh, although all my Skype connection to The Tower of Trollaigh seems to raise is a vague recorded message indicating the absence of the inhabitants due to a “Caribbean Stravaig” what the hell are they up to? Yours from “Terrace Countessa Maria” Rochers de Naye, Archie, always The Baron Trollaigh. 

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

That Old Familar Whiff.

01/30/2008

To be frank life at Camping Les Pines east of Montreux holds no pleasure. The girls have rented something called “a trailer” for me from the proprietor M. Huguenot, who assures me that this is the very top five star spot in the season, however now I am cheek by jowl with several noisy Albanian families and a small group of Peter Hain’s parliamentary researchers who seem to have chosen this odd time of year to holiday in this god forsaken spot. The Albanians attract regular nocturnal visits for the constabulary asking for “D Permits” and look suspiciously at my old red driving licence as presumably Trollaigh does not translate well into the local lingo. Each night the cops remove a few anxious Albanians in the paddy wagon although Peter Hain’s lot seems to be immune from scrutiny following the sneaky transfer of a small battered attaché case to Le Patron, M. Huguenot. Routine visits to the ablution facilities, which look uncannily like a recycled German de-lousing block, fail to cheer although the place has rekindled an old memory. My dear Mater having produced a fine crop of sons, was one of those females who was completely starved of the company of her own sex, occasional frustration with the habits of the all male Tower of Glen Trollaigh caused some well aimed blows for equality, one such was the post WW2 introduction of Airwick, many of you may recall the small bottle of noxious green stuff whose industrial strength aroma was spread into the air via a fat wick and when strategically placed close to the kazie was supposed to overcome the normal heavy pong of the said all male society. Whether it worked of not one was never sure, however imagine my surprise some sixty years on to find the Airwick alive and well at Camping Les Pines all be it in jolly yellow hues and dispensing a doubtless carcinogenic whiff of alpine meadows.

Sitting alone in a metal box staring at pine trees and grubby Albanians is not much fun so following the purchase of sturdy boots and an alpenstock I have been making use, weather permitting of highly efficient Swiss public transport to seek out some vestige of hedonistic comfort. These rambles have taken me to Chateaux d’Aix and two discoveries; Firstly, an Internet Café where I have filed my tax return and pled with the girls to raise the ridiculously tight limit on my credit card, and where the web has also brought the depressing news that the Yoghurt Knitters have set up a Wildlife Camp outside Oban Sheriff Court and are burning effigies of “The Bloody Baron” and more hurtfully the diamond T flag, so no relief in sight. Secondly, that The Hotel des Sport supplies a passable G&T in a civilised bar where one can also slip away to a clean loo with warm air wafting around ones ankles, fresh fluffy towels and a piping hot shower all without an Airwick in sight! Yours aye from the Café des Internet, Chateaux d’Aix, Archie, still The Baron Trollaigh.