Thursday, May 29, 2008

Blow the Breeches

05/29/2008

Each year there is a magic moment when The Great Beeches of Trollaigh burst into leaf; this miracle usually takes about thirty six hours, when our magnificent stand of Beeches turn from thrashing twigs to wonderful fresh green and copper monarchs. This year it happened on the 6th of May a mere day after we eventually managed to plant our potatoes into above zero soil, It never ceases to amaze me that immediately after the Beech Bonanza the garden treadmill starts, soil warms, one digs in earnest, grass grows at an alarming rate and weeds shoot from spots that have already been blasted with chemical cocktails. Of course the old eye turns to the outside of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and all hands are needed to scrape and paint the ancient external woodwork. With some reluctance on my part, the traditional “admiralty grey” signature colour of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh which has served generations of Barons, is giving way to paler coastal greens on the advice of some limp wristed designer. My resistance to the colour change was, naturally enough, proved wrong when on the most recent visit from our European Advisor she insisted on photographing the Tower of Glen Trollaigh in its “marvellous new colour” and endlessly praised dearest Dottie on her superb taste. Leaving yours truly to mutter darkly in the library about tradition.

The mention of important visitors and The Great Beeches of Trollaigh brings to mind the spring visit of some Maharajah to my Mother and Father when the governor was briefly in the diplomatic corp. The last Baron had been walking through arboreal monarchs with the afore-said Nabob, whose grasp of English was imperfect and misunderstood the significance of the trees, later referring to my mother as The Great Bitch of Trollaigh, as quick as a flash she retorted; “Your highness, you are mistaken; it is the Trollaigh men who wear The Great Breeches!”

Our visit from the European Advisor proved slightly downbeat as the usual guest list of freeloading MSPs and Councillors backed out to a man following the threat of a slow moving convoy of fuel protestors, although how traffic can become more slow moving I know not. However the protest did not materialise due to a lack of fuel and the senior Minister’s helicopters could not land at Connel as the CAA have still to licence the airport. Lachie was particularly resourceful and managed to pack out the photo opportunities by dishing out free beer and pies to smelly campers, and by hijacking the bemused passengers of a German tour bus which had taken a wrong turning into Glen Trollaigh and was stuck fast on the River Bridge. The jist of the Advisor’s info was that the emphasis on care of the environment is on the wane and food production is the New Way. With Scottish farmland now breaking through £10,000 an acre it sounds as though the big money boys have the same idea, so the polytunnel brochures are spread out and hoes are being sharpened to ride the new subsidy wave. If only there was a rain cloud on the horizon, for three weeks of dry weather have forced a daily early morning climb to check our water supplies which currently can’t cope with watering veggies, hey ho.

Some of you will have heard of the changes in Glen Orchy where the Kerrs have for years hosted my electronic communications. Plans are afoot to improve this service, however for those wanting to avoid the delay of having their messages delivered in the cleft stick of a native jogging over the Long Glen; I can be reached directly at trollaigh@gmail.com . Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Courage, Confidence and Coconut.

04/26/2008

Dearest Dottie has always given her various motor cars names; these have ranged from the obvious “Van Morrison” to the obscure “Poop”. Therefore it was no surprise that when I returned home with a sturdy German gentleman’s carriage that the poor beast was immediately dubbed “Otto”. Not withstanding the name, I am pleased with my purchase which is exactly the sort of mobile drawing room that I have been looking for; however every control is unfathomable, although thankfully some wizard electronics have set most things to automatic. Locals have not agreed with dearest Dottie’s nomenclature and rather unfairly refer to this honest bodile as “Grandad’s Car”. Otto transported us around during our recent visit to Dorset were we visited the St Edward’s arm of the clan Trollaigh, their surname stemming from their claim to be direct descendants of Edward the Martyr. This is a little unlikely as the poor cove was bumped on the head by some fond relative before his reproductive performance could have been tested. It was good to reacquaint oneself with the aged relatives though some of them were frankly barking including the Capo St Edward who whilst touring the Dorset tourist spots including the immodest Cerne Giant, continually interrupted his i-audio guide with a sharp “Tell that chap to shut up”.  Part of the plot was to visit some highly recommended pubs. We were not disappointed with the excellent Lord Poulett at Hinton St George where, to our routine enquiry as to whether the Scallops were dredged or hand caught by divers; the kitchen promptly replied that the molluscs had been mechanically dredged, as it was too cold for the diver! Another pub ticked off the list was the Square and Compass at Langton Matravers, said to have been in the same family for many generations, altogether a much rougher spot with bags of atmosphere and a fine range of Ciders.

On the subject of food and drink I have received a batch of American Girl Scout cookies that are sold as fund raisers in the US. One must suppose that the cookies were baked by the girls themselves or at the very least by a supportive mom and hopefully a cent or two finds its way back into the scouting movement. Scouting in North Argyll has fallen on hard times, so I was particularly pleased to see the images of enthusiasm and flag waving on the cookie packets along with the excellent stirring motto: Courage, Confidence, and Character.

Here in Glen Trollaigh milder, damp weather is with us and two House Martins have arrived, at least ten days later than last year. Cuckoos call and weeds push up as the snow starts to recede on the tops, all up to remind us that lazy winter days are behind us and a few urgent hours must be spent each day in the garden to tame nature’s unruliness. Doubtless the diesels will roar in command to some master plan of the Great Garden designer whom I watch from the library window as she strides across the policies with notebook and pencil. Upon checking last year’s diary I note that I was in my shorts at this time, just before the rain started which did not stop until one weekend in October. Let us hope for a better crack of the whip this year. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.