The Baron's Column

Courage, Confidence and Coconut.

2008-04-26T19:56:00Z

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.

The Hills Are Alight.

2008-04-13T13:18:00Z

Apart from the tradition of liberating the Tower of Glen Trollaigh Christmas Tree in December, only April provides any sport with “The Forestry”, when we yokels set about our traditional muirburn. Regulars will know that this ancient fire raising allows us to clear away un-grazed “white” grass and encourages fresh new shoots to appear, timed to avoid disrupting ground nesting birds and provide fresh bites for lambs and calves. For some reason lost to me, Prof Ernest Guy PhD and bar, objects strongly to our wielding of the mega power blow torch on the Bens and Braes, indeed he sets up a commando operation to keep us in place. This is a bit rich from an industry that for forty years has sent hill ploughs through every ecological and archaeological site in Scotland, however ever one for a challenge we have completed our muirburn on schedule, often burning at night fuelled by Something Scottish or aided though our new tactic of sending the bucket and spade brigade in the wrong direction. One only has to phone Fluffy Stuff HQ with a reported and frankly unlikely siting of some avian rarity. This guarantees a wave of beards in small green vans in eager anticipation of a clip-board moment shooting off on the required compass bearing, whilst we criminals pocket the Swan Vestas, don sturdy boots and head for Tom na Trollaigh Ridge.

Dearest Dottie’s splendid pair of pins have been exercised on the Austrian pistes along with a jolly group experiencing our first ski party town, where groups of chaps wearing matching funny hats and rude T shirts, slowly succumb to large amounts of booze. All harmless enough and the locals are delighted to take their loot. Our week of mixed weather was enlivened by good company and good food with the occasional visit to watering holes where fascist sing-alongs seemed to be the order of the day. Always one to find out something useful, I was taken from the jostle of Innsbruck Airport to the nearby Tennis Club to wile away an hour or so of flight delay eating and wine tasting. This club is now a Trollaigh Top Travel Tip almost compensating for the terrors of using this quaint tho’ dangerous Airfield.

Returning from the slopes and a family gathering in Dorset I spent a minute or so in the sunshine catching up over coffee with unread issues of The Oban Times. I think their sub editors must be given special licence to conjure up their headlines. I feel sure that I would never get away with the tongue in cheek “Lochaber Police Disappointed in Levels of Violence” or the quoting of a well respected Argyll Councillor following his chairing of a contentious planning meeting, where the committee and officials were booed from the hall; “Although the majority were disappointed, the meeting was held democratically.” Mr Sub Editor, I know not who you are, however may you live forever and keep fuelling the Trollaigh chuckles.

Hooting Owls accompany the nocturnal dog walks, Black Birds, Cross Bills and Oyster Catchers join the morning rambles. However it remains cold in the dry northerly air stream, not much sign of spring apart from nodding Daffs and Tulips. Hey ho, hopefully better to come. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

BST or not BST

2008-03-30T17:02:00Z

This weekend when time springs forward to British Summer Time the old arguments about daylight saving are delivered by the usual cranks with more crackpot theories than giggles from Charlotte Green following the “pee in a jar” incident. Personally I do not have much of a view on the subject as along with 90% of the population of the North Argyll Glens I do not change my clocks, preferring to stick to Greenwich Mean Time or Universal Time Constant as our Euromasters insist on calling it to avoid the blatant Englishness of the use of Greenwich. Let’s face it an hour either way makes no difference in these lonely parts where hostelries tend to be fairly flexible with their opening hours.

I suppose it all depends on one’s beliefs and the past weeks have certainly shown a lot of them to be built on severely shifting sands. I seem to have been stuck in small spaces with believers of every hue justifying their faith in the integrity of banks, the existence of God, Gordon Brown, and the resurrection, not forgetting the holy grail of the total terror and certainty of Global Warming. The later seems to be backed by the ridiculous number of beardy PhDs who publish learned articles based in the early arrival of blue night moths, so it must be true even when it is obviously blatant balls. Even a gentle tease will bring down the fury of melting ice caps on the baronial bonce from the doom laden believers. Frankly I am not prepared to have some chap from Bathgate sticking his gizmo up my motor’s delicate exhaust pipe to fine me £66, when Johnnie Chinaman is building ten coal fired power stations each and every week. It makes just as much sense as the board of HBOS filling their boots with shares the day after the price collapsed following despicable rumours about the bank’s solvency, or perhaps the huge boost in oil extraction now that super profits seem guaranteed on the reserves which will last us for centuries to come.

Recently various things have reminded me of the wonderful, though infrequent letters I used to await with unbridled anticipation from my father whilst I was away at school. Looking back it must have taken him quite an effort to compose these beautifully written mini diaries of his week/fortnight/month one assumes prompted by my mother. I must try proper writing again rather than this electronic thing, if only to broadcast the mystery of the skeleton in the tent at Bridge of Orchy, a story that father would have loved, where is the Audi that accepts the keys found in the tent? Communication also explains my long absence from these pages for those of you still interested. My laptop was seized at the beginning of March and chaos followed in all our systems as Big Brother considered my recent stay in Switzerland. Now that I seem to be in the clear dearest Dottie has invested heavily in a new room that looks a little like Houston Mission Control and I have been warned to stay well clear of this “off limits” area. However, the call of shopping has attracted all the girls away for the day and I have managed to hack into a document that I can publish, although switching the whole ramboodle on was enough of an effort. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Winter Blues

2008-02-28T18:30:00Z

A sturdy teak framed wicker lounger with those little wheels supports yours truly, I am wrapped from top to toe in a Loden cape, Borsollino on the baronial bonce and the mince pies are shielded by HRH Ray Bans. I lie in brilliant Alpine sunshine surveying glorious mountains with snow covered ridges and icy gullies from a stone flagged terrace, the bright bubbles of a light prosecco tinkle at my right hand. One would be forgiven for thinking that the jolly Baron is shirking on the sonnen platz of the St Morritz Zugspitzhoff, however imagine my delight that this scene is being played out on the “Laird’s” terrace at dear old Tower of Glen Trollaigh, yes, gentle reader I am home at last after what seems like eons exiled at “Camping Les Pins” east of Montreux. The oiks have been swept from Albany Street and all charges dropped although a stern warning has been issued that the “B” world must never cross these lips and that it is expected that I will be cheering to the rafters in support of any future re-wilding project, of which I feel sure there will be many.

The culture shock of returning from a country where one laughs at the very idea of the EU, balance the books, obey the law, keep the burka in a box and lights out at 10.30; to our rude, lawless land of chaos, corruption and confusion has been difficult to cope with. As I wait for the return of dearest Dottie and the girls from their break with Arthur Bennington on St Kitts, both my mood and the weather darken with each wireless broadcast. Chums telephone to give advance warning of the melt down due in March when the big hitters will re-finance, probably as far away from bankrupt Britain as possible. Taxes and gales rise, solid sheets of rain start to seek out the weak points of the elderly slates on The Tower of Glen Trollaigh. After my Swiss experience I am frankly amazed by the sheer incompetence of the current hopeless government, I assume that with the inevitable elevation of failed Blair to Euro President, the rear end of New Labour are now dispensable. Gone are low taxes, balance of payments, economic growth now is the time for debt, war and disaster. To-day’s offering from the airwaves concerns Doctor Nutty PhD (salary £175,000 plus pension) chair of some curious quango who has fined Network Rail a few zillion pounds. Break my bonce with a soggy cod but surely any numbskull can see that as a nationalised operation the fine will be funded by the taxpayers, reduced investment and the already abused rail user. Rather than letting nationalised services become even more disgracefully underfunded, Doc Nutty and all his pals should have their balls held in a vice until public transport problems are resolved, I’ll bet all of you a pound to a penny that the trains would run on time pdq. I also note that an overspend of a couple of billion pounds on G.P.’s salaries has increased consultation times for the punters, Along with most country dwellers and by mutual agreement I consult my quack in the Golf Club bar at midday where he does indeed take far too long and costs me a small fortune in gin, however thank God the Doc is also presumably hitting some splendid performance target (with extra income) in the process. There will be a welcome in the glens for dearest Dottie, just in time for her birthday, oh bugger forgot our anniversary again! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Teeth Marks

2008-02-07T21:18:00Z

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.

That Old Familar Whiff.

2008-01-30T16:25:00Z

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.

Oh Bollocks

2008-01-24T20:04:01Z

As it has been such turmoil I tend to forget that many of you will not have learnt of the fate of yours truly over the past few weeks. It all started innocently enough with a sudden summons on January the fourth from Bruxelles to meet with Madam European Advisor to discuss this year’s tobacco farming strategy for North Argyll and Glen Trollaigh in particular. Tanya’s Taxi swept me to the aerodrome and BA Business Class, courtesy of you dear taxpayers had me unpacking at the European Advisor’s modest Chateaux for a pre meeting dinner to set one up for the rigours of planning one’s own subsidy on the morrow. It turns out that Herr European Advisor is an impoverished aristo of some sort until capturing the heart of my EA who was then willing and able to reverse the impoverishing pronto. The dinner was a huge success with dollops of entente cordial, the highlight being an invitation to hunt boar after the fifteenth August 2008 as the EU in all its wisdom have allowed French farmers carte blanche to slay wild boar when M le Fermiere decide that piggy numbers may be a threat to almost anything from crops to water supplies. A policy not allowed in Blighty where the clipboards have declared the Beastly Boars to be a “most endangered species” or some such bollocks and one needs a double PhD and a bobble hat to even glimpse the trotter prints in Epping Forest or wherever.

Dear readers you will be only too aware that good company can cause some Baronial over enthusiasm and so it proved at this eurocratic freebie, when spurred on by the Boar Hunt I suggested an Argyll Beaver Hunt. My innocent, though Chateaux Ycem fuelled, suggestion was unfortunately overheard by some totally wet Home Counties MEP whose Blackberry almost melted when it instantly relayed my guffaws to Scottish Natural Heretics who thinly disguised as The Edinburgh Zoo are pushing through the illegal “re-wilding” of Euro Beavers in West Argyll, dishonestly supported by a “public consultation” whose results have been spun by some failed Blairite PR has-been. At the end of the day a warrant for the arrest of The Baron Trollaigh was issued for “Wildlife Crime” and one is on the run. My EA was sporting enough to provide a helicopter over to non EU Montreux and in that pretty spot I am now a fugitive moving from caravan site to spartan B&B with only the odd visit undercover of darkness to a chum’s Swiss second home hopefully with maid service and laundry. Thank God for our girl’s swift return to The Tower of Glen Trollaigh waving a Power of Attorney (that I do not recall signing) and taking the reins on the home front. David my tame QC, between blamming at Sandringham claims that things should blow over soon although my Adam & Co gold card has been declined twice and communication with the rest of society has been limited. Things look bleak, yours from The Palace Hotel hot tub, Archie, still The Baron Trollaigh.

It’s All Delicious

2007-12-31T10:08:00Z

Flatulence always seems to curse the Tower of Glen Trollaigh post Christmas festivities. Each year the puzzling problem seems to grow, however this year I was able to set aside the fear that farts are caused by over indulgence and old age, for talking to one of our younger guests she assured me that unlike the average household we consume an inordinate tonnage of home grown veg including dearest Dottie’s inspirational winter warming soups eaten by the bowl full by yours truly, add the vegetarian tendencies of many a modern visitor requiring lentils, nuts and pulses and hey presto enough methane to operate a small power plant. My tummy rumblings have been exacerbated by being shamed into starting to install the new fresh water inlet pipe that has been planned since the old pipe was severely damaged by flooding a year ago. What might one ask has this to do with wind? Well it stems from Glen Trollaigh construction techniques that require the entire household to labour up the Ben carrying heavy tools, pipes and insulation. Dearest Dottie assumes the role of engineering supervisor and with a will we set to surrounding one ton boulders with pinch bars and heaving them into perfect position, picks and shovels then come into play to smooth the route of the new water pipe. During this it has become obligatory to fight one’s way back to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for some forgotten tool or gadget, then turn and clamber back up a thousand feet or so to the workface with lively hounds snapping at one’s stumbling heels, however the job does progress and another couple of days, weather permitting, may do the trick. Regrettably all this exercise and particularly the boulder moving has weakened the old hernia scars and stretched the tummy muscles hence that uneasy feeling of imminent childbirth and the aforesaid windy gusts.

Talking of a struggle, it has been heartening to feel the warmth of the Glen Trollaigh mob surrounding us at this time; several have been moved to tell me of their increasing fundamental belief in Christianity in the face of the ascendancy of the boorish couch potatoe and in particular the amazing fact that The Lord sent his only son to experience a full, if short life as a human. Although one young whipper snapper tried to introduce me to a new religion dubbed “It’s All Delicious” after claiming that the Christmas Dr Who special had made one of the dogs sick as a sign that a true freedom could only have been reached if dearest Dottie’s i-pod had been set to play random tracks at the Bridge of Orchy kirk watch night service rather than carols; there is always one who has overdone the bubbly! However this gives me the opportunity to reject the wet lefty’s ghastly PC greeting “Happy Holidays” and hope you all had a very Merry Christmas and look forward to a fabulous 2008, I know I do, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Nativity Policy

2007-12-22T10:10:00Z

Following gentle pressure from our church session clerk we have once more allowed the use of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh for Nativity purposes. You may think that this is a pretty reasonable request, however let me assure you it is a nightmare and this year has been no exception. Long gone are the days when the locals would adorn their youngsters with tea towels and dressing gowns, gather in the village hall for a loose and sometimes tearful re-creation of the birth of the baby Jesus complete with Ninja Mutant Turtles whilst mothers clapped liked billy-oh and fathers passed round warming hip flasks. Funds now roll into the local arts and there are sufficient numbers of Home Counties refugees to introduce a new professionalism. The main problem is the choice of Director as their aspirations often equal those of Stephen Spielberg, and this year has been no exception with the appointment of Abdul an officer of The Lomond and Trossachs National Park and obviously not a card carrying Christian which one would normally think a prerequisite for the interpretation of the Holy Nativity. However when Abdul presented himself and his PhD he proved to be a charming chap, and he cheerfully admitted that as some of the boodle for local artistic enterprise stem from the Park Authority under a funding policy called “Fit In”, Abdul is the man for the post of Artistic Director.

I must digress on the “P” word: Policy. The more alert amongst you will have spotted that this is now the word most overused by politicos and spokespersons of every hue. Those of you who may have had the misfortune to sit through a meeting of any local authority or local health trust will have been amazed by the staggering rise of a plethora of policies, gone is any talk of the last favourite word: Community, now very old hat, but Policy is the very thing, one simply must have a policy on simply everything, the policy maker being top dog these days, only such an expert can deliver the catchy strap line RUR STRAT1, I have even heard of BAD1, followed obviously by BAD2, BAD3 and so on. Every single line being of course, complete and utter tosh.

However back to the plot, Mr Director’s first decree, being unfamiliar with the Argyll climate was that his pageant be performed out of doors, next came a requirement for the inclusion of massed local Primary School pupils and finally that “real” animals must support the cast. Surely it must be very difficult to screw up a Nativity play; however one thinks of the old saw “never work with children or animals” then weigh up the monumental risk of foul weather and it certainly looked as though The Artistic Director had got it severely wrong. The Good Lord must have been in a good mood for we have enjoyed a week of clear, freezing Alpine weather, however there the good fortune ends. I have struggled to find a simple way of describing the Pageant that finally took place last night causing considerable tearing of the Baronial tonsure, however the experience has rendered me speechless and vowing never to be involved again. All I can really do is to list some the incidents that may give a flavour of the episode. Arrival and installation of five miles of temporary roadway and fifty vehicle car park; Three lorry loads of lighting and sound equipment to surround the B&Q shed “Stable”; Three large generators; Two deer shot by Stage Hands; Head shepherd and Shepherdess interrupted In Flagrante Delicto in the byre; Police summoned to search for an Angel (in costume who wandered off in a sturdy); The Tower of Glen Trollaigh wine cellar breached by most of the audience resulting in general drunkenness; An unbelievable twenty loo rolls used by the twenty mothers and children demanding the use of “facilities”; Stage set burnt to the ground by rival Am-Dram group from Ballachulish; Joseph carted off to A&E with hand injury having been persuaded to pick up a red hot hammer head by one of the Magii (don’t ask, but it has to do with that bally Shepherdess). I take my hat off to Abdul; it was a damn good show! Cheers, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

What’s In A Name

2007-12-16T10:45:00Z

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.

UHT Goes Bad

2007-12-05T20:04:00Z

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.

Bonfire of Jackets.

2007-11-12T08:32:01Z

Ice grips the waterfalls high on Corrie Diamph, snow dusts the tops and a stiff north westerly scrapes leaves into annoying nooks and crannies. This Glen Trollaigh year without obvious seasons continues while the Alt Trollaigh water levels rise and fall, birds come and go and we even get 48 hours of settled weather, sufficient to rig the boson’s chair for dearest Dottie to paint the south facing windows, a task planned but frustrated since the spring. Changeable weather brings great difficulty in the jacket department; my boot room has simply layers of outdoor wear some of it belonging to Barons long departed. As I peel back a generation or two and savour the smells of old bad habits I wonder whether or not to ditch the old oilskins, tweeds and wax jackets to make way for modern technologies, perhaps the new Sastia range with the flip down waterproof seat, essential for those moments when one needs to settle on a damp stump for a stiffener, although one does note that political correctness has re designated the special flask pocket to a pouch suitable for a mobile phone. However I am confident that I can squeeze in a new jacket or two to help battle the elements.

A poor season of stalking and fishing comes to an end, aggravated by swinging restrictions imposed by SERRAD following the English foot and mouth outbreak. The powers that be don’t seem to realize that farmers live to improve harvest and animal welfare, a misguided scheme like the underweight lamb cull is hated in the countryside and misunderstood in the town. Glen Trollaigh must rely heavily on the Tobacco Crop Subsidy to balance the 2007 books, not a happy situation. I have warned the household of general belt tightening for the deep midwinter to come, there has been a bit of stamping and snorting however when the choice comes down to champagne or hot water I expect the womenfolk will to come to heel. For myself I shall be reviewing a few of my regular indulgences to identify any savings.

Travelling seems to be the order of the day and you will find me propping up the famous mahogany bar of the Caledonia Club next week as a nip up to the capital will act a precursor to Scotland’s Euro qualifier and a hint or two for Christmas pressies. What oh, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Bonfire of Jackets.

2007-11-12T08:32:00Z

Bonfire of Jackets.

2007-11-12T08:32:00Z

Trollaigh Swine

2007-10-21T09:31:01Z

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.