A Different Landscape

11/06/2006

My talking tour of the WRI’s has taken me eastwards across to Angus and Aberdeenshire, allowing me to expand to the ladies of Forfar, Brechin and Methlick. These dears normally like a religious theme and I stuck to the tried and tested “The relevance of Christianity in rural Scotland”. Perhaps it is the influence of the Iraq war, however my audiences where much larger than in past years, and a good deal younger, I even spotted a Prada handbag amongst the young matrons of Methlick.

One has to recognise the fundamental difference between Argyll and Aberdeenshire, and that is one of land ownership. Here, in the glens of north Argyll, only a few own vast tracts of the unforgiving rocky highlands, leasing poor land to extraordinarily tough hill farmers. However, in the east families cling to excellent farm land for generations and shiny Jaguars share stables with modern Tractors, guns are blasted for sport, rather than the weightier weapons used in the west to control vermin and wild animals threatening the limited grazing. Angus claims to be the birthplace of Scotland, and so it may be with an accent of its own, in Aberdeen one if frequently hailed as “Fit Like Loon” and must not take offence at this cherry greeting. There is also the confusing habit of adding “ie” to the end of every word or name, I particularly like “gutterie” meaning muddy, but pray how does one pronounce “The Prop of Ythsie” and indeed what or where is it?

My travels have exposed me to many packed halls of coughing customers, so each morning I have to consume many a pill prescribed by dearest Dottie to fend off the dreaded lurggie, now that our surgery deems us ineligible for a free flu jab. One of the preparations is Gingko Bilboa that will improve my memory; however, I always forget to take it. At least I seem to be avoiding pan Europe power cuts (surely a sign to pull out of all things euro) and all the spin that surrounds public pronouncements. From the timing of the Saddam verdict to the socialists collecting 17.5% tax on all the pound coins punted by the poor on the lottery and siphoned off to build stadia for the 2012 London Olympics. This tax regime smacks of the Sheriff of Nottingham, however one must assume that President Blair reckons that he will not be carrying the can in six year’s time! The weather is exceptionally kind as I pack my bag for Edinburgh and the Borders, with a short break before battling to Yorkshire and back to Glasgow. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trolliagh.