A Well Rounded Seat

09/15/2008

Our Burghley pilgrimage turned into a bit of a nightmare as sheets of rain and calf deep mud slowed even the most enthusiastic shopper. Worse still Pimm’s hit £17.95 a jug, plus a tenner deposit on said grotty, scratched plastic container. Salt was fairly rubbed into the wounds as the telly weather in our stable block passing for a hotel room, reported clear sunshine in Argyll. It was a pretty subdued Baronial party that struggled round the event with only a cursory salaam to a few mud spattered toffs. Trade stand holders had a vaguely wild eyed look, whilst organisers stayed locked in their offices with the blinds drawn. Fortunately we had blagged our way into the carefully groomed member’s car park so avoiding the Cortina dragging tractors that roared around the grockle’s paddocks ripping bumpers off left, right and centre. Still, a purchasette or two was made with socks and yet another bally “latest, warmest, lightest, driest” field jacket for yours truly and assorted skirts and shoes for the ladies. However, as usual the sight of many a well filled Jodhpur, mounted or striding whip in hand fairly filled The Baron’s sails. 

This year we tagged a fortunately spirit lifting jaunt to Deal in Kent onto our Burghley progress, clutching an invite from Admiral “Jock” Boyce, under whose father I served as a snotty. Jock is the current Lord Warden of The Cinque Ports and Constable of Dover, it is a sinecure now-a-days, allegedly, long gone are the days when the LW made a decent wad from smuggler’s bribes. However the plus point is using Walmer Castle as a party shaped seaside residence, and if one overlooks the ranks of foreign camper vans ranged below the battlements, on which the Beauchamps so famously misbehaved, one has an absolutely perfect view of the Channel with the French coast beyond. Sleeping in the bed upon which the Duke of Wellington died, added a somewhat macabre twist. Deal of course is steeped in the history of the Channel, with lovely narrow streets and houses much improved by those Down From London (DFL’s). In view of the current wave of flaming piers, Deal sensibly boasts a concrete version, as the original was mown down by a Belgian freighter dodging inshore of the Godwin Sands mistaking the glow of the Queen and Fairy pub for a port hand mark. We also managed visits to St Margaret’s Bay, made famous by Noel Coward and Ian Fleming, and Sissinghust (avoiding the Nicholsons, who are hopefully dancing naked on the Shiants as we speak.), finishing off with the delightful madness of Christo Lloyd’s Great Dixter garden.

Thanks to the introduction of the mobile telephone our feeling of euphoria was suddenly cooled by a call from Oban and Lorn Hospital. I should explain that because of our planned trip and lack of visitors at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh, Mhairi had sensibly booked a XL holiday to Trinidad. However at the eleventh hour a group of Americans insisted on a week on the estate, under our successful “Laird For A Day” scheme, one simply cannot ignore the mighty dollar. With careful negotiation we left Los Americanos to fend for themselves under Lachie’s watchful eye. However, whilst foraging for mushrooms the US team of incompetents mistook Tawny Milkcap for Rufous Milkcap, and the whole bally lot ended up in the renal unit. Our call came from a fairly chastened Lachie and our insurance broker, who was also able to impart the additional bombshell that XL had gone belly up and that a giggly Mhairi had phoned to say that there “may be some delay” with her repatriation from the sun and doubtless alcohol soaked Caribbean beaches. Oh double bugger! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.