Ashrams And Ice Climbers
02/21/2006
A week of trials. I am sorely tried by a summons to London where my daughters have decided to turn the Highburgh house into an Ashram and I suffer several nights dodging orange clad figures and inhaling a heady mix of raw vegetables, strange herbal smoke and spices. Eventually my London legal chum, David, manages to evict all the undesirables and dearest Dottie and I persuade our tearful wasting assets to get back to their PR jobs and shun the spiritual twilight that has taken all their time and money over he last few weeks. One hopes that their hair will grow back with all speed. Mind you, Highbury is not what it was and ours is not the only million pound Georgian townhouse to radiate the aromas of the mystic orient. Although much of our time was spent negotiating with reluctant offspring, at least it was wonderful to walk a few yards from Highburgh Corner to enjoy a decent cup of coffee. Not forgetting the luxury of a window table at Gill Wing’s with a good glass of red and an uninterrupted view of one of the world’s best lingerie shops on the other side of the street.
To-day I have escaped the Great Tower of Trollaigh to climb up onto MacDonald’s ridge. The mutts cavort in the snow as I look down the 2500 feet onto the floor of Glen Trollaigh and gain an Eagle-eye view of the wonderful garden works developing around the Great Tower. I bump into a group of ice climbers at the head of the Corrie of the Deer. These Gortex athletes seem a little non-plussed at meeting a tweed clad old codger with gun on shoulder and Alpenstock at hand, surrounded by a wild band of hounds on the athele’s favourite sunny snowfield. Indeed, they are rude enough to ignore my hearty greeting, choosing to mutter at their boots or stare towards the sky as I speak; whose bloody mountain is it anyway!
On the way home, I glace back at the sunset turning the snowy tops pink and feel that I can discount all the depressing news headlines of fingerprints and single parents transmitted at me throughout the week. It is just so wonderful to be alive and fit in Glen Trollaigh in fine winter weather, with the Robin’s wonderful spring song filling me with hope for the year ahead. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.