Bare Pelts

11/12/2006

I have time to spend a couple of nights in Glen Trollaigh before whizzing off to Yorkshire. As wintery gales batter the Tower of Glen Trollaigh from the West, I only have forty-eight hours to catch up with all my correspondence and crack the whip at Mhairi, who must have my laundry washed and pressed for an early departure on Monday. Today is the 11th so the household have all made an effort to have a moment’s reflection on those that have lost their lives in conflict, as the fire crackles in the grate and snow dusts the tops for the first time this year. The strong winds drive the showers towards us from the Long Glen; this westerly direction gives us a ten-minute warning before a soaking, as we can easily see the showers coming our way, this helps with picking the times of outdoor sorties and reduces the need for steaming tweeds above the Aga. I only hope that we will spot a decent weather window tomorrow for our annual remembrance visit to the Trollaigh Martyrs Stone, high on the east side of Glen Trollaigh, to remember family members and locals who have fallen, and regrettably continue to fall in bloody wars. 

I have spent much of the past week massaging the egos of the WRI’s in the Scottish Borders, an area I seldom visit, however it does repay some effort, as it is a most splendid, wild and unhindered part of Scotland, reached in an hour’s drive from Edinburgh and with arguably a drier climate than Glen Trollaigh. My talks have been to more mature and honest matrons, as the local gentry do not grace the WRI, therefore an easy topic has been “Harvest Home” with a slant towards harvesting souls, as well as food gained from the hedgerows and hunting. As the visiting speaker, I have been presented, as always, with some difficult choices whilst judging the competition of the evening. Should one honestly chose the tastiest Tomato Chutney, or perhaps veer in favour of a more physically attractive competitor. Tricks and traps are often played or set, and any visiting speaker must be constantly on their guard, I well remember the night at the Glen Ogle WRI when Sandy Boar-Hamilton had to judge between exhibits made from natural pelts. One exhibit was quite obviously a Mink G-string, and a certain winner! However Sandy, ever the diplomat, wrote out the winning ticket to the “Spectacular Fur Spectacle Case” thereby hoisting the tittering tomcats on their own petards. 

As always, my Borders hosts have been generous to a fault, one family even giving me the runt of a recent litter, Boris. He and I will get on famously, despite his different coloured eyes and extremely short legs, I feel sure that he will fit into our motley pack with the greatest of natural cunning. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

P.S. Despite my investment, I have not received a single comment on my new “safe” style scribblings. I content myself that you are all too stupid to cope with the simple security check to shut out the robots, and never mention it again, or should I just give up? A.T. 

I am sorry that you feel neglected your great worshipfullness.
Now that you have mastered the technology (hopefully at some considerable expense to the baronial purse) I will endeavour to make the odd comment.