Bitter Winds

02/21/2005

A long rest after only a few hours sleep on Saturday night pays off as we awake refreshed to a couple of inches of snow around the Tower of Glen Trollaigh. The wind has veered to the North East, probably our bitterest quarter, but it is a blue sky, alpine dawn. The temperature barely tops zero degrees however; we have a wonderful display of eastbound jet trails against an azure sky. The sun touches the Tower by 10.00 and stays with us until almost 5.00. Being Monday I go through my “people to phone” list, almost all of whom are not available, out of the office or closed for some local holiday, hopefully most of them will take the trouble to phone me back tomorrow, we will wait and see. Needless to say, because of the presence of fluffy snow, our wheelie bins are not empted, this omission is food and drink to grumpy old people like me. Argyll and Bute Council are very enthusiastic in pursuing the payment of local taxes, but mostly incapable of providing the services funded by these cash collections. I often argue that it would be much better to allow small, self-sufficient communities to provide tailored services for such things as, for example, recycling in exchange for a reduction in tax, or if we must pay, then some grant should be provided to cover our costs. However, this, in some way does not fit the bigger picture. The news is full of the health scare of the week, in this case that we are doomed by a food ingredient called, suspiciously, Sudan One. Do I detect a spin? By midday I round up the eldest daughter and she drives me round to Glen Orchy were we help the Kerrs clear away storm damaged trees, the eldest surprises me by volunteering to bring the quad and trailer up the hill to collect and stack firewood, rather than spend time yakking in the kitchen. I wonder if she might stay until lambing, when an extra pair of hands will be most welcome. I hike back into Glen Trollaigh over the high pass, alone, about 5.30 and I am treated to some spectacular colours when a snow squall blasted through at my back and the sun sets behind Cruachan. The ridges are white, back lit by blood red shafts, a dark grey sky above, higher still it is perfect blue with fast moving small white clouds. If only a painting could capture it, perhaps the pleasure is that no painting could do it justice! A cold night in prospect, so the fires are lit and a good book, an Ardbeg and an early bed seem to be the order of the evening. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.