Blackbirds and Black BMWs

03/17/2005

First thing this morning, and that means around 6.00 to 6.30 as we move into longer days, I am up and about, however I cannot see much as we are inside a cloud of misty rain. When I look straight up it is almost blue, but it is murky and damp all around me. The temperature rises to an unbelievable fifteen degrees, with a brisk southwesterly breeze. The pressure is about as low as it has been since the mid January storms, but the higher temperature means rain and showers rather than gales. I wander about the outside of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh in wellies and Borsalino enjoying the absence of several layers of winter protection, forever checking the fabric of our relic of a building. Chaffinches are crowding into the beech trees, many more than I remember last year, a flight of fat pidgeons flee before the dogs, Mrs Blackbird worries about the kitchen garden where Mhairi normally leaves left-over porridge and as a beautifully stage managed event, three good stags appear outlined on a ridge about 1500 feet above me. Lachie and the constant ringing of the telephone bring me hurrying back to my responsibilities. Around midday, after Gordon Brown justifying his pointless and blatantly dishonest budget on the radio has bored me shitless, we have a fabulous burst of full sun. Equally dramatic is the arrival of two black BMWs swooping into the courtyard. One contains members of the MET and the second, three swarthy South Americans asking, politely after the South American Cousin. Suitably primed by David I am able to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, whilst evading the questions (taking a leaf out of Gordon Brown’s book). The three Columbians look a little dispirited, the members of the MET look furious. I imagine that they will all enjoy their night at The Manor House in Oban as they wait to return south. The plot thickens, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.