Booing At Braemar.

07/30/2006

Rain at last, well a half-hearted rain compared to the average Glen Trollaigh deluge. Nevertheless, enough to revive the vegetable garden, bring the Alt Trollaigh up an inch or two and extract loud groans from the Oak framed roof of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh as it “takes up” like an old square-rigger. I hope that it will continue to “take up” and render the many drip catching buckets obsolete. The temperature cools away to 18/20 degrees, which is more like our summer average and after weeks exposed to clegs, midges and ticks, the old baronial varicose veins can be decently covered with tweed breeks, although tie less Shirtsleeve Order remains in force.

The River Trollaigh rises perceptibly, though remains unfishable for the fourth week running. The refreshed current brings buggers; these fellows are a new breed bringing a sport from New Zealand, where they really know how to turn an exercise opportunity into a life-threatening nightmare. One straps oneself into an inflatable armchair and pushes off into any old maelstrom, this is River Bugging, and provides yet another chance for the foolhardy to risk life and limb in the pursuit of making a complete tit of themselves. Doubtless, we will be fishing the flailed remains of a few buggers out of Loch Trollaigh all winter long as their posts as Outreach Business Managers or IT Procurers are filled by even more enthusiastic University dropouts.

Glen Trollaigh has failed to attract enough amateur sportsmen to hold a Glen Trollaigh Gathering since the end of hostilities with Herr Hitler. However, I am still invited to endless Whisky Olympics in every muddy field in Argyll. This week was no exception as I don the grouse feathered bonnet and support myself with a market length stick to hob nob with some minor nabob in Nether Lorn. These affairs are a complete bore until September when genuine Blue Bloods, Actors and serious London Money can be present for a natter and a dram. However, at this time of year, one must survive the daylong agony of grubby children eating burgers and sweets with aggressive tattooed fathers and screeching middle England mothers from the nearby caravan park, none of whom respect either rank or title. Second-rate pipers from Germany ruin ones hearing for days and prepubescent country dancers perform badly for what seems like hours. I can well understand why dearest Dotty always finds an excuse for missing parade. This year did provide some interest in the transfer of bad habits from the bladder-kicking World Cup. It now seems acceptable for the lager louts to boo young dancers to whom they assume they are not related, I feel like booing the whole bally lot, nevertheless, I would never dream of doing so. I suggest that you do not try that sort of behaviour at Braemar or Lonach, old sport. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.