Daddy’s Fabulous Tree

12/20/2005

Having been foolish enough to comment that daytime temperatures are remaining close to zero, we have had a couple of days at a pleasant five to seven degrees, the first day fair, and the second miserable. By tradition I normally wait until the family gathers at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh before selecting and felling the Christmas Tree, however, over the past few years the girls have dismissed this bonding moment as “The Griswald Family”, a tribute, I believe, to an American comedy figure who selects a tree seven sizes too large and full of squirrels. I have been hurt by this humour and now dearest Dottie and I do the basic work a few days before the girls arrive from N1, leaving them to arrange the finishing touches. On a matter of principal, I always steal our tree from the Forestry Commission on the basis that my tax dollars have paid for the bloody thing in the first place, and this year there is an added challenge as “Environmental Rangers” are on patrol to stop old diehards such as your esteemed Baron. It has to be well planned, as Sitka Spruce, the main FC product is far too prickly, however, a fine, if extremely heavy, eighteen foot Scots Pine will fit the Long Gallery to perfection, framed by the west Lord Frances window. Dearest Dottie and I have already reconnoitred the target tree and the surrounding area, we now know where the motion sensors are placed and have worked out our approach route, about a mile or two from the nearest road in Glen Aline. As the rains and the mists cover our commando like advance we know that as soon as I start up the chain saw, “Rangers” will be alerted. A mobile phone call, a few seconds with the saw and good old Bertie Beauchamp is overhead in the Robinson R20, we hastily throw the saw into the cabin, hook the tree to the underside, Bertie is away, and dearest Dottie and I hike back out to the road. The mist is so thick that the blue flashing lights waiting to greet us are hardly visible at twenty paces, so the three “Rangers” plus the local plod are surprised as we vault the last roadside fence with hardly a shred of evidence apart from a whiff of two-stroke and a dusting of sawdust. They are spitting mad and I am grinning from ear to ear, however I smartly sort things out by whipping open the back of the old Land Rover and handing over a couple of bottles of the Young Ardbeg. A roadside dram or two to keep out the cold and all is sweetness and light. I calm things further by suggesting that they are all most welcome at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh on Saturday evening for more drams and dearest Dottie’s unbeatable Mince Pies, when I feel sure the girls will rag them mercilessly by showing them “Daddy’s Fabulous Tree”! Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.