Damp Dorsoduro

01/23/2007

The wind veers to the north, which brings us colder, drier weather. Sitting at the library desk, I can easily track the deer from the windows across the snow line at 1000 feet, and while I walk the hounds, they can sense them right down into dearest Dottie’s garden. Chill winter is a pleasant change from blasting Atlantic jet stream.

Lachie, Mhairi and I have travelled up to Rannoch to ready the Trollaigh railcar for our expedition to Venice. As one of the seven families who opted for rolling stock, rather than joint stock for services rendered in the 1800s, we Trollaighs have maintained our privilege. We are permitted to hitch our wagon onto any overnight London bound train. The Trollaighs seldom exercise this right, however it is such fun and today we have ensured fresh linen, a good supply of Glen Trollaigh birch logs, to say nothing of a substantial quantity of general purvey. Over the years, there have been difficulties with certain drivers hitching up the Trollaigh wagon, not least “red” Hamish McIver, the engine driver. However, in to-day’s egalitarian age most drivers are happy to tow us to London in the knowledge of good tips to come, to say nothing of fresh coffee, bacon rolls and a warm welcome to anyone venturing aft. The days of the channel boat trains are past, so dearest Dottie and I must leave the wagon for our return trip and slum it first class to Paris by Eurostar, then Pendolino to Turin. The railway wallahs have graciously up-graded us to first as far as Venice, although we will stop over with chums in Torino, Winter Olympic capital. Wonderful what the old names and conections can still accomplish without lending even the mearest bawbee to president Blair. Dearest Dottie and I have borrowed a small Venice apartemento for a few nights to enjoy the culture and a draft or two of prosecco, although spies tell us that wellies are a must this year.

Back in February, dear readers, after our “summer” hols. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.