Damp Winnings.
09/18/2006
The past two weeks seem to have surged by, the first few days spent at Burghley and every hour of the second week spent with long standing chums who needed to be entertained with constant physical activity and long cheerful dinner parties, during which the “achievements” of the day were assessed in detail. I was exhausted, I am not sure whether it was the long walks on Ardnamurchan, or the detailed dissection of each footfall, but there certainly seems to be a sea change in my contemporaries who now seriously embrace the aggressive, healthy lifestyle that I had hoped would remain firmly in our children’s generation. A misty, autumnal weather pattern covers the glen with mellow fruitfulness, and a few showers have tempted the River Trollaigh into good condition. Night temperatures of 5 degrees or so have produced wonderful starry skies and secretly brought dearest Dottie’s electric blanket into play.
Our seasons must be a bit awry, as one family of swallows remain about the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, at least two weeks after all their peers have departed for the Sahara. Yet, the first stags are starting to disturb our sleep with roars and bellows a good three weeks early. We have splendid berries on all the Rowans and an exceptional plum crop from the old orchard, although strangely the new fruit trees are poor. Several old soaks from the village claim that these are all signs of a hard winter ahead, although it would appear that, they are at odds with the expert profits of doom and gloom who claim we will all drown in our beds and the humble tomato will fruit at Mickelmas, all because of American SUVs or somesuch. I think I will trust the old soaks and stock up with logs, coal and kerosene.
Although there is no betting allowed at Burghley, a few side bets can be taken with the odd down at heel aristo. We all had a very jolly time and managed to win a bob or two. Dearest Dottie is inclined to celebrate her success at any hour of day or night; unfortunately, the dear is never at her best after a glass or two, and nearly met with disaster when visiting the member’s lavatory still clutching a modest wad of winnings. While sitting controlling her summer frock with one hand and clutching the loot with the other, she was overcome with an overwhelming desire to sneeze, probably something to do with those ghastly things that squirt powerful unguents into the air every few seconds. With great dexterity, she juggled her responsibilities, grabbed a tissue and coped with a right Trollaigh of a sneeze, then casting the tissue into the potty she relaxed only to realise that she was still holding the tissue, but the loot was in the loo. Several servitors looked strangely at me for the rest of the day as I proffered damp, bluish fivers in exchange for glasses of Pimms. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.