Dry Martinis

04/07/2006

Strong North Westerlies bring the wind chill tumbling and snow and hail showers remind us that winter still has a sting in its tail at a time when we should be seeing temperatures creeping up and the straw colours of winter edge towards green. Our first lambs are appearing two weeks early as Lachie, never too hot on the facts of life must have let a couple of healthy tups out a day or two before tupping day in November. Dearest Dottie finds these births in this weather very distressing and she continually scans the parks for new and potentially vulnerable arrivals. However, their mothers are bred for rough weather and they seem perfectly capable of sheltering their young from the worst of the wet whilst Lachie and I watch for crows and foxes.

Over the last couple of weeks I have discovered a new gin, “Miller’s”, there is some guff about using Icelandic Water, however, the main point is that it is forty five percent proof, making a marvellous dry martini. I have been experimenting with the formulation over a couple of lunchtimes, which has resulted in some rather lazy afternoons, but if you see it anywhere, I believe Harvey Nics are a stockist, grab a bottle and send one on to me for the tip. The point of this digression is that whilst slumped at the library window after said DM, I spotted our first Wheatear as clear as day. These shy meadow birds are only here in their summer breeding season and arrive ahead of our Swallows from North Africa and Europe; the blighters are presumably riddled with bird flu, surely, only the dimmest of you will have missed its official arrival yesterday. My personal mole in the RSPB, “Sandy” an archetypal grizzled Yorkshire man with hiking boots and clipboard tells me that bird flu has been detected on bird reserves up and down the east coast for weeks past. However, the RSPB have been desperate to avoid the first “case” being found on RSPB land, in case that the millions of myopic retired teachers who support the charity with their donations should take offence. Things had got so bad that a dead Swan was scooped from the Vane Farm reserve on Loch Leven, where one can apparently walk across the water on the backs of dead Tufted Duck, and, under cover of darkness, it was then dumped in Cellardyke harbour to be reported by an RSPB activist. Huge sighs of relief all round as the responsibility passes to the Scottish Executive, who are, of course on holiday to look after their ghastly infants as the schools are closed. And ultimately to that pompous fool, Ross Finnie, allegedly the only man in history to have failed to realise the purpose of a visit to a brothel on his stag night.

I have issued the strictest instructions to Lachie that he and I will shoot down every Swan, Duck and Wildfowl that ventures into the glorious air space of Glen Trollaigh in accordance with the royal charter granted to the Trollaighs in 1638, and that every trace of bird flu will be flushed into the North Atlantic via the sea lochs. We Trollaighs accept the challenge of this new scourge of euro pestilence, and in accordance with our risk and biosecurity assements, advise you that the Great Tower of Trollaigh is now closed to uninvited visitors. Good luck to one and all, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.