Heathrow And Back, No Aintree

04/09/2005

The north wind of the past couple of days backs westerly as the depression tracks out into the North Sea, this draws in plenty of chilly rain and low menacing skies. The River Trollaigh rises and all the minor burn run white; the snow is stripped from the hills once more. Dearest Dottie and I have a very early start to catch the first flight to Heathrow where we are collected by the girls and then on to Windsor for the Royal wedding. The girls have to camp out in that ghastly St George’s nave, however, Dottie and I get into the Choir a couple of seats behind President Blair, after I make a bit of a fuss with an equerry about the Trollaigh banner being hung upside down again! It is all very jolly and well received by the media, but I do feel so sad that this was not sorted out thirty years ago, what a waste of thirty years. I try to persuade Dottie that a detour via Liverpool and Aintree would be a good way of breaking such a long day; however, Dottie will have none of it. After the indignity of being carried up to the Waterloo Chambers from the Galilee Door of St George’s in a coach with a bunch of cousins without a word of English between them. Dottie and I attempt a bite of a Cornish Pastie (Who on earth thought of that one) at the reception, needless to say not an Ardbeg in sight, and then swiftly back to Heathrow. We leave the younger generation to swoop it up, I fear for the future of the country when I see my daughters and their peers behaving so badly, not a decent curtsy between them. I throw an invitation to President Blair to visit the Tower of Glen Trollaigh instead of his habitual stop at the Inveraray Oyster Bar, but without his minders, he looks hunted and lost. Cherie looks like a rabbit caught in powerful headlights, maybe the rumours that they are finished are true. Late back to the Tower, where we are greeted by comforting silence after the bustle. Mhairi claims to have seen Dottie’s knees on TV behind the President, when she retrieved a dropped order of service, my god where did I leave the Ardbeg. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.