Hoare Frost In Pigalle

11/19/2005

The Tower of Glen Trollaigh is flooded by bright winter sunlight at 11.30 am and its warmth radiates through the south windows as I struggle from beneath the heavy covers of the Great Bed of Trollaigh with dearest Dottie at my side, together, at home at last, for the first time in over a fortnight. One cannot imagine my pleasure in this simple momment and I am incapable of describing the beauty of our landscape, thickly hoare frosted, the golden larch tops showing the last of the autumn colours above the bare trees, the breath from the sheep flock rising into the still air between the high snow topped mountains set against the pale, clear sky. Simply magical. The past days have been unbelievably hetic, as we have been forced to move to the Highburgh house taking Lachie and Mhairi with us for an extended stay. My days have been spent in the Cheapeside boardroom desperately trying to persuade enormous numbers of Trollaigh Shipping family shareholders not to sell out to an aggressive Greek take-over bid and my evening filled by entertaining the same greedy fools. The whole exercise has cost me my job as chairman of the “Diamond T” but has kept Johnnie Foreigner out. I am exhausted but more resolved than ever that out ghastly president Blair must be persuaded to promote the UK as a primary producer of everything from food, to ships, to steel, to armaments and energy, rather than this hopeless belief in PhDs, research and services that will forever compromise the security of our great nation. Perhaps a new political career beckons, but have I the energy?

Last night a recurring dream came to me; I am a young girl on a European holiday amongst an extended family. My medicos warn me that this is serious stuff, but I calmly negotiate the alleys of Pigalle driving a huge Mercedes, and even succeed in a reverse parking manoeuvre, correctly reading the French parking restriction signs. I seek useful hand tools from the second hand shops of that area without any money, and finally overcome the attack of a footpad who in some way blocks my progress. Throughout I am calm, a calmness that is an enormous relief as the dawn breaks and I find myself cocooned in the safety and comfort of The Great Bed of Trollaigh. Minus sixteen degrees brings constant care for our water and energy supply, kerosene freezes and the Aga will fail, but this morning I can hear Lachie calling the dogs and Mhairi singing in the kitchen, my god how lucky I am to be home at last. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.