Lack Of Trousers In The Country.

08/25/2006

The weather forecasts have irritated me all week with their inaccuracy, almost every day they have talked of wind and rain, while we have enjoyed sunshine that burns back autumnal morning mists, light winds and, as this is the new moon, star filled nights. The threat of rain has been welcome to the land manager and the sportsman alike, for we can more or less count the days of heavy rain that we have received since May on the fingers of one hand. However, rivers and lochs are low, fishermen fret, as all animals and birds, both wild and domestic try to pack in the fluids and fat to see them through the winter months. Swallows and house martins still fill the skies above the Tower of Glen Trollaigh although they now perch on the telephone lines at first light and must be planning their migration to North Africa, may God speed them, and how we hope for their safe return next April or May.

I have not been involved in the entertainment of the girl’s young guests, as affairs have kept me chained to the desk, however judging by the noise they are all making, they seem to be enjoying their holiday. Of course, this week sees the Argyll Gathering; some would say the highlight of the Argyll year, after West Highland Yachting Week, some however, including myself, would not. I have to say it is fun, and I always enjoyed heuching and cheuching from dusk until dawn whilst dressed in full highland regalia, although summoning the stamina has become more difficult as the years have rolled by. However, I suppose as all my old chum fall off their perch I find it more difficult to deal with their offspring. Sons and daughters of dukes and earls they may be, however I remember them as snotty five year olds, rather than the Armani suited family behind the Merc’s privacy glass, while I think fondly of my chums and their fathers walking my hills, as I did theirs. Danny the Duke of Argyll’s chauffeur still gives me a solemn salute on the increasingly rare occasions that I see SB 1, however there is no cheery wave from the Cadburys in the back seat shielded by darkened glass, that I always used to receive from earlier scatty Dukes and Duchesses.

I suppose that I must be in a dark mood as I am experiencing difficulty with modern dress code whilst the Tower of Glen Trollaigh is filled with sprogs. Dearest Dottie and I still “dress” for dinner, even when we are alone, and although the girls do their best when they are in the Tower, there are not many dinner jackets at our table. At least they all make some effort before enthusiastically attacking my cellar, and I am always pleased to see that most young guests still arrive with several large bags. I shudder when some unknown guest appears without any country house pedigree and a “tow ‘n roll” bag whose contents surely cannot cope with morning rides, luncheon, afternoon point to points and then dinner dress. I must blame the Americans, who claim that jeans and a number of tops might suffice, the tops are certainly all right, however jeans take far too long to dry when soaked by bad weather, chafe when on horseback and are far too tacky in the evening. I always feel that girls should follow the example of HRH and avoid trousers whilst in the country. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.