Leaky Tubs

08/09/2005

The cool breeze has been gently calling me, whistling over my favourite high pass, which I have not managed to visit for weeks; I can see the sunlight and the odd cloud shadow playing over it from my desk, the desk that is tied like a millstone around my neck. Imagine my joy when that batty Rear Admiral Peters-Gibson clanks up the drive in his ancient Mk10 Jag, he hoots indoors to embrace dearest Dotty and in a healthy bellow demands my immediate assistance to recover some diving apparatus from the bottom of Loch Trollaigh. The old fool, whom I normally avoid, has been reminded about his old junk while reading reports of the valiant Scottish submarine rescue service saving the lives of seven Ruskies in far waters. My only hope is that the Rear Admiral, turned sheep farmer has not also abandoned his crew in a momment of absent-mindedness. Lachie, Peters-Gibson and I arrive at the Lochside to discover a leaky punt, some rope and what appears to be a rusty 50-gallon drum with a small porthole. I am assured that the drum is a first rate diving bell designed on the Lefortune immersion principle and has been extensively tested by the Rear Admiral who will command the punt while Lachie, in a well patched frogman’s suit will escort the barrel with me inside to the bottom of the Loch. I am very relieved to discover that the water at the dive site is only some fifteen feet deep. All goes well until I hit the bottom in total darkness and both my feet go straight through the base of the blasted tub, freezing water rushes up to my tweed plus fours and stops, I can just make out the startled face of Lachie in the porthole. There follows a few moments of silence, after this I sense a few tugs on the rope attaching me to the surface, some heavy splashing and the bloody punt floats down beside me. More silence, distant screams, and then the well turned ankles of number one daughter kick past, the rest of her appears to be clad only in the skimpiest of undergarments but I throw decorum to the wind as the water level reaches my waist. Within seconds the drum is on the move as three Trollaigh woman heave together to rescue their master. Lachie releases me from my tin tomb on the shoreline and has the sense to administer a stiff Ardbeg from a flask for medicinal purposes. As I rise to my sodden feet, I note the saturated form of the rear admiral prone at the lady’s feet, lying where he has been poll axed by a furious Dottie. The Trollaighs march as one back to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, where for once I am content to return to my bloody desk. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.