Roaring Rutters

10/08/2005

Having cursed the weather we enjoy three almost dry days on the trot, my hours have been filled with the autumn garden clear up, Lachie and I labouring together to prepare for the hard winter weather. Acres of long grass and rushes have been topped, field drains cleared, tracks repaired, shrubs and trees pruned and the borders tidied, divided and protected. All this work has been delayed until now by poor conditions, however, it has been a pleasure to get to grips with it at last. There is a lot to see and hear outside at this time of year when each day we watch the colours changing. Already the bracken is brown, the Birches and Willows are yellow and gold and our majestic Beech trees are on the turn with strong gusts of southerly wind starting to strip the leaves, and not a midge in sight, although curiously enough a brightly coloured parrot flies northward. The constant sound both near and far is the roar of rutting Stags; this is akin to cattle in distress and goes on throughout the day and the night. In darkness, the Stags become more brave and move with shot of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh windows. The roaring disturbs the deepest sleep, I leapt from the Great Bed convinced that the Gun Room alarm was sounding only to spy a fine Royal standing proudly on the sanctuary of dearest Dottie’s sacred lawn. Several times Dottie has nudged me awake to complain about my stomach rumbling, when it is plainly the rut on a distant hillside. Although I mutter about the noise of the rut, I secretly rather enjoy its connection with autumn and wild highland glens when the tourists are gone and urban urchins safely back at school. Most of the large estate lodges are closed up now and will remain empty until New Year or even next Easter as their masters and mistresses have returned to town. I wonder how many of them wish they were as lucky as us to live in the glens all year, as they battle the rush hour traffic or wonder which of their swarthy travelling companions is about to blow himself up on the tube. I certainly know where I prefer to be, even if we have several miles of gutters to clear and hours will need to be spent in cramped and confined roof spaces tracing leaks in the blasted Tower of Glen Trollaigh, to say nothing of the annual firewood chop and split, a job that is never done. Of course, my ancestors kept any number of serfs to do all this sort of thing, however, Lachie and Mhairi are the only full time serfs I can afford these days, so my old muscles and joints will need to creak and groan along side my patient workers. I absent-mindedly reach for the young Ardbeg as the lists of “things to be done” extends onto the second recycled back of an envelope! Cheers, Your Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Hello Old Salty Dog, I am afraid I deleted a message from you without reading it whilst dealing with an assorted bunch of porn peddling nose pickers bombarding my comments page. I regret that I will be shutting the comments facility down next week as I cant be doing with timewasting tossers. However, do keep reading my diary and I may have the pleasure of your company over the festive season. God Bless, Archie Trollaigh.