Sherry And The Fallen Trees Of Glen Falloch

03/16/2006

My planned trip to the Cheltenham Festival this week was thwarted by the closure of the A82 south of Crianlarich for three days whilst the ghastly Scottish Executive argued over a few pennies to contract some fellows to clear trees pulled across the road by heavy snow. This caused endless difficulties with my connections to England and I decided to give it a miss this year. Cheltenham used to be rather jolly, populated as it was be large numbers of Irish on a spree. Great winnings could be made as the overseas crowd were happy to work on an exchange rate of two punts to the pound; however the beastly Euro has put paid to that. Some of the visitors are now also a bit on the rough side as Ireland’s tiger economy has increased the possibility of racehorse ownership and these punters are not averse to emptying one’s pockets if one doses off in a corner of the bar. All in all, it maybe the fallen trees of Glen Falloch have been a blessing in disguise.

The winter snows now cover the hills around Glen Trollaigh, and are brightly polished by wind and frost, the ridges look most inviting. However, I am tied to the desk with a couple of business deadlines looming, my tasks are made more bearable by dearest Dottie allowing Mhairi to issue warming glasses of sherry at midday to ward off the chilly drafts which plague the main rooms of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh in these strong easterly winds, long may they blow!

The deep snowdrifts have caused more work for Lachie in shepherding and feeding our flock, and brought two unexpected callers. Firstly an ice climber who wished to pin a notice on our gate asking his fellow mountaineers to be on the lookout for his £500 titanium axe, which he lost in the Deer Corrie. I was delighted to assist, offering computer and laminator to produce the notice, however, I also made sure that the exact spot was noted on our large estate map as, at the first sign of a thaw
Lachie and I will be up there like a shot. The foot of that cliff is always worth a comb for gloves, rope, hats and on one occasion a nice pair of binoculars. Our second visitor was a rather frail old chap, first thing on Sunday morning. He and his wife had driven their campervan off the main road at the height of Saturday night’s blizzard and parked up in the lea of some trees in Glen Trollaigh, they awoke on Sunday morning in the middle of a six-foot drift. We all set too, including dearest Dottie, to dig them out and send them safely on their way to Scunthorpe, our Herculean efforts observed by Mrs Campervan snugly watching Coronation Street within. I bristled a little when they tottered off without so much to offer of a dram for all our efforts, however the “warmers” after our snowman building made up for the lack of hospitality. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.