Silver Darlings.
09/23/2007
The western sun hangs high over a wind swept Minch as I sit with a chilled glass of Chardonnay in my half of the Bridal Suite at The Inver Lodge, Lochinver. A pleasant port on such a stormy day where we are enjoying a day or two’s fishing on the Inver and the Kirkaig. Dearest Dottie and I have made a pilgrimage here for many years as guests of the Vesteys, however the invitation was not forthcoming last year so this year we have had to put up in the pub. Here we have cheery staff and excellent grub and so it should be, as it is best that one is seated when the reckoning arrives. However despite many hundreds of wonga per snooze the building could do with bit of an upgrade as bedroom furniture is definitely on the creaky side, bathroom fittings disintegrate in one’s hand and the quaint practice of battling fellow guests for enough hot water for bathing remains alive and well in Sutherland. The quality of Inver Lodge staff is a breath of fresh air after some of the insults we have suffered at the hands of servitors over the past few days. Anyone working in a petrol station is now specially trained never to smile, whilst talking inanely to anyone other than the customer and surely a plaque must be unveiled in Ullapool to all who work there and have developed to perfection a degree of surliness on the verge of rudeness which I thought had disappeared with 1980’s British Rail ticket clerks.
Perhaps if I was to be picky about our hotel it might be the secret system used to place guests at dinner, the mystical rotation of tables was explained by the need to allow everyone to enjoy the splendid views, however our party spent all our evenings at the back of the dining room, next to the kitchen doors with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons blasting the left lughole, while several loud toffs, footballers and minor celebs hogged the aforementioned vista of Lochinver’s cosmopolitan fish quay. Conspiracy theories were strong amongst our jolly band, firstly we thought that spending in the bar might be a factor in the positioning policy, this was quickly discounted when it became clear as the nose on one’s face that we were outpacing the opposition by at least ten to one in that department. Secondly I might have upset chef by spurning his Sea Bass when I discovered it was farmed rather than fresh, a totally different animal and all a bit silly within spitting distance of one of Scotland’s major fishing ports. Thirdly a further challenge to chef was the fairly obvious doggie bagging of breakfast sausages and black pudding for our vast tribe of mutts. Generally in the end it was agreed that the weight and newness of your motor and a sizable bribe wins over title, tweeds and tie, it was ever thus. However rod tips bent, doggies frolicked, healths were toasted and dearest Dottie and I very much enjoyed a long slow drive home via Applecross winding around many a western sea loch. Back to The Tower of Glen Trollaigh and the Baronial responsibilities including 360 e-mails, thank God for Cloudmark, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.