Sparks Fly

03/23/2005

Pleasant spring temperatures at sixteen degrees, soft south breezes and mostly dry, although the overhead conditions are a hundred shades of grey to almost black. The sun does show through in the afternoon, but the weather girls promise a band of rain for tonight, with a chance of thunder. Thunder means that we must go through an exhaustive safety checklist inside the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, not for us the protections of the city, here we are attached to miles and miles of high voltage cabling and resistance free copper telephone wires. Lightening strikes anywhere within a multi-mile radius can instantly blow modems, fax machines, telephones, cause structural damage to buildings, long power cuts and, of course set fire to the Tower or even the surrounding landscape. Being woken by a clap of thunder in the middle of the night is one of the few things that stirs me into instant action, straight out of bed to patrol and check the property and everything inside it. There can be a few lighter moments with lightening strikes. I remember with great satisfaction the day the farm had a visit from a department inspector who, in a rising storm insisted on carrying out an internal examination of a fine and long suffering cow. Old Betsy was leaning uneasily against a cattle crush whilst undergoing this indignity. The crush was touching the steelwork of the cattle shed. Lachie nudged me to look at the telltale St Elmo’s fire flickering around the farm transformer, and with a satisfying snap and crackle the inspector, who had foolishly become Old Betsy’s route to earth, arced across the cattle shed, sparks snapping from his shiny steel-capped boots. He was still smouldering as he drove off at speed, never to visit again. Oh, how we laughed! In fact, the memory of it prompts an Ardbeg momment. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.