That Old Dead Mole

07/16/2007

I know that summer and the Glasgow Fair have arrived when some spotty oick brazenly bangs at the studded Oak doors of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh to complain in a thin voice that “a poor wee sheep is being eaten by wild dogs” in some nearby ditch. This is patent rubbish as no well fed; self respecting Glen Trollaigh hound would go near a dead sheep. Foxes and Badgers certainly would enjoy such an al fresco feast. I often wonder if the “Crisp Bag Throwers” that poke their noses into all things rural would understand that Foxes and Badgers are free to eat dead sheep, an excellent disposal system from our point of view, or do the CBTs baulk at foxes et all red in tooth and claw or indeed red and riddled with TB and Lyme’s disease. It is high time that all school children smelt the whiff of rotting cadavers and saw at first hand the lice and ticks crawling upon them to understand that it is all part of the food chain. Although I doubt that those who happily launch their empty cans and wrappers from the car have any concept of the roadside Food Chain apart from a fleeting anticipation of their next double flame grilled whopper with cheese (wrappers thrown to the winds at a lay-by near you).

I hope, dear reader that you will forgive a certain degree of grumpiness from yours truly, as while you have all been flash flooded to buggery, Glen Trollaigh has remained dry. One might not think of this as a disadvantage; however our first large party of paying fishing guests arrive today expecting a willing Ghillie, tight lines and dearest Dottie and I dressed to the nines and in full pre-prandial flow. However I will be at my wits end to find water for them, the girls have arrived to transform into red bearded Ghillies and to help Mhairi with the hospitality. God bless them, as Glen Trollaigh desperately needs the income flowing from our guests this season. I am seriously considering the fall back option of Starling shooting, a tricky little blighter the Starling who is obligingly swooping about The Tower of Glen Trollaigh in some numbers at present (Glasgow Fair Fortnight). However a shoot by bored anglers swinging low and fast close to the old adobe hacienda is a bit of a heart stopper.

My natural shyness makes dinner conversation with total strangers a chore. At times the group of TS do not really want one’s chat; on the other hand frequently they expect to be enthralled from stiffener to lights out. I seem to find myself buffering on about the latest political conspiracy or what really happened in Cairo in ’43 while dearest Dottie glares from the other end of the Great Table of Trollaigh and a red bearded waitress pours water into my lap. I have faired little better this week with a over heated and unpopular opinion on climate change, producing a dead mole over dessert and being sent for an early bath for loudly insisting that I should be allowed full points for “envi” (Auld Scots) during after dinner scrabble. Life is not always easy, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.