The Chieftain’s Honours

08/21/2008

Aren’t we the lucky ones! Blue skies, fluffy clouds, a northerly zephyr to cool us, whilst my correspondent on Colonsay reports heavy rain (even referring to something that happened some years back as; “when we used to have a good August”), south again to Belfast where the rescue services are pumping out the cellars, east to Fife with road and rail links are cut off by floods and landslips. As for England, Devon appears to have blown its holiday makers from the coast onto the moors and Londoners are not leaving home unless their journey is really necessary. Of course even our weather has been pretty changeable over the past three or four weeks and I have to admit to the odd gloomy glance through rain lashed windows, however now the 12th is here and blamming can commence, bringing a reasonable rush of visitors ready to put up with a crusty host for a shot at the infamous Royal Trollaigh. This year dearest Dottie and I have made a point of using good weather to take time off, and to hell with the consequences. So recently we scaled a Munro and have undertaken several long hikes, including a sunny multi-kilometre circumnavigation of Loch Dochard in Glen Kinglas, bathing from one of its sandy mini-beaches watched by a pair of Black Throated Divers and millions of hungry Clegs. Equipment failures have kept the Trollaigh Navy mainly confined to base, however a few short cruises around the Sound of Jura have kept some salt in the veins. On the cultural side of things we have eschewed Edinburgh for two visits to the flicks in Oban to see Mamma Mia. I must admit to a little uneasiness on the second visit to find myself the only male amongst a few score of females, most of whom have overshot size zero by an Oban mile.

Speaking of gatherings now is the season for every minor clan to arrive “home” from the four corners of the globe to celebrate their kinship and roots. In every lay-by a squad of tartan clad Scandinavian MacSkrivens pours over an OS map, compass in hand as they seek the exact pile of stones from whence they sprang a few generations ago. I feel sure that if Olav Johansson, chief of The Great Skriven knew the truth about Great Great Great Grandma and his gene pool, he would be leaping up another family tree pdq. Although it is easy to mock such homespun enthusiasm, the returning multi-hued, bagpipe playing Diaspora do add a touch of colour and spend a bob or two while they are here. I look on it a little like the current fashion for a roadside or mountain top shrine to the dear departed, it’s a bloody nuisance, but if it makes someone feel better, well so be it. On reflection some of my bitterness stems from the loss for what seemed a lucrative let of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh to a mob of returning McKilts where extra cash was on hand for a genial, titled host offering drams all round, in full highland kit for photo opportunities. The deal fell through when The Great Pudding of McKilt based somewhere north of the Canadian artic circle checked his GPS co-ordinates and decided that Glen Trollaigh was a click or two north of his “home” and simply would not do, even before I had got my mitts on the non returnable deposit. So all you Trollaighs out there, gird up your loins as VisitScotland have declared next year to be the year of Home Coming; remember the poor old buggers who stayed behind in the mist and the midges and come and support us with some of your flash cash, or we may be forced to visit you! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

In researching my family tree, it seems the Langs may have a familial connection--albeit an ancient one--to the Trollaighs of Glen Orchy. As the president of my local chapter of the We Really Are Scottish, Really organization, we embrace and celebrate our tartan-wearing distant clan relatives, and excitedly look forward to the year of Home Coming. We accept your kind offer to visit the Tower of Trollaigh and explore our ancestral home.