The Hills Are Alight.
04/13/2008
Apart from the tradition of liberating the Tower of Glen Trollaigh Christmas Tree in December, only April provides any sport with “The Forestry”, when we yokels set about our traditional muirburn. Regulars will know that this ancient fire raising allows us to clear away un-grazed “white” grass and encourages fresh new shoots to appear, timed to avoid disrupting ground nesting birds and provide fresh bites for lambs and calves. For some reason lost to me, Prof Ernest Guy PhD and bar, objects strongly to our wielding of the mega power blow torch on the Bens and Braes, indeed he sets up a commando operation to keep us in place. This is a bit rich from an industry that for forty years has sent hill ploughs through every ecological and archaeological site in Scotland, however ever one for a challenge we have completed our muirburn on schedule, often burning at night fuelled by Something Scottish or aided though our new tactic of sending the bucket and spade brigade in the wrong direction. One only has to phone Fluffy Stuff HQ with a reported and frankly unlikely siting of some avian rarity. This guarantees a wave of beards in small green vans in eager anticipation of a clip-board moment shooting off on the required compass bearing, whilst we criminals pocket the Swan Vestas, don sturdy boots and head for Tom na Trollaigh Ridge.
Dearest Dottie’s splendid pair of pins have been exercised on the Austrian pistes along with a jolly group experiencing our first ski party town, where groups of chaps wearing matching funny hats and rude T shirts, slowly succumb to large amounts of booze. All harmless enough and the locals are delighted to take their loot. Our week of mixed weather was enlivened by good company and good food with the occasional visit to watering holes where fascist sing-alongs seemed to be the order of the day. Always one to find out something useful, I was taken from the jostle of Innsbruck Airport to the nearby Tennis Club to wile away an hour or so of flight delay eating and wine tasting. This club is now a Trollaigh Top Travel Tip almost compensating for the terrors of using this quaint tho’ dangerous Airfield.
Returning from the slopes and a family gathering in Dorset I spent a minute or so in the sunshine catching up over coffee with unread issues of The Oban Times. I think their sub editors must be given special licence to conjure up their headlines. I feel sure that I would never get away with the tongue in cheek “Lochaber Police Disappointed in Levels of Violence” or the quoting of a well respected Argyll Councillor following his chairing of a contentious planning meeting, where the committee and officials were booed from the hall; “Although the majority were disappointed, the meeting was held democratically.” Mr Sub Editor, I know not who you are, however may you live forever and keep fuelling the Trollaigh chuckles.
Hooting Owls accompany the nocturnal dog walks, Black Birds, Cross Bills and Oyster Catchers join the morning rambles. However it remains cold in the dry northerly air stream, not much sign of spring apart from nodding Daffs and Tulips. Hey ho, hopefully better to come. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.