Those Colonsay Nights.
08/25/2008
After boasting about our good fortune on the weather front, I sit rain-bound in the chilly library of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh whiling away an hour or two before church parade. Regrettably the long range forecast makes grim reading, with only the most determined optimist contemplating outdoor activities over the next few days. I have decided to forgo the Sunday papers, which would normally occupy me at this time, as with the rare exception of an article or two; they have become a rain forest’s worth of complete tosh. I am brainlessly bored by the pages and pages on the Olympics. After the mega budget of the Chinese steam roller, one might cringe at the prospect of a London 2012 logistical balls up. However I am dead against the fashionable sniggering at Boris Johnstone and his chances of pulling it off, to say nothing of the “couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery” brigade mainly composed of smug, inadequate journos with an ego malfunction. Let us all stand up and do our bit, more importantly force the government to flood sport and the London Olympic Organising Committee with the generous funding they so desperately need, without resorting to the normal political flannel, pie in the sky promises and pipe dream budgets. Come on Beastly Brown, time to show your metal, even if hopefully, you will not be in No10 when the 2012 curtain goes up.
As the high passes surrender to the sweet August fragrance of heather and bog myrtle, dearest Dottie reports a count of 62 swallows and house martins on the trusty telephone wire connecting us to the outside world, with many more airborne. This can mean only one thing, Burghley Horse Trials! You will know that almost all of my theories about the natural world are ignored by the experts, however regardless of any change of the event dates, or extreme weather our swallows and house martins always follow the motor south to Burghley, leaving the blue skies above The Tower of Glen Trollaigh empty on our return, we will miss this year’s bumper crop, although despite Mhairi’s valiant efforts at window polishing, the record breeding numbers have covered the whole bally place in bird poo.
Along with many a cove who can now only claim to be an occasional visitor to the Isle of Colonsay, I enjoy following island life by reading the “The Corncrake” (http://www.colonsay.org.uk). A recent report about the possible re-running of The Tour de Colonsay brought back many happy memories of family holidays. Those were the carefree days before political correctness and car alarms, when parental cheating at beach rugby was condoned and standard preparation for the supervision of small children at the hotel high tea involved one or more Frank sized G&T’s. The Corncrake article failed to mention the vital ingredient in the planning of the Tour de Colonsay, namely Chateaux Musar. At the time, following some difficulty in the Middle East, this Lebanese rocket fuel was virtually unavailable in the UK, yet for some reason known only to Kevin’s wine merchant at least two vintages of The Musar were present in some quantity in the hotel cellar. The Musar inspired many a jape conceived late on July nights in the hotel bar, even, as I recall on one occasion, the bizarre unmasking of an elderly gentleman masquerading as a Granny in a sizable family group. However, I digress; the Tour de Colonsay was intended to be a Corinthian competition run on hotel bikes with a weight or age handicapping system. Despite this, the entries of several unsporting cheats were accepted, the handicapping was not adopted and I was tail-end Charlie, admittedly having made a stop or two for a “breather”. In my humble opinion, unless the original rules were re-instated The Tour de Colonsay should best be left with the myths and legends for those happy times. I add a warning to any staff of the re-named “The Colonsay”; namely should you unearth and sample a dusty bottle of Chateaux Musar, avoid the pier on dark and stormy nights! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.