Thrush’s Spring Song

01/22/2006

We have to take the weather one day at a time it is not as good as the spell we enjoyed in December and early January, mostly cloudy, wet with snow on the hills, high rivers and burns with the temperature at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh hovering around plus 5 to 9. The media is now trying to justify its gloomy prediction of an extreme winter brought down upon us sinners by ozone depletion, global warming, excessive livestock methane emissions and the slowing of the Gulf Stream. By screeching that it is coming next Thursday on the dot of 10.00 am, an ice age of easterly gales, minus 30 degrees, and bottomless drifts of snow. It seems odd that both Heather The Weather and the lovely Gale McGrane make no mention of this major event, indeed they forecast a reasonable, if cloudy week ahead. At the tower, I favour the weather girls; here dearest Dottie’s wild wood animals are snugly hibernating in the outbuildings, only foraging by night to collect large numbers of my favourite Rich Tea biscuits strategically left on window ledges. On the last two mornings, I have clearly heard the Thrush’s spring song from the highest branches, whilst I have wandered the policies with the mutts. I feel that the Thrush may be exhorting us to get the bloody garden re-modelling finished. Work, which I regret has fallen behind schedule because of the wetter weather, costs are also getting out of hand as heavy plant languishes on site. I have spoken sharply to my plant man, however this small, toothless unintelligible troll laughs wildly pointing a grubby finger at the small print on a contract with what looks suspiciously like a forgery of the Baronial mark at the bottom of the page.

I was here for the winter of ’47 as some officious Rear Admiral on the China Station considered that I should spend an enforced leave ashore over some easily explained misunderstanding with his horse faced wife and daughter. In those days, my parents sheltered a considerable extended family on grace and favour following the difficulties with Mr Hitler. Their presence made the savage winter all the more bizarre. We had the luxury of a staff of six on the farm and in the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and as the weather worsened, we all moved into the tower. My father took on the role of a Winter General and organised work parties with various responsibilities, Lachie’s dad and I had to keep all the fires going day and night together with regular snow-shoed expeditions to shoot anything edible that moved. All those working in the wind scoured Artic glen thoroughly enjoyed our two weeks of isolation, together with the mysterious recipes that mother conjured up from the dubious ingredients delivered by the shooting party. However events did produce some strange behaviour from our guests, I remember one old dear who took to having a cold bath in the early hours, “to warm herself up a bit”, then an uncle who unexpectedly attacked father’s limited supply of claret, fortunately the Old Man managed to wean my uncle onto drams just in time. Hey Ho perhaps a cold snap would be quite fun. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.