Wapitis

02/27/2005

The weather is breaking just a little. Still dry and very cold at night, but with no wind today the temperature creeps up to plus six degrees. It is still dry, but mainly overcast. Both dearest Dotty and I sleep soundly in the Great Bed after our late night on Friday. I do suffer some strange dreams including one where I try to add up a column of figures which I had jotted down the back of a rugger shirt worn by a nubile young girl, I continually failed to agree a total as she refuses to stay still. I am alarmed about the Freudian significance of all this and I worry that it might go back to my school days. I am considering doubling the Ardbeg ration tonight to overcome such frustrated reminiscences. An invitation to Glen Orchy sees myself,Dotty, number one daughter, and a motor full of dogs arriving at Arichastlich in the morning. The Kerrs have asked me to lead them to the last Earl of Breadalbane’s Wapiti cage on the east bank of the Orchy, which is safe to cross after such a long spell of dry weather. After a few false turns, we find this Edwardian relic, surrounded by thick Sitka spruce plantations and in a poor state of repair. It would be very interesting to find out more about the operation of this cage, and indeed the manufacturer of the cage. Its design could easily be adapted to modern deer fencing, currently under such attack from environmentalists protecting capercailzie. Glen Orchy farm has at least thirty cars parked at it’s gates as ice climbers take advantage of the cliffs in Corrie Daimh, John tells me that the police and mountain rescue boys were there yesterday on “a shout”. This brings to mind a wonderful story told by the late, lamented Glen Orchy farmer, Norman Maclennan. On a similar day to today, he was checking and repairing the top fence line in the corrie. Norman saw a couple of ice climbers surveying the routes, and shouting over to him. Being unsure of the hail, and not wishing to offend, Norman assumed they were asking the time. “Half past two”, shouts Norman in reply. As Norman worked towards them, three times, they hailed him over a period of an hour or so, and three times Norman replied with the time. At last, within earshot, Norman heard the final hail clearly, a faint “I’ve broken my fucking leg”. The rescue helicopter was there within minutes! As usual with any invitation to Arichastlich, we stayed there for most of the day, enjoying a good lunch and much arduous gardening. The dogs, my daughter and I, hoof it home over the high pass, whilst Dotty kindly brings the motor home. While discussing place names on the way home I almost persuade my daughter that “Alt Broighleachan” means; “Rob Roy’s damp and uncomfortable latrine”. However, sensible girl that she is, she is not completely taken in. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.