When Kylie Met Nehru
11/10/2008
Some PhD boffin has been explaining to me that the meteorological conditions during both the Argyll seasons of spring and autumn are now so similar that this can cause flowers to bloom in October, birds that fail to migrate, and indeed I am still flicking ticks off the hounds in November. I am told that this is all thanks of course to our irresponsible allowing cows to fart too often, not forgetting the Argyll rich racing around in their Ferraris at every opportunity. This over dependence on climate change theory has of course conveniently covered the tracks of the true culprits, seals. The population explosion of these sea rats has been encouraged by the bearded ones solely on the basis that smelly seals are actually fluffy and friendly, wrong on both counts. The fact is that bloody seals are swallowing up our entire crop of sand eels thereby forcing millions of wonderful seabirds to starve. Cull seals I say, and bring back the proper marine balance. And while you are at it, hold back on all this re-wilding twaddle, why kidnap hundreds of innocent Norwegian Sea Eagles and Red Kite, when over the years only a very few sorry specimens survive for more than a couple of miserable seasons allowing spotty anoraks to ooh and ahh. Just wait until these avian nasties start carrying off the anorak’s pet moggy in Cheshire, rather than some impoverished Mull crofter’s lambs, to see the true colour of conservationists. All this waffle has been prompted by our survival of a ghastly autumn, full of rain, hail and flood, which at long last has given way to a crisp frosty week with bright, low sunshine and starry nights aplenty.
Needless to say, yours truly missed most of the good weather being cooped up in a classroom whilst my yachtie skipper’s ticket was being “re-evaluated”. The modern world dictates that some youngster must pour over the details of my modest seafaring years, including I might add navigating His Majesty’s Frigate on the Yangtze Chiang under cover of darkness, to check whether or not one should be let lose on a yacht between Oban and Tobermory. Much of this nonsense I have to admit, I bring upon myself by publishing this diary, and bringing myself to the attention of the authorities. Better to circumnavigate the globe in a bathtub unnoticed and uncertificated than try and play by the rules. The good news is that the old fellow’s log now has the required stamps, with dearest Dottie also making the grade although there seemed to be a little too much giggling and gender bias for my liking.
My sister Alice and the twins stay on at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh bringing a pleasant breath of fresh air to the old adobe hacienda, they have fairly put their shoulders to the relentless wheel of estate management with either paint brush in hand or absent mindedly scuffing gum boots through piles of leaves whilst exercising the mutts. Alice insisted on reviving the Glen Trollaigh Halloween knees up, which went do very well with the locals. Dearest Dottie and I appeared; to I felt unnecessary amounts of laughter, as the Viceroy of India and his lady, whilst Alice was an alarmingly life like Eva Braun. One twin sported a complete suit of armour “borrowed” from Inveraray Castle, whilst twin number two appeared as Sir Winston Churchill with the added flourish of a live swan under her arm, whose head and neck popped out of “Winston’s” flies, fairly spitting and twisting. Unfortunately it turned out that our Pandit Nehru look-alike was some nabob in the Argyll RSPCA who flew into a huge rage and threatened to spoil the party. Alice quickly summoned a Belgian Footman who swore on his sainted mother’s grave to immediately return the swan unharmed to Oban bay, from whence it came, The Tower of Glen Trollaigh telephone system seemed to crash so that no outgoing calls could be made to the authorities, and Pandit surprisingly won the raffle (miserable bugger had not even bought any tickets) with its generous first prize of a week’s fishing on the River Trollaigh. Superwoman (Mhairi) produced superb bites for the hundred odd guests and as usual the Trollaigh cellars took a pounding, the whole thing was a great success full marks to Alice, and personally, strictly between you and I, I thought that the swan thing was a complete hoot; should really have gained the prize for the “Best Dressed” which surprising went to Mrs Pandit as slightly saggy Kylie. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.