Whitsun

05/30/2005

Whitsun, a name created in medieval times as a “quarter” day for payment of tithes and rents, does it have any significance in 2005, or twenty “0” five, as we seem to be calling this gracious year? It all seems a bit crazy as a quarter of the year is about 91 or 92 days, allow for Christmas to Christmas, or Michaelmas as we old farts like to call it, and it still does not stack up. Martinmas also comes into it all somewhere. I must consult a solicitor; they are the fellows for Latin mumbo jumbo and rolling convicts over cliffs in blazing wicker cartwheels. It is one of the better days of the year with light north westerly breezes to keep the midges away as Lachie and I fairly whizz through the list of tasks, left by dearest Dottie, in good sunshine and 18 degree of warmth. There are few interruptions from the phone as London enjoys the Politically Correct “Late May Holiday” and the States “Memorial Day”. The roads around us seem quite busy, but I think there are fewer visitors this year, weather, cost of living? Certainly, it seems daft to pay £1 a litre for petrol and tour round a third world UK, when you can jump on a plane to the sunny Med for peanuts. The Kerrs in Glen Orchy, who try much harder with guests then we do, were wakened at 4.00 am by one of their visitors trying to shoot Red Deer Hinds from their bedroom window, a tricky low trajectory shot across a public road. Before much damage was done, John managed to disarm the shooter by seizing the smoking barrel from outside the window. Words were exchanged, but apart from the Kerr’s garden gate looking like the side of a block of Beirut flats, there were no casualties. Traditionally, throughout the Lord’s Good Earth many things happen this long weekend; the Tarbert Scottish Series; the end of the UK football season; the French nation disappearing up its own myopic thingamy; but best of all is an anatomically correct (or is it) moped riding, frog reaching the top of the UK charts with a cell phone ring tone. Oh how I just love progress. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.