Thursday, August 23, 2007
Stewed Venison
08/23/2007
One imagines that dearest Dottie has had many admirers over the years, some have achieved positions of considerable influence and you can bet your bottom dollar that yours truly makes the most of their largesse. I have learned via one such mole, highly placed in the Elysee Palace that Beastly Brown personally contacted Le President to warn of an intentional “designer” release of Foot and Mouth virus down the lavvy pan of a government laboratory. On behalf of GB.co.uk he allegedly offered to drop the pursuit of zillions of euros of outstanding French fines in exchange for some Entente Cordial and a very time limited reaction to the F&M outbreak. It is simply unclear why The Beast should embark on this crazy strategy, French conspiresists speak of settling some old school boy score or simply that he was struggling to come up with an excuse to abandon his family to their ghastly though politically correct Devon summer holiday camp and return to his crumpled suits and bachelor freedom in his capitol at the expense of a few Tory voting farmers. Once more, the London centric government of this proud nation have failed to grasp that in their rush to control a handful of Surrey hobby peasants; their actions would ripple outwards to seriously affect the livelihoods of honest sons of the soil in the Scottish highlands and islands.
Just as the low profile tyres of our first paying stalking guest’s Chelsea Tractors crunch the gravel at the Great Door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh our postie staggers in weighed down by piles of contradictory instructions and threats from what seems like twenty different agencies spurred into Foot and Mouth action plans. One pile shouts that land managers must adopt “line in the sand” bio-security; whilst the other pile threatens a visit from the police should we deny access to the hiking booted Crisp Bag Throwers. However the sting in the tail is that if we are “sportsmen” slain animals must not be transported to a butcher. This seriously limits our stalking, for although we are fond of a spot of venison, once a whole beast and its bits have been roasted, boiled, fricasseed, risottoed, curried and consumed, one does not really want to immediately start on another one. Our girls, God bless them, who have come back for the season, have a much more relaxed attitude to entertaining frustrated shooters and have introduced nature rambles, all night parties, mountain top photo opportunities, even giving me an evening off and carting a Land Rover load or two off to enjoy the thick sticky mud of a Runrig fest at Drumnadrochit, I am told, greatly enjoyed by one and all. I was surprised to see Mhairi hosing off dearest Dottie’s Hunters and muttering about Red Hot Chilli Pipers, best not to ask. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.