Wednesday, January 30, 2008

That Old Familar Whiff.

01/30/2008

To be frank life at Camping Les Pines east of Montreux holds no pleasure. The girls have rented something called “a trailer” for me from the proprietor M. Huguenot, who assures me that this is the very top five star spot in the season, however now I am cheek by jowl with several noisy Albanian families and a small group of Peter Hain’s parliamentary researchers who seem to have chosen this odd time of year to holiday in this god forsaken spot. The Albanians attract regular nocturnal visits for the constabulary asking for “D Permits” and look suspiciously at my old red driving licence as presumably Trollaigh does not translate well into the local lingo. Each night the cops remove a few anxious Albanians in the paddy wagon although Peter Hain’s lot seems to be immune from scrutiny following the sneaky transfer of a small battered attaché case to Le Patron, M. Huguenot. Routine visits to the ablution facilities, which look uncannily like a recycled German de-lousing block, fail to cheer although the place has rekindled an old memory. My dear Mater having produced a fine crop of sons, was one of those females who was completely starved of the company of her own sex, occasional frustration with the habits of the all male Tower of Glen Trollaigh caused some well aimed blows for equality, one such was the post WW2 introduction of Airwick, many of you may recall the small bottle of noxious green stuff whose industrial strength aroma was spread into the air via a fat wick and when strategically placed close to the kazie was supposed to overcome the normal heavy pong of the said all male society. Whether it worked of not one was never sure, however imagine my surprise some sixty years on to find the Airwick alive and well at Camping Les Pines all be it in jolly yellow hues and dispensing a doubtless carcinogenic whiff of alpine meadows.

Sitting alone in a metal box staring at pine trees and grubby Albanians is not much fun so following the purchase of sturdy boots and an alpenstock I have been making use, weather permitting of highly efficient Swiss public transport to seek out some vestige of hedonistic comfort. These rambles have taken me to Chateaux d’Aix and two discoveries; Firstly, an Internet Café where I have filed my tax return and pled with the girls to raise the ridiculously tight limit on my credit card, and where the web has also brought the depressing news that the Yoghurt Knitters have set up a Wildlife Camp outside Oban Sheriff Court and are burning effigies of “The Bloody Baron” and more hurtfully the diamond T flag, so no relief in sight. Secondly, that The Hotel des Sport supplies a passable G&T in a civilised bar where one can also slip away to a clean loo with warm air wafting around ones ankles, fresh fluffy towels and a piping hot shower all without an Airwick in sight! Yours aye from the Café des Internet, Chateaux d’Aix, Archie, still The Baron Trollaigh.