Dangers of rubber trousers

We returned to Glen Trolliagh for a family Christmas and yet again against all the odds of terrible weather we have had a lovely time with generous and helpful guests who although confined indoors by 100 mph winds, heavy snow, floods and monsoon rains at least did not have to endure the failure of domestic equipment and frozen pipes on the scale of last Christmas save the odd power cut. A sort of seasonal Dunkirk spirit appeared with lots for singing and traditional games with a dash of sociable gatherings for coffee, tea or something a little stronger around the purloined Great Christmas Tree of Trollaigh.

No one locally ventured out to visit us and I am not surprised as conditions were unsuitable for any travelling for despite months of works by the policy makers of Argyll & Bute Council and indeed even a policy or two being published; not a snowplough or a bin man has been seen for over 4 weeks. I even hear that the vital central government inspired principle of Home Care for the elderly is now being delivered by an enthusiastic lady on a push bike in Dalmally after the previous 2 carers with motor cars sensibly returned to the warmer climes of the English home counties. Obviously if one lives outside push bike range of Dalmally be sure in the knowledge that your corps will be found by a highly qualified Social Worker on a routine visit in the Spring.

The only niggle has been the trend to send ever tinier Christmas cards presumable in a show frugal humility or more likely a conspiracy by the Post Office to lighten their burden. However the limitations of space mean that most signatures are illegible and the lack of space for any personal message fails to give a clue as to who the sender might be. Perhaps in a year or two the fashion for large embossed cards naked of charitable giving, which I much prefer will return.

Having spent at least some of the winter in the sun; a habit which we have every intention of developing if this bally weather continues; we have lost the habit of coping with many layers of outdoor togs and one of the more jolly seasonal sights was that of dearest Dottie going into a tripping, staggering tail spin when having donned the wellies she had forgotten that the rubber trousers were still round her ankles providing an effective hobble. I really must not send her out for logs in the dark when it is a task I can easily accomplish myself.

All our very best wishes for a successful, fruitful and happy 2012, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

H Bogart Esq

It seems inevitable that something would crack under the constant pressure of gardening and hydro scheme construction in the disappointingly non existent Trollaigh Summer weather, to say nothing of a painfully boatless season, so dearest Dottie and I have joined the Snow Birds on the Florida Keys erstwhile home of H Bogart and Ernest Hemingway amongst others. Strangely, given the obvious clue in the island's name, Humphrey is immortalised on Key Largo by a pub called "The African Queen" and Ernest's lovely colonial style home in Key West has visitors combing the grounds for any sight of his six toed pussy cats rather than their renowned owner. Key West attempts to rival Miami Beach for crassness with wild irresponsible drinking and a dubious encouragement to disrobe in public; at least KW does not fly the rainbow flag on sections of the beach a la Miami buffty boys, and KW still has the decency to respect its ageing hippy population.
We are very fortunate to awake each morning with a view of the sunrise from our bed and ocean facing balcony; although this orientation threw my navigational skills for a day or two until dearest Dottie pointed out that we had crossed the Atlantic and now looked on the ocean from its eastern edge rather than the more familiar western edge.
This spectacular Island chain is mainly coral and mangroves, however we had been laughing at the local warnings to be on the lookout for falling Coconuts whilst wandering on the mostly man made beaches. We changed our minds when a national newspaper published some unpleasant accident statistics to give a serious slant on the Thanksgiving Holiday. 165 Americans die everyday on the roads; 33 do not return from their cruise line vacations each year; 162 perish annually from shark attacks and yes, another 162 are killed by falling American Coconuts. As you know I'm not one for the sums however with a quick mental extrapolation it would seem that one resident of the North Argyll Glens may sucumb to a falling Coconut once every 3000 years; so we now carefully sit in the sun rather than in the Palm Tree shaded areas. During more energetic moments we have been watching or participating in local activities which mainly revolve around the ocean and of course the seafood and wine are particularly special.
News from Glen Trollaigh tells of snow and ice with the onset of winter; unfortunately for us Christmas seems to be looming and apparently legions of electrical engineers are arriving on the 17th December to commission our hydro scheme, so we had reluctantly better start looking up the airline timetables. For those of you who do not receive a Christmas Card this year, and there will be many as we haven't given them a thought, please accept our best wishes for a very merry Christmas. Your aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Moose aboot.

It hardly seems a year since I was complaining that invitations to traditional national events no longer fall through the letter box at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and this year nothing has changed; one just has to accept that any influence and responsibility one once had has passed on to others. I honestly cannot say that I miss the dinners or the church parades; less so now that many chums have "passed" as the Americans rather bluntly put it. This gives me more time to appreciate the wonderful part of the world that we live in, and enjoy it; despite the constant corridor patrols looking for any sign of deterioration of the baronial hacienda or its furnishings. And what surprises we have with new gardens, polytunnel, hydro and other micro generation projects, I hardly have time for my traditional roll of Laird of all I survey, shooting and fishing my way through the autumn. However a warning on the sporting front as I have at long last purchased a new pair of ski boots that I can force the feet into; doubtless it will now not snow for years.
Dearest Dottie and I were inveigled away for another mini break, this time to the German Baltic coast, a spot I am completely unfamiliar with but would certainly visit again as it is both charming and has fabulous sailing waters. We travelled there for a 75th birthday party of a German sea Captain who has been a great friend for many years as he "emigrated" to Inveraray for a fair chunk of the 80's, 90's and 00's where he developed a love of and feeling for the Great Pipes; so his party is best described as multicultural. Not wishing to make it too easy we travelled there by train, requiring 5 separate train connections each way, which gave us an opportunity to overnight in both Koln and Brussels on the way home. Koln on the Rhine was perhaps a highlight, staying in a recommended hotel with an eye watering bill; although I am sure a few of my relations probably flattened the place 60 years ago. However a city of fabulous shopping so make sure you cut up the family credit cards before a visit. The only fly in the ointment was the Glasgow bound Virgin Pendolino, now a 4 hour super blast from Euston; the train was dirty and smelly and mismanaged by a Glaswegian crew who seemed to ignore the constant complaints about things not working whilst engaging in loud "banter" before being first off the train, by then half an hour late without apology and presumably without reporting any faults to their hapless southbound colleagues. A fair contrast to our German train manager who was riven with apologies when his train was 3 minutes late into Koln from Hamburg (also 4 hours) with 6 hours still to go to Stuttgart. why do we manage to accept 2nd best most of the time?
A common language often confuses and this cannot be more true than that between English and Scots, as she is spoke, as I discovered whilst engaging an Argyll resident during a recent chance meeting. Upon enquiring where the cove was heading the reply came "I'm inta Oban to sort the moose"; this offers various possibilities of vermin control or possibly something a little larger with horns rampaging about the house. When I tried to define things a little by asking where the "moose" was, the reply came back "aboot"; this dear reader means virtually anywhere. Further questioning ascertained that the "moose" was in "the boot"; at last a ray of understanding shone through as it is fairly common for country dweller's cars to suffer from rodents nibbling through wires or fuel lines as the little blighters seek shelter from approaching winter. So my friend was indeed en route to an Oban garage to repair his car which had suffered rodent damage in the boot. Alas I was by now too exhausted to enquire after the fate of  the "moose" however I would imagine that there are some replete hens about the farmyard. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

How to stick oneself to fibreglass

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, however I had boxed myself into an engineering corner whilst ignoring detailed and expensive plans for the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh. So a bit of ingenuity had to be displayed in forming an over-flow tank to allow non existent fish to escape safely from the gnashing and foaming hydro jaws to comply with some legislation whose purpose has long since been lost in the mists of time. Ah ha! A fibreglass moulding I thought; having never had any serious dealings with the stuff apart from the wonderful toxic aroma that used to fill the cockpit of a much loved purple Lotus Europa when the temperature rose to boiling point, which it frequently did. I thought this a simple ploy and the chap on the phone explained that all one needed was resin, a catalyst and the glass matting. To cut a long story short I have to doff my cap to Colin Chapman and numerous production boat builders who handle the stuff on a regular basis, or at least I would if my cap was not now resin-ed to my finger tips along with mixing spatulas, paint brushes, plastic pails and dearest Dottie's best kitchen scissors. Practice makes perfect and I fully intend to have another go once Accident & Emergency have prised apart my fingers and removed the super glued latex gloves which also appear to be welded to my tweed jacket.
September has passed and Autumn colours are visible if you are lucky to spot them through the torrential rain and howling gales devastating the North Argyll Glens while most of the rest of the UK seems to be basking in an Indian summer. At least the passing of the autumnal equinox heralds longer lie-ins of a morning, as I point blank refuse to rise before it's light enough to make ones way to the loo without switching a light on.
In general the month has treated us well with cheery sporting guests and even a "boys toys" trip to the Southampton Boat Show as the Trollaigh navy is still in need of a substantial vessel. Hotels in Southampton had decided to cash in on the show and as dearest Dottie was not prepared to mortgage her inheritance for the benefit of Holiday Inn at £250 a night we used our wind up Internet connection to seek more modest shelter. And as is often the case we struck pay dirt out near the airport in the shape of the Concorde Club and Ellington Lodge. Cole Mathieson the proprietor has, unbeknown to yours truly, run perhaps the most successful jazz club in England for many years and yes, of course one could pick a hole or two in his establishment however the attentive, friendly staff and fascinating surroundings make this a must for anyone wanting to be within a taxi ride of Southampton Water without breaking the bank. Dearest Dottie and I found perfect boats on this trip, unfortunately they were not the same one, so the search continues! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh. 

Indoors

August has come and gone with not much to recommend it, a cool, cloudy but mostly dry month without sufficient sunny warmth to ripen our domestic crops; so we are searching for a good receipt for green tomato chutney and wondering if some things will over-winter which has never worked before; fruit trees are on the whole bare as strong gales in May stripped their flowers before the good bees could get their job done. The only thing which has kept growing is grass, the cutting of which is a weekly chore difficult to avoid; at least midges have more or less disappeared depleted by chilly nights. Unfortunately this absent food source has also encouraged some of our garden birds to set off on their migration a week or two early and we miss their constant chatter. A few days forced indoors has left my paperwork in good order, even my tax return has been submitted in good time, so brownie points all round.

Being forced indoors from time to time has also allowed some idle reading and I dipped into Philomena Cook's weekly Herald article which recounts the life and times of a jilted Scottish lady enjoying the warmth of Provence. One would get pretty fed up if forced to read it everyday, however the piece I picked up amusingly bemoaned the destruction left by affluent Brits in self catering freshly fettled and furnished Chateau. Many chums let their lodges nowadays to pay the grocer so it was an easy matter to carry out a straw poll of these land managers as I met up with them. In Scotland we seem to do much better than the fair francophile Philomena with hardly any reported problems be the guests Tattoos and Trackies or Range Rover and Rohan; however one Sutherland Chatelaine has removed risk from her ten bedroom holiday hide away by asking on her booking form "Do you have a maid or other domestic servant?"; if the answer is yes, then the booking is refused as the dear lady claims that such visitors are genetically incapable of clearing up after themselves or their boisterous family! Beware the trick question chaps; yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Thera Message

Early August finds dearest Dottie and I being insulted by clowns and chain saw jugglers at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe which we always enjoy so much; and as on many past visits time restrictions meant that we seem to miss out on most of the more high brow events and exhibitions. However who can say that Fat Sam's Band at the Fringe by The Sea in North Berwick was in any way less enjoyable than a ballet or two "up town". A stroll along the Royal Mile filled with every cliche from groups of pregnant school girls, zombies and even Captain Hook playing the bagpipes with Peter Pan amongst the huge cheerful throng is a heart warming sight.July ended up as a good month with lots of ploys with guests enjoyed in good weather and even perhaps more surprisingly excellent progress made on the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh so that we now gaze on several muddy holes rather than just the one that I have been fretting over since last October; however our engineer assures us that all is on track. The Tower of Glen Trollaigh's policies have been a bit more of a problem with strange weather patterns earlier in the year making vegetable production impossible and limited grass cutting caused by failing energy levels turning once manicured parks into vistas of tall grasses and wild flowers; actually I have come to enjoy these wilder aspects and as long as I have the muscle power to spray out any pernicious weeds I will be converted to wild and witchy gardening.
Our pedal powered Internet connection is a great help in keeping up with the increasing amount of paperwork for august public bodies; although automated responses from government departments are starting to show some weaknesses in our famous education system. E-responses normally start with "Here is confirmation of ......."; however yesterday brought "Hera confirmation of ......" doubtless those of you with a modest grasp of the Glasgow dialect will appreciate the problem! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.  

A proper Charlie

Well, summer at long last reaches down to the Glen Trollaigh floor; temperatures hover around 20c and as we now leave a lot of grass and hay uncut lovely aromas of wild flowers and bog myrtle fill the air; dogs go rabbiting and fishermen look despondently at the low water levels in the Alt Trollaigh; which may be a pain for them however I can rub my mitts together and get stuck into the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh, or rather bits of it as I still await a final permission to cross some miserable dried up stream in my sterilised wellies. One must be pleased that the huge piles of guff that accumulate on my desk are at least keeping plenty of folk in a proper job and the apple of their proud parent's eye.
Garden birds have faired well after a difficult start in wild weather, and in only a few weeks some will set off for warmer climes and be replaced by returning families of Thrushes and Blackbirds; though one bird completely missing this year is the Snipe. Thinking of those missing, campers and tourists seem a bit thin on the ground; I came upon a favourite pub that was not opening until the evening due to lack of punters at midday and a local coaching hotel remains closed. Scotland offers some of the best wild places in Europe although one does not come here for the weather; are people staying for a few days less? It cannot be a help that a second mortgage is required to top up your car up before venturing north of the Highland Line. However at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh we continue to offer gruff rural hospitality equally to those that pay and those that blag some loose family connection and it seems to work as I never have a bally moment to myself!
Talking of family blaggers we have just got rid of Charlie Fenshaw some type of distant relative who we usually manage to avoid by telling a white lie or two about our whereabouts. Blow me down if his knees were not under the breakfast table the other day as he must have slipped in under the radar. Don't get me wrong, young Charlie is an friendly type and very good at sweet talking dearest Dottie, rescuing drowning dogs, offering to clean one's gun and that sort of thing; although the downside is that he has no visible means of support and certainly no gainful employment. So you can be certain that he will devour his weight in square meals, arrive with sacks of laundry that will make even Mhairi wince and then touch you for a bob or two when he leaves. For the first time ever this time he appeared with a lithsome blonde who unfortunately seemed unfamiliar with the ways of what our patronising Council say is now to be called the "rural hinterland" of North Argyll. All went fairly well until the second night of Charlie's stay when the quiet of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh was shattered by a series of hysterical screams; one assumed that Charlie had been pressing his suit a little too strongly however it turned out that his paramour had "met something" in the corridor en route to the facilities. The something truned out to be Lachie's crouched and kilted figure delivering clean shoes and a fresh bottle of 12 year old Stag's Breath to Charlie. The following morning a lift to Dalmally Station was swiftly organised for the happy couple and Charlie did not take much persuading to vacate after discovering that both the cellar key and the wallet were now firmly in the Baronial jacket pocket. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.