The Guilt of Idleness

Monday arrives with snow and thunder, sending the household rushing to disconnect our three separate satellite dishes; how I remember the heady days of "new" technology when the first crack and flash of a storm sent one sprinting to unplug the fax machine which was notoriously vulnerable to the old power surge. Our fax has long since been buried, indeed I was surprised to receive an enquiry a couple of days ago soliciting a "fax back" reply which I had thought went out with the ark. However as the enquiry stemmed from one of the many and mysterious departments of Visitscotland, one should hardly be surprised. Despite a relatively optimistic forecast we are enjoying some lively Atlantic weather which has us all sheltering after the weekly run to transfer the wheelie bins to the Glen Trollaigh road end, a strength sapping task in these conditions. While coffee brews we wait in that no mans land between wanting to get ones teeth into the some meaningful task out of doors, lacking both tools (away for repair) and suitable weather, or alternatively finding the will power to tick something off the indoor list which will inevitably involve ghastly pots of paint or bags of soot. How one envies the Academic on a wet day his or her ability to sit at the library desk, fire blazing, pondering the mysteries of science or the meaning of life, without the guilty burden of broken gutters, a dangerously low stock of firewood or a mysterious patch of damp rising on the scullery wall. A little later in the week and a cracker of a good day appears, now the decision has to be made; skiing or digging, needless to say we choose the later and within hours a link breaks on the digger track leaving me to spend the rest of this sunny day wrestling with pinch bars up to my waist in mud neither digging nor skiing. the following day the rain sets in. To add insult to injury our computer and communication links fail for several days, so there has been damn all scribbling into the bargain!

However all was not lost, dearest Dottie's birthday made its annual appearance and although I struggled manfully to find transport to Florence for a mini shoe buying break, nothing seemed to fit the bill unless one rises in the early hours on a Tuesday or a Sunday to stand in a queue at Prestwick International Airport to become self loading baggage on some mad millionaire Irishman's aeroplane, or set off at a reasonable hour changing at Gatwick, Schipol and Zurich to arrive in Florence half an hour after one has supposed to start the return journey. So what to do? The inspirational answer was three days on Mull, apart from landing at the odd yachtie watering hole I have to confess that I have hardly set foot on this large island not a stones throw from home. We had heavy weather so ferries were cancelled or delayed and the whole population seem to hibernate until Easter leaving most attractions, shops, pubs etc.firmly shut to the March traveller. However by good fortune the Highland Cottage in Tobermory was prising open its doors for the season and we found shelter there. I have heard of this spot and was absolutely delighted with its high standard of comfort, hospitality and excellent cuisine. I can heartily recommend Highland Cottage to anyone, it might be a bit on the cosy side in high season but suited us down to the ground in March. We had a wonderful time motoring to every corner of Mull, with long walks and a trip to Iona, unfortunately a slumbering feeryman thwarted our plan to visit Ulva, but perhaps another time. The only black mark was a ticking off by a policeman for displaying "an illegal" number plate, my cherished TO 55 ERS. The constable, for I believe he was, although he was wearing a green anorak over his uniform covering his warrant badges, pointedly asked me when we were leaving Mull and threatened that if he ever saw that number plate on the island again he would book us. I really was not too upset but so much for all our efforts to encourage visitors and boost the tourist dollar, one can only suppose that all was not well on the domestic front chez PC! Back in Glen Trollaigh the sun shines again so here's hoping we can complete a task or two! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.