The Word According To Maggie.

I am not sorry to see the back of August, a ghastly month of more or less constant rain which dampened the spirits of everyone from frustrated farmers to tourists. Even fishermen, normally a stoical bunch, are muttering about river levels being too high, mind you this makes a pleasant change from levels being too low, or too much sunshine or whatever excuse the fly fisher uses for lack of success. The joint parishes which cover the North Argyll glens have a quaint tradition stretching back into history, of all joining together for one church parade when there is a fifth Sunday in the month, and so it was to St Conan's in Lochawe for August's bash. I always rather enjoy these affairs which are slightly less formal than our geriatric gatherings in the far north of the parish. St Conan's, although I find the kirk itself akin to a frozen film set, did not disappoint with solo singing, lots of children banging away on assorted percussion instruments and youngsters accompanying our best efforts at lusty singing, on well played bagpipes, even a shaft of sunlight bursting through the stained glass during the sermon. The only fly in the ointment was the padre's insistence that we all "learn a new hymn", I can find nothing wrong with the old ones that we learnt when knee high to a grasshopper and my heart sinks when a new hymn is announced from the pulpit. However the high point of these services is a splendid spread of sandwiches, cakes and tea that is always put on after the service, although the habit of one of our ministers, sadly now retired, of leaving a few discreetly placed beakers of vino behind the columns for a surreptitious swallow has gone, one imagines, forever. I dare say the re-introduction of such bad habits would increase the numbers of the faithful attending and make the "new hymns" a little more bearable.


As the poor weather keeps me indoors I find myself wasting a lot of time battling bureaucracy whilst trying to organise the simplest schemes of tree planting or ditch digging and if anyone fancies experiencing a real stone wall approach orchestrated by a fully trained black belt expert, just try persuading Transerv to clear away overgrown scrub obscuring the sight-lines on a notorious Argyll junction. Year on year I simply seem to fail to notice the spread of a multi layered, hugely expensive civil service, every department with its opposing policies to pursue and empires to build. Speaking of public money, I note that one Argyll GP has now attached a registration to his (or indeed her) Porche which reads NHS 200, Dalmally Golf Club bar scuttle butt concludes that the poor number plate cannot accommodate the additional three zeros that would reflect the GP's true annual salary. Those communities who are currently seeking to recruit a new GP and are being lulled by the sweet seduction of "community consultation" beware, one who knows can assure you that the powers that be have long ago decided which individual will receive the generous budget allocated to your surgery, and of course the additional bonus payments for reducing your blood pressure when you discover that you have been shafted. All this largesse with the country's overdraft reminds me of one of Maggie Thatcher's bon mot "The trouble with those who pursue socialism is that they eventually run out of other people's money", you can say that again my dear. The forecasters, after stirring the smoking entrails of some fallen beast, seem to think that our deluge will stop for a while next week, here's hoping. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh,