Those Colonsay Nights.

Many paths have been walked since last we met and to be honest that's my fault as I have had every good intention of scribbling this about three weeks ago, however the "path to hell" etc. We skipped Burghley Horse Trials this year for the first time in simply ages after last year's muddy madness and believe it or not almost every cove I have seen since has cried " didn't see you at Burghley old boy." whilst the holders of the Burghley booze franchise sent dearest Dottie a condolence card assuming that I must have fallen off my perch much to the detriment of their profits. Another bar related problem has been my upgrade to Microsoft Vista which has far too many "apps" for yours truly and the Favourites Bar option caused no end of a problem when it failed to acknowledge "Harry's Monaco" although I have since been corrected, in-so-far as Vista is apparently referring to something completely different. We did make it to The Dalmally Show, which was if anything more wet,wild and muddy than any show I can remember, none the less everyone turned out which is a wonderful support to the society, the only obvious difference from a fair weather show being that although the farming fraternity seem still to be in t-shirts and overalls, all the visitors were sensibly dressed for a solo crossing of the Arctic. Perhaps conditions could be recorded by the level to which the beer tent customers sank in the mud relative to the bar staff who were god like, several feet above them on the original ground level duck boards. I very much enjoyed the bull competition class, tempting me to dream of a few gentle Highlanders grazing in Glen Trollaigh before the prices go any higher. Which reminds me that looking at this year's entries I must have a tilt at one or two of the easier veggie classes next year, I feel that the "three long parsnips" were possibly beyond me, however I must be in with a chance with a "row of fat peas", watch this space.

As sunrise moves to the dark side of 0800 hours BST, thoughts turn to the frustration of all the things we have not managed to finish this year having lost six or seven weeks to poor weather, but let's not be too dismissive of our single handed achievements. The hay may be only good for mulching, the log pile low and our fruit crop a disaster, however we have a good crop of potatoes, our poly-tunnel is 90% complete for next year's veggies and the entrance to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh now boasts a bell mouth wide enough to admit the lorries needed for next year's rebuilding of the hydro scheme which will hopefully reap rich rewards under "FITS" on which I will make no comment for fear of upsetting the hand that feeds us.

We made it to Ceol Cholasa again although time was tight and the mutts surprised to be wrenched from hill stalking to languishing in the comfort of the back seats of the Land Rover. I must say it was very good with Phil Cunningham and Ali Bain, to say nothing of Karen Matheson, Donald Shaw and many others. Even fringe events of Whisky Tasting and Poetry seem to be developing, although one struggles with the over-all melancholy of gaelic poetry, the authors always encountering some immovable obstruction between their ambitions and the enviable life of crofting and dropping dead on the outer isles. The male version takes to drink in the city and having lost his pocket money cannot afford to return home; the female version having unwisely lost what she has to offer instead of pocket money, also cannot return home for the shame of it all. As usual the Isle of Colonsay supplied the most fabulous back drop and only the capacity of the island hall contained the exuberance of the festival. Dearest Dottie and I took the opportunity and tramped over parts of Colonsay, some familiar and some not visited for many a year, the weather was kind and we normally managed to slip under the duvet before 0400 hours BST by hurrying one lot of wardancing visitors away and flicking the lights out before the hard core professional party goers arrived en route to a 0600 swim in the freezing Kiloran surf. All in all a super weekend with exceptional company and good humour all round, over far too quickly. Here's to next year, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

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,