Once in a Blue Moon.

Its not often that old cynics can talk of Blue Moons with any degree of sincerity, however this Hogmanay produced the thirteenth 2009 full moon with bells on. Glen Trollaigh was thick with snow topped with a carpet of sparkling frost crystals in our fourth week of continuous sub-zero temperatures, indeed we bottomed out at -16C on at least two occasions during the last weeks of 2009. There we were jigging merrily with our moonshadows cast across the Great Lawn of Trollaigh, a scene akin to the very best of Dr Zhivago, braziers blazing and the monster Great Bonfire of Trollaigh alight. The midnight sky a pale azure as an enormous Blue Moon lit the scene to almost daylight levels of brightness from 4pm until 9.00am on the first day of 2010. In this day and age reasonable bubbles replace expensive drams in deference to the ladies, however we have added a Trollaigh twist by using the empties as hand hurled targets for some innocent blamming when the night is clear. I leave Lachie to do the hand hurling and retreat safely behind the guns as I have a fairly good idea of the sobriety or otherwise of most of our guests. Indeed in the past someone narrowly avoided blowing his boots off whilst checking the efficacy of the selective trigger of an old B25. I have to admit that Hogmanay is one of the few gatherings that I relish and can keep up a good humour throughout the event, something about the sheer paganism of the whole thing appeals, not a bally cleric is sight, just good company, drink and dance. Although this is a little disingenuous as the 5th of January is the true "old" Scots New Year with its sincere hope for good fortune as our northern hemisphere tilts back from the darkest days.

You will not be surprised to learn that despite my good humour I have stamped a degree of grumpiness on our extended household over the festive season, and that involves a ban on "Non Iron" clothes. In these liberal times one can excuse a few nether garments that have not seen the starch bottle; however to follow the hoi polloi in the Malls and supermarkets where not one ironed shirt collar is to be seen is not acceptable. Frankly I do not want to meet my accountant or lawyer in a synthetic zip fronted polo or whatever. Items that are barely acceptable even in a gym or on a yacht will never darken the door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh after 6.00pm. One can allow a little latitude when forced into the great outdoors in this weather, I personally still prefer wool, tweed and leather although I am not too dim to see some merit in all the hi-tech layers that protect the young, which lets face it would look pretty daft below the grizzled whiskers of some old codger from the North Argyll Glens.

One can never have enough torches and I am very pleased to report that Santa, although basically a "foodie" these days, still pops a nice solid torch into the stocking hanging from the end of The Great Bed of Trollaigh. The boot room is a tangle of chargers supporting a fairly useless rank of rechargeable 1,000,000 candle power torches collected from filling stations throughout the length and breadth of the Europe, but basically you can't beat a rubberised Coleman or a sleek U.S. Mag-lite with a couple of hefty Ds up its jacksy. Many thanks again Santa, and and sycophants take note.

Apart from the constant battle to keep domestic water flowing and pipes defrosted, we have so far survived our extended and early cold snap with only a couple of bursts. I do not bother with the conventional measurements of temperature but rely on two locally available indicators. The first is the throbbing of my missing toe, lost while making a rapid night exit from a Girton College window, the painful missing digit starts to trouble me at around -8C and worsens as the mercury free falls. The second is the icing over of the River Trollaigh which brings "the visitor". This is the appearance of a wild mountain ram who safely crosses the 6 inch thick ice bridge to make free with our winsome pedigree ewes. You may wonder why this blighter is not swiftly dispatched by a well aimed 303, for it is the unwritten law of the glens that one must make every effort to return a wandering beast to it rightful owner, however this particular old roughie rascal is quite definitely living on borrowed time.

Hey Ho, we seem to be stuck in winter's icy grip and I can't say that I am too against it. The old Land Rover is the only form of transport as any road under the "care" of Argyll and Bute Council is a bally disgrace and although the Postie battles through any obstacle all other "services" such as re-cycling and wheelie bin emptying have sunk without trace. Whilst politely pointing out this shameful situation to an A&B Council wallah he was kind enough to mention that he would not be doing much about it as he was on holiday until the 21st January! When, oh when, will people realise that the country teeters on the edge of bankruptcy and international scorn; sound bites from greedy politicos will not save us, we must get our combined fingers out, stop believing that Eastenders reflects even a scintilla of the truth and get on with a bloody, hard, honest day's work. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Bye the bye, a very Good New Year to one and all. Donations to the North Wall re-pointing will be gratefully received. The usual Grosse Trollaigh Bank in Montreux will handle all the details of your donation with the utmost discretion.