What's in a Post Code

Woodpeckers drum in the Scots Pines, A pair of Ravens circle against the blue sky and snowy peaks searching for a nest site handy for a dead sheep carry-out. At last our Glen Trollaigh year is turning, Any day now the first March new moon will be with us and planting can start with the waxing moon; so seed packets are being shaken and sniffed, seed potatoes are chitting away on any spare cool shelf space, all this many weeks behind our southern cousins. Much of the new planting will take place (mice permitting) in the Great Poly Tunnel of Trollaigh along side a selection of grape vines, as serious research starts on Argyll's first vineyard. While you city dwellers starve under whichever political twat makes a monkey of our economy after the May election; and as you suffer dehydrated hallucinations you can imagine yours truly tucking into a fresh Salmon Salad washed down by a chilled glass of "The Baron's Choice" Sauvignon Blanc beside the Great Hot Tub of Trollaigh heated with surplus energy from our private hydro scheme; ahh life in the country. Speaking of the countryside and our constant battle with politically correct tree-huggers, our harsh though glorious winter has at long last brought Deer into the same eco spotlight as Seals. Strange bedfellows you might think, however mortality amongst last year's Deer calves has been high, with every country road culvert blocked by a corps or two and of course those dicks at the Forestry Commission (with apologises to all you Dicks) have chosen this moment to machine gun marauding Stags with the enthusiasm of a genocidal African dictator. So now the misplaced sentiment showered on Seals, those cuddly sea rats, has swung towards Deer. No bad thing I hear you cry however you probably grasp the fact the Deer are wonderful native grazers improving Scotland's superb natural heritage; whilst Seal foul our seawater and eat millions of tons fish that would otherwise be on our tables. The choice for once is yours, millions of Seals defecating in our pristine, unspoilt waters, a practice from which Homo Sapiens is banned, or fish suppers for your lovely children? I made my mind up years ago!

Although snow has fallen without fail every Wednesday, no rain has fallen on the North Argyll Glens since early December and a steady supply of cold Arctic air has given us an Alpine winter to remember, now we have the blessing of lengthening days with sunlight stirring the moths in the library carpet before 9.00 hrs and even now at 18.30 hrs there is enough light to walk the dogs around the policies without tripping on too may obstacles. However our outside taps remain frozen and although the deepest snow is creeping back up the braes, thick ice may still coat the burns; the late night release of the Trollaigh Matted Mutts often takes place in sub zero temperatures. Perhaps our wonderful winter encouraged our Olympic Gold for sledging, although lots of other countries seem to have been practicing a tad harder than us at curling where once we reigned supreme. Dearest Dottie and I have certainly made use of many "Half Day Senior" tickets at Glen Coe and skied in outstanding conditions for an hour or two before retiring to the pub to rest the knees on the way back to base. Its almost enough to tempt me to replace my delaminated ski boots with a new pair; however I have the uneasy feeling that as soon as I splash out a couple of hundred smackers for new ones, the snow will melt and not return for several seasons.


Some of you may have missed the grand finale of Morven's effort to secure its own post code, rather than share one with Oban. I think it has taken 10 years for a dedicated bunch of white settlers to convince the authorities of the need for this totally unnecessary change. Now the foolish Post Office have given in and are about to spend millions of our wonga on creating a new PA80 code for the Morven silver backs. Hurrah I hear you shout, but not so as the pimlico pensioners have said this it is simply not good enough, they want a more socially acceptable Perthshire post code or nothing. What staggers me is the fact that surely these lunatics realised what their post code was before they cashed in their zillion pound semi in London and swapped for a £20k croft in the middle of nowhere sans street lights and phone boxes. Yes, struggle against injustice, but you cannot just change things that have served the local yokels well just because your social chache with your London chums is under pressure, silly Bs. Your aye, Archie the Baron Trollaigh.