Pets are Free.
By some magic of the Internet a version of this prose other than the final draft has been launched; this I think is the correct epistle, all the best, Archie.
It was always at this time of year that we took our family holidays on the Isle of Colonsay, so it comes as no surprise that at long last the old Atlantic jet stream has started to throw low pressure systems onto the west coast of Argyll and we receive much needed rain. River levels have risen by several feet and poorly maintained gutters on the Tower of Glen Trollaigh spout water onto sheltering gardeners below. At long last the fly box is being studied, 14 foot rods dusted off and the steady swish of elderly casting can be detected from the secret swirling pools of the upper Alt Trollaigh where Dippers dip and brave Whinchats defend their young. One must suppose that tiny holiday makers on Colonsay clad in sand shoes, shorts and a heavily padded anoraks still shelter below the overhanging rocks of Cable Bay, while damp parents cajole them onto the wind stiffened, rain soaked sands. Soggy families return to their chilly room and board, where shivering, teeth chattering children are accommodated at a discount and pets have to pay, whereas any fool knows having experienced the holiday housework that children should be charged double and pets are free.
The zeal of the convert grips Glen Trollaigh as dearest Dottie has found, on a recent jolly to Islay, a whisky she likes; Bruichladdich. Dearest Dottie normally inbides a good cognac or the odd sip of wine, however "the laddie" is now just the thing and checking up on the baronial cosumption long forgotten. Whilst we wandered round several Celtic Crosses and tripped over the odd grave slab, I also seized the opportunity to visit my chums at Ardbeg. Slightly to my chagrin not only did I receive a rather frosty reception but we were also overcharged in the restaurant. So the good news for all you chaps who are wary of accepting a Glen Trollaigh dram from the paint stripper shores, you will now be pleased to hear that like dearest Dottie and I have changed allegiance to the calmer waters of Loch Indaal.
Whilst jogging around the Hebridean tombs I much enjoyed deciphering the many interesting epitaphs and although some may seem strange to the modern enquirer, nothing could have prepared me for the sight on the Bridgend Hotel telly of one of those alarming modern shrines to stupidity glorifying some lardy bullet head from Essex who has launched himself and his beloved black BMW into the shrubbery. I fairly choked on the dram when the camera softly zoomed into the message on one tasteless cellophaned floral tribute whose message read "sadly mist". One can only hope that visibility was indeed reduced at the time of the accident, otherwise all hope is lost. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
It was always at this time of year that we took our family holidays on the Isle of Colonsay, so it comes as no surprise that at long last the old Atlantic jet stream has started to throw low pressure systems onto the west coast of Argyll and we receive much needed rain. River levels have risen by several feet and poorly maintained gutters on the Tower of Glen Trollaigh spout water onto sheltering gardeners below. At long last the fly box is being studied, 14 foot rods dusted off and the steady swish of elderly casting can be detected from the secret swirling pools of the upper Alt Trollaigh where Dippers dip and brave Whinchats defend their young. One must suppose that tiny holiday makers on Colonsay clad in sand shoes, shorts and a heavily padded anoraks still shelter below the overhanging rocks of Cable Bay, while damp parents cajole them onto the wind stiffened, rain soaked sands. Soggy families return to their chilly room and board, where shivering, teeth chattering children are accommodated at a discount and pets have to pay, whereas any fool knows having experienced the holiday housework that children should be charged double and pets are free.
The zeal of the convert grips Glen Trollaigh as dearest Dottie has found, on a recent jolly to Islay, a whisky she likes; Bruichladdich. Dearest Dottie normally inbides a good cognac or the odd sip of wine, however "the laddie" is now just the thing and checking up on the baronial cosumption long forgotten. Whilst we wandered round several Celtic Crosses and tripped over the odd grave slab, I also seized the opportunity to visit my chums at Ardbeg. Slightly to my chagrin not only did I receive a rather frosty reception but we were also overcharged in the restaurant. So the good news for all you chaps who are wary of accepting a Glen Trollaigh dram from the paint stripper shores, you will now be pleased to hear that like dearest Dottie and I have changed allegiance to the calmer waters of Loch Indaal.
Whilst jogging around the Hebridean tombs I much enjoyed deciphering the many interesting epitaphs and although some may seem strange to the modern enquirer, nothing could have prepared me for the sight on the Bridgend Hotel telly of one of those alarming modern shrines to stupidity glorifying some lardy bullet head from Essex who has launched himself and his beloved black BMW into the shrubbery. I fairly choked on the dram when the camera softly zoomed into the message on one tasteless cellophaned floral tribute whose message read "sadly mist". One can only hope that visibility was indeed reduced at the time of the accident, otherwise all hope is lost. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
posted by The Baron Trollaigh at
2:38 AM
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