Turkey Before Christmas.

The dog's soft noses scent the south breeze as the aroma of well fed deer starts to fill Glen Trollaigh. The deer are moving down the mountain sides to the river bank parks which are still covered in rich green grass despite one sub zero night, to roar and rut; parental responsibility for this and last year's calves forgotten as the hormones kick in. This is one of Scotland's most magical times as the roars of challenge echo round the darkening glens, bracken black, leaves aturn and evening shadows lengthening at 6.00 pm. Without thinking I pull on a woollen jumper each morning, unthinkable a week or two ago and a fire crackles in the library fireplace at night. Most stalking guests have headed south to the city, polishing up their Purdeys for the winter gamebird shooting season, lines pegged in Norfolk or Devon, impossibly high birds the aim. Here in Glen Trollaigh I pack away guns and rods, for although some men fish on till the end of October, I think it is a month too late if conservation of stocks is the goal; hoping now only for a day or two with dogs and rough shooting for the pot on a neighbour's land between now and the end of January.

Dearest Dottie and I have just returned from Turkey to where we were inveigled by a bunch of shooting stick supported ex-army officers keen to acquire the sailing skills of yours truly; although it has to be said that despite the officer's considerable age we had to admire their ability to attract some lovely memshaibs, perhaps of a certain age, however they were certainly in no need of even the most simple of enhancements. We liked Turkey, a goodly number of ex-pats who since the 60's have migrated from Provence via the Balearic's, Portugal and the Spanish Costas seeking fair prices and even fairer weather have settled here and we can't say we blame them. Turkey not only has a wonderfully friendly and entrepreneurial people, but also enjoys the only booming economy in "Europe". The populous perhaps unwisely desire the Euro though still the minarets chant the call to prayer from dawn. Best summed up as a country I would return to, not for the sailing, but certainly to explore the land side where many civilisations have met, despite the current risk of having parts of the baronial corps blown apart by those feisty Kurds.

On the nautical side our fleet split into those who ploughed east of the 7 capes towards Syria and in search of a NATO style experience had to endure 45 knots across the deck with anxious nights dragging anchors. Then the more sensible of us who enjoyed beach bars, blue skies and crystal seas amongst the islands to the Aegean west. I tried hard to educate, however some yachts chose to ignore my advice and went on to lose large chunks of fibreglass in the early hours, foul props with mooring line, fill diesel tanks with water, carry away stanchions, tear sails and foul anchors, to say nothing of some frankly scary basic boat handling. I wouldn't do it again, but hopefully many new friendships will be born and perhaps a few people will venture into the north argyll glens and coasts to sample the undeniable delights of temperate sailing still under the influence of the Union Jack. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.