Autumn Diddilee Tum Tum.

For many, many years tradition has sent the male Trollaighs to London at this time to attend the Lord Mayor's Banquet and then freeze at the Cenotaph as honorary Colonels of the long defunct 6th Glen Trollaigh Yeomen Rifles. Whilst seated near the top table at the LMB my father heard Sir Winston expound the virtues of the 19 shillings and 6 pence in the pound higher rate tax; from a slightly lower table position I heard Norman Lamont trying to explain away 18% interest rates. However those heady days of influence have passed by, for along with many land mangers and ex service personnel my invitation to either event did not arrive this year. I believe that little known old codgers have been swept away in favour of premier league footballers who are already "friends" with HRH on Facebook, or "facetube" as one of my Luddite neighbours calls it, he who is considerably more elevated than I and even closer to the HRH blood line has also suffered the same social downgrading due to non celebrity status. I suppose that fit and healthy youth in a sharp suit has more clout that some whiskered buffer in a white tie; one must be thankful that at least one will not bow out being mistaken for a waiter and hailed as "Jimmy" by some Chav ordering more Krug, as happened to a Scottish Duke at a recent London ball.

Speaking of balls and footballers, a small white terrier cross seems to have found his way into the Trollaigh pack, and he takes the most tremendous delight in high speed, virtuoso dribbling of a hard football twice his size. This almost led to his untimely demise a couple of days ago; for as I was idlely poking at weeds with a walking stick on the banks of the Alt Trollaigh I was surprised to see a football zipping past in the current, low and behold I realised that there was a small white mutt holding it aloft "a la Walrus". Swift action was called for as the water was freezing and far too deep for a non swimmer; as the dog went down for the fifth time I managed to hook the ball out of the water at which point a small white rocket rose vertically from the depths trying to recapture his favourite toy, I've never see anything like it. I struggled to get him back alive to the Great Tower of Trollaigh and the healing powers of Mhairi's aga. Even when sanity was restored the dog followed me around all day with pleading eye and tail a-wag hoping that I would release the bally ball for more death defying games; rather like a cat I fear that this dog may only have nine lives.

However back to the point; this year is my first ever in Glen Trollaigh in early November and it is truly awe inspiring; the water is clear and icy, the Beech leaves fall and drift, all is red and gold with the Larches fragile and bright. Travelling Waxwings, Redwings and Fieldfares squabble over our berries, Owls hoot and Birds Of Prey pounce on mice that they would have rejected a month ago. Our meagre 45 degree arc of sun from 11.00 til 17.00 is hard to bear and even a short heavy shower of rain depresses the soul. To cheer us many local winter activities start up; SWRI, dances, bitch and knit, indoor bowls, race nights, book clubs, curling and many bonfires and social gatherings. However one must beware the competitive nature of even these simple pleasures and the local Vicar has spotted, in her spare time, that there might have been some suspiciously soft marking of answers in her quiz nights, so a referee has been appointed to the next one in the Crianlarich Hotel. Hopefully it will all come to snarling blows amongst the OAPs in the time honoured West Highland tradition and firm Christian freinds will fall out over a simple dot or a T never to be reconciled; I for one will cheering from the rafters as all this fall-out may detract from the mooted redecoration of the south wing loo, where I am fighting for my life to retain an avocado khasi with its excellent flush, against a modern "low flush" white pedestal. Why, oh why can the female of the species not leave things as they are? What can be wrong with Avocado? Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh