Whitehall 1212.

Outdoor tasks have been abandoned and once again I am writing as southerly gales batter the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and rather wet rain hoses the windows. March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, however it seems to have got a bit muddled this year. An old cove claimed that we have had an unusually long winter and perhaps he is right as we endured heavy snow and hard frosts right from late November, two or three weeks earlier than usual. Of course the pundits are also casting the runes on the 2011 midge population numbers, some say the snow will have insulated them and there will be record plagues; whilst other suggest that our sub zero January will have killed the blighters off and it will be all shirt sleeve order and barbeque throughout the Argyll summer!

I am looking ahead to spring with some reluctance as setting aside the climate I rather enjoy the peace and quiet of our winter months. Guests and visiting relatives are few, apart from the usual festivals, and those that visit know what to expect and what is expected of them, so there are normally mornings when one can lie abed and dark afternoons when it is quite permissible to dismiss the servants and curl up, stockinged feet on sofa, in front of a roaring fire with draft excluding dogs for company and read a good book undisturbed. Our March guests have been exceptional not only generously helping with The Baron's madcap schemes, often involving stretched sinews and hangovers, but also, and very unlike our summer visitors, restocking the Tower of Glen Trollaigh cellars with lots of goodies, far in excess of their consumption of the same. You are very welcome back at anytime!

March has many milestones from the welcome decrease in the feeding of wild birds, which thanks to guilt ridden marketing by those RSPB bastards now costs me an arm and a leg; to the drastic reduction in the temperature settings of both the central heating and Mhairi's AGA. Of course there are also those last few mornings of GMT when early light has man and mutt leaping eagerly out of bed at 6.00am, until some ghastly Brusselles inspired thing called UTC plus 1 has us all groggy for a several weeks. Changing the clocks used to be a pleasure accompanying the arrival of Oystercatchers, Wagtails and Frog Spawn; now technology also plays a complicating hand, as demonstrated in the Baronial Mercedes. It took me an age to discover that there is no small but simple knob to twiddle, instead after reading several pages of complex handbook I learned that time can only be altered via the "Command" system whose soul purpose seems to be to assume command, rather than to be commanded.

Dearest Dottie and I have also travelled away for a little stimulation; an hearty dinner was enjoyed in the refurbished though still cavernous "Greyhound" in Shap; their excellent local lamb dishes seem to have disappeared in the refurbishment; followed by an interesting night at Low Jock Scar. The Wapping flat kept us safe when the Baronial Bottom warmed the Twickers debenture seats at a very disappointing, indeed boring Calcutta Cup. I suppose the only major niggle this March has been the marked increase of incoming wrong numbers, I even spent some time with a persistant Belfaster wanting to ascertain her baggage allowance on a pre-booked Scottish bus tour, I have to admit with some shame that the only way out was to reassure her that "2 or 3 suitcases" would be fine; I only pray that the dear lady was not turned away at the terminus. In the old days of Whitehall 1212 at least one knew that Scotland Yard was on the other end and not a house of ill repute in Inverness; and anyway I thought everyone twittered and networked socially these days; telephones being the reserve of graduates in Mumbai. For those of us still in winter's grip, here's to a warming spring! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.