A proper Charlie

Well, summer at long last reaches down to the Glen Trollaigh floor; temperatures hover around 20c and as we now leave a lot of grass and hay uncut lovely aromas of wild flowers and bog myrtle fill the air; dogs go rabbiting and fishermen look despondently at the low water levels in the Alt Trollaigh; which may be a pain for them however I can rub my mitts together and get stuck into the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh, or rather bits of it as I still await a final permission to cross some miserable dried up stream in my sterilised wellies. One must be pleased that the huge piles of guff that accumulate on my desk are at least keeping plenty of folk in a proper job and the apple of their proud parent's eye.
Garden birds have faired well after a difficult start in wild weather, and in only a few weeks some will set off for warmer climes and be replaced by returning families of Thrushes and Blackbirds; though one bird completely missing this year is the Snipe. Thinking of those missing, campers and tourists seem a bit thin on the ground; I came upon a favourite pub that was not opening until the evening due to lack of punters at midday and a local coaching hotel remains closed. Scotland offers some of the best wild places in Europe although one does not come here for the weather; are people staying for a few days less? It cannot be a help that a second mortgage is required to top up your car up before venturing north of the Highland Line. However at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh we continue to offer gruff rural hospitality equally to those that pay and those that blag some loose family connection and it seems to work as I never have a bally moment to myself!
Talking of family blaggers we have just got rid of Charlie Fenshaw some type of distant relative who we usually manage to avoid by telling a white lie or two about our whereabouts. Blow me down if his knees were not under the breakfast table the other day as he must have slipped in under the radar. Don't get me wrong, young Charlie is an friendly type and very good at sweet talking dearest Dottie, rescuing drowning dogs, offering to clean one's gun and that sort of thing; although the downside is that he has no visible means of support and certainly no gainful employment. So you can be certain that he will devour his weight in square meals, arrive with sacks of laundry that will make even Mhairi wince and then touch you for a bob or two when he leaves. For the first time ever this time he appeared with a lithsome blonde who unfortunately seemed unfamiliar with the ways of what our patronising Council say is now to be called the "rural hinterland" of North Argyll. All went fairly well until the second night of Charlie's stay when the quiet of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh was shattered by a series of hysterical screams; one assumed that Charlie had been pressing his suit a little too strongly however it turned out that his paramour had "met something" in the corridor en route to the facilities. The something truned out to be Lachie's crouched and kilted figure delivering clean shoes and a fresh bottle of 12 year old Stag's Breath to Charlie. The following morning a lift to Dalmally Station was swiftly organised for the happy couple and Charlie did not take much persuading to vacate after discovering that both the cellar key and the wallet were now firmly in the Baronial jacket pocket. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.