Plastic Gaelic

Glen Trollaigh has provided possibly one of the most colourful autumns that we can remember. A combination of dry weather, a waxing moon and some of dearest Dottie's more exotic plantings coming to glorious maturity have given us a magnificent glen. However the arrival of November heralds a gale or two from the south west and with Borsalino crammed on, tweed collar turned high, it's head down into the breeze and drizzle to feed the livestock each morning. For once we must also thank the EU commissioners for restricting the acreage of hay that we are allowed to harvest, as hundreds of Fieldfares,Thrushes and Blackbirds have arrived to feast on rowan berries and the like. For some reason they flock to the areas we have been allowed to harvest and completely shun the meadows that lie rank under the EU wild life directives; I can't say I blame them as basic common sense and local knowledge has been ignored once again.
This time of year also brings the celebration of all things Gaelic and this year plenty of controversy, the MOD. Ever since being involved in a deeply disastrous prizegiving yours truly steers well clear of this event. However I do keep a weather eye on it and I have become increasing worried about the structural stability of the festival stages as the "avoir du poids" of the average ladies gaelic choir reaches alarming levels. The native gaelic speakers have at long last decided to revolt and complain most vociferously about the enormous sums being spent on the salaries of a very few educators and broadcasters of dubious gaelic heritage who now support the "learners" of "plastic gaelic" whilst the true traditions are ignored. Why am I surprised, if this has anything to do with the staff of Highland and Islands Development, as most of their substantial number list their primary residence as somewhere in the home counties of England and only struggle up to head office in Inverness once in a while by private, tax payer's jet, when available?
Now that there is a great lack of Venison and demand exceeds supply because of the complete incompetence of the Deer Commission and the Forestry Commission, poaching is once more big business.This is tricky because it is obviously unwise to challenge heavily armed nutters in the dark. However it does bring to mind an old story of guests at the old Royal Hotel, Tyndrum many years ago, who were dejected to find a supper of "Stag" once again, of which there was then a plentiful, cheap local supply. One night Mien Host introduced a new menu claiming fabulous superior "Hind" to his doubtful guests. After dinner when the host solicited acclaim from his guests; a questioning voice was heard to ask "and what part of the Stag is the Hind?" It was ever thus!
Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Doggie Bags

There is definitely something about early October mornings, the thick rolling mist that at last shows the air temperature to be lower than that of the land and draws the world closely into a few cosy hundred square metres of shadowy familiar forms. All is quiet as day breaks yet there is the promise of some sunlight to burn the mist away by noon; distant sounds seem close and small details of even those far a way sounds seem nearby; a heavy goods train struggling across Rannoch, our few remaining rutting stags bellowing from different points of the compass. Yet as the mist starts to evaporate the world comes into focus and, of course if you are as lucky as I, and can find some time to take the dogs a wee way up the steep flanks of Glen Trollaigh above the cotton wool, then the bird's eye view shows the odd shower streaming into golden glens from the west as the breeze picks up or perhaps a sight of a wandering tourist far below thinking themselves unobserved while stopping to capture a highland bull image on their ubiquitous i-phone.
This was the time in days gone by when the Tower of Glen Trollaigh would be stuffed with distant cousins and sporting guests; however this now seems to be dropping off, as not only do we age and try to avoid killing things unless we want to eat them, but many of you will have noticed that nowadays spectacles adorn the impressive baronial nose more often than not, so taking aim in Argyll weather becomes a lot more difficult; and let's face it there is plenty of better fun to be had on the river bank as one's joints start to rebel at the thought of a damp day on the hill.
Our old fashioned but innocent pursuit of a beast or two has also been overtaken by the exceptional zeal of government agencies such as the Forestry Commission who aim to bag every living thing whether or not it is theirs to claim. I very much doubt that the honest tree hugging tax payer or pet owning RSPB member has the slightest notion as to the extent of the wholesale slaughter, using unsafe practices and based on incorrect science that is carried out in their name by the FC throughout the land.
Apart from the regular recording of the fortune being generated by the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh much of my summer has been spent in acquiring and commissioning a new boat. Strangely this seems to have needed many restaurant visits from Southampton to Loch Fyne via Plymouth, Howth, Bangor and various other ports. You will appreciate that I am no stranger to an eatery or two, however the wind was quite literally taken out of my sails when entertaining a small party of potential investors at the Riverside Restaurant in Stirling. There being a few surplus scraps at the end of the main course my usual request for a doggy bag was rejected point blank as "no food must be taken away from our restaurant". I could conceivably understand this on some convoluted tax issue or even a pompous commercial secrecy clause in the old insurance policy; however I was told that is was all down to boring old "Health & Safety". Yea Gods has it come to this?
Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.