Baronets Can't Be Choosers

Don't know about you, but we've had a lot of snow lately.  Even our Irish wolfhounds, Patches and Fang, were having problems striding across the fields on their daily jaunt.

Maybe we should have got black Labradors

Henry got stuck in the Land Rover on our driveway.  We dug him out, of course, with shovels and the brute determination that gin and whisky shall be replenished, come what may.  (In fact, we couldn't possibly wait until May.)  This prompted me to take our tractor into the garage where I became covered in engine grease and oil whilst fitting the snow plough to the front of it.  I think I've burned off the caloric equivalent of an entire army division's rations for a month, between clearing snow, gritting tarmac and filling in potholes with more grit.  This of course means that I can eat what I like for the rest of year.

It all reminded one of that winter a few winters back that was just terrible.

Although we are a considerable distance from the middle of nowhere, we're never normally cut off completely.  Via a combination of the Land Rover That Could and the Tractor That Could Just About, we could normally get to the nearest pub at least (they're worth it too – they don't just batter fish, they batter whales); and from there we could get to civilisation with gritted roads and proper snowploughs.

That winter, however, we were completely cut off.  The snow breached the grille on the Land Rover, and blew down its snorkel.  The fuel lines on the tractor had frozen because Alastair had forgotten to put it away after winning the Annual Winter Loch Ice Tractor Run for the third year running.

So, we holed up in the castle.  Now, in a house, this is relatively easy.  You just crank up the heating a notch, bundle on the layers and tuck away into a nook or a cranny with a good book and a hot chocolate.

You can't really do that a place like Airnefitchie.  Turning the heating up a notch could blow the planet sky high, to say nothing of one's bank manager.  So, we bundled on as much wool as we could and leapt about the place, closing up guest rooms and the billiard room, shoving putty into cracks in the window frames, stuffing old duvets up unused chimneys, and tucking towels under doorways.  This left us with the kitchen (which is always the warmest room in the house due to the Aga), the sitting room and our bedroom.  Alasdair decided to camp out in the utility larder, with the clothes dryer and venison jerky, wearing his mountaineering gear, sipping ale through a straw to minimise exposure to the air.

Effect ruined somewhat by the umbrellas

Now Henry and I were settled in front of the Aga, with a hot toddy and a dog-warmer on each pair of feet.  The wind howled through the battlements and rattled a couple of windows.  We supped on hot whisky and nibbled on cheese biscuits.

Then the lights went out and a huge gust of wind blew out the Aga as well.

Ah

That was unexpected.  I bundled on even more wool and replaced my wolfhound with wellies.  Wedging a flat cap on my head, I bravely opened the kitchen door and ventured out to the generator shed.  I vaguely remember Henry shouting something about letting all the heat out as I trudged through the ever-thickening layer of snow.

I could feel the heat leach out through my layers; the neoprene in my wellies clearly wasn't up to spec.  The wind blew the hat off my head and I couldn't see anything but white.  Luckily, I knew the way blindfolded.  When we inherited the place, there was no indoor plumbing so the generator shed used to be the outhouse.  Things have changed, but the memory still haunts me to this day.  I'll never forget where the outhouse was.  If you did, there could be consequences.

Upon reaching the shed, I located the fuse box – one of those great big old things, where you have to wire the fuses yourself.  Only this time, it was full of snow.  It was like bailing a dingy in a hurricane.  No matter how much I scooped out the snow, more just took its place and multiplied.  How inconvenient.

The generator itself wasn't having much luck either.  Knowing it was only a matter of time before the entire shed filled with snow – although how was still unclear to me – I hiked back to the castle.

'Well, Henry, the power will not be with us long.  Fancy a cup of tea?'

Using an old camping stove and some questionable gas canisters, we managed to make a rather serviceable meal.  We didn't hear much from Alistair.  There was a gurgle at one point, but nothing more than that, and he didn't move when we went in for a tin of beans.

Camping is a lot more fun when it's done within your own home.  None of that tent rubbish for a start.

This is not how it looked in the instructions

That was until we went to the wine cellar.

'Cyn!  Cyn!  This is just godawful!' came Henry's cry of despair when he went down into the cellar for some claret to accompany our baked bean sandwiches.  He came storming up the stairs again, with a solitary bottle of wine in his hands.  'This is all we've bloody got!'

It was rosé.

Fizzy rosé.

How it got there, we'll never know, but it was a disaster.

'Okay, don't panic,' I said, with panicky looks around the kitchen.  There was the cooking wine, but that would be vinegar by now.  'Are you sure that's all we've got?'

'Damn it, yes!  Unless you want to open great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Airedale's stash, there is nothing!  Not a blasted thing!'

We had run out of wine.  What were we going to do about it?

'We'll have to pop down to the shops.'

Who said it, we'll never know, but it was a universal truth spoken in a whisper that echoed through the entire castle and was swept up by the wind to be carried out to sea.

'Right.'  The decision had been made.  Action was needed.  'Right,' I repeated.  A quick think through the options was taken.  'We'll need a toilet brush, a shovel, a hose pipe, warm water and the mesh from the utility larder window.'  I looked around.  'But let's eat our beans first.'

Using a complicated system of Irish wolfhounds, Alisdair, and badminton-racquet snowshoes, we got to the garage with all our equipment.  We dragged the snow-logged Land Rover into the garage and proceeded to clear it of snow – using the toilet brush around the tyres.  The hose pipe went up the snorkel to push the snow out.  Once clear I covered the opening at the top with the mesh from the utility larder window.  It would hold the snow off for the length of time we needed.  Warm water over the exhaust pipe melted the snow inside and it ran out as cold water instead.  We poured the last of the warm water over the snowplough, which was still attached to the frozen tractor.  With a torque wrench and the combined strength of three desperate people, we got the plough off the tractor and onto the Land Rover.

We tentatively tried to start the car.  It started.  We tentatively waited for it to die.  It didn't.  It kept chugging along nicely, warming up and filling the garage with exhaust fumes.  We had to open the garage door and let the cold in.  The car still didn't die, and neither did we.  All good signs.

Leaving Alaster and Henry with clear instructions on how to dig a path to the driveway I left them to have a quick change of clothes (grease, sweat and tears is not a good look wherever you go).  I got back to find they were half way to the driveway; I climbed up into the driving seat of the Land Rover.

I have found that there are certain clothes that will mentally prepare you for a weather apocalypse.  Wearing them suddenly makes you feel ready for anything, and makes you think everyone else are wimps for complaining about a bit of snow.  I was wearing such an outfit; my brown winter Barbour waxed to the nines, my hardiest tweeds, my warmest wool jumper and the snuggest of welly socks.  My feet were clad with my most serious welly boots, in a serious British Racing Green and with a serious grip on the bottom and custom (subtle, but effective) snow spikes.  I borrowed Alister's fingerless mountain gloves and gripped the steering wheel.  Only one thing was not quite right and that was my hat.  I could only find a tweed baker boy cap, so I looked vaguely like a street urchin.

Damnit!  I forgot my pink carnation!

I waited.

'Oh come on you two!'  I was getting too warm now.

Eventually they hit the edge of the driveway.  Perfect.

'Move out of the way!' I shouted and thundered the Land Rover out of the garage, towards the snow drift that was the driveway.

I braced myself, but the Land Rover ploughed on through.  I was on the move.

There were the usual snow-driving incidents: nearly hitting a stag, saving city folk whose nifty Fiat got stuck, saving red squirrels from desperate rabbits, picking up the odd roadkill pheasant, etc., etc.  When suddenly, what into view should have hoved but the wine shop.  I came to an abrupt stop outside, probably mounted on the kerb (how would one tell?), and dashed inside.

'Help us, man!  We've run out of wine!'

No one was there.  Odd.  They must have all fled when the blizzard hit and forgot to lock up securely enough from the wind.  So, I carried a couple of cases of red to the car and piled it all in the boot, then returned to the Marie Celeste for a box of whisky to put in the front-passenger foot well.  I left a note on the till and some cash, and with a triumphant hoorah, I jumped back into the Land Rover and sped off into the snow.

There were the usual snow-driving incidents; nearly hitting two stags, saving the city folk again, saving rabbits from desperate red squirrels and accidentally creating roadkill pheasants.

Eventually, I rocked up back at the castle and carried a crate of wine into the kitchen.

Dear Henry and questionable Alasdair were huddled around a tealight, eating venison jerky and growling at the dogs.

'But darling,' Henry whined, 'You got merlot!'