Apparently the debate between developers and those who oppose them is universal. This interesting article was brought to our attention by Katy Vella Pace. Thank you Katy! You can read the original article by clicking on the photo. Otherwise you can read it here."The Donald wants to build Europe's largest golf resort. Standing in his way is a burly Scotsman."
A quarter of a century ago, movie audiences were enchanted by Local Hero, a fable about the efforts of an American oil tycoon to buy the gorgeous Scottish fishing village of Ferness and turn its beach into a refinery site.
The young company man he dispatches to this wee town finds most of the residents eager to sell out. All that stands in the way of a deal is a stalwart old beachcomber, a man content with his whiskey, his wisdom, and his driftwood shack—in short, secure from the blandishments of consumer society.
A similar yarn is playing out on a scruff of hill and sand on the coastline north of Aberdeen, the prosperous hub of Scotland's North Sea oil trade. Here, in the bedroom community of Balmedie (population 2,000), Donald Trump hopes to build Europe's largest golf and housing resort.
The proposed $2 billion project has pitted local boosters and Scottish politicians against those who complain that Trump has tried to bully his way around the country's environmental laws. Still, with the project backed by Aberdeen's press, its business leaders, and much of its citizenry, passage seems increasingly likely.
The lone stumbling block may be Michael Forbes, a quarry worker who plays the Ferness beachcomber in the updated tale. The 55-year-old Forbes and his family have lived in a huddle of farm buildings behind the sand dunes for four decades. His 23-acre farm is encircled by Trump's proposed complex: The property borders the front nine holes and sits directly between the links and the hotel.
In Local Hero, the beachcomber blocks the ambitions of the tycoon by sheer folksy cussedness, which is pretty much the attitude Forbes has adopted toward Trump, whom he calls "Slippery Sam." P.G. Wodehouse could well have been describing Forbes when he wrote: "It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine."
Forbes refuses to sell his land. He prefers to remain on the ramshackle homestead he has named Mill of Menie, among broken tractor parts, battered junkers, rusting oilcans, and piles of discarded tires.
The burly Forbes wears a DUMP TRUMP pin on his jacket, and the most mischievous of grins. The front of his T-shirt reads: DON'T TRUMP ON THE PROTECTED DUNES. The back says: NO TRUMP.
"Slippery will have a giant red T flashing atop his hotel," he says. "On the roof of my shack, I intend to have my own flashing red letter: F, followed by a dash and O-F-F."
He says this from an easy chair in the sitting room of his mother's house, a yellow prefab bungalow—Forbes calls it a "chalet"—surrounded by roaming tribes of cats, geese, and cackling chickens. "To my mum, this place is paradise," he says. In fact, the word is inscribed on a plaque by the front door.
Amid this paradise, the main point of public contention over Trump's project has been mobile sand dunes that the government has declared a protected site. The Trump team has likened the dunes to giant sand slugs and wants to plant grass to stop them from drifting up the coast in rough weather. Conservation groups argue that such stabilization would do irreparable damage to the mobile dunes and the wildlife they contain.
"We always weigh economic impact against environmental sacrifice," says George Sorial, the Trump team's chief negotiator. "Critics have unfairly claimed that we'll destroy the dunes." In fact, he asserts, the developer merely wants to "modify" a small portion of one: "We're actually going to enhance it." And when it comes to enhancements, no one trumps Trump.
"Trump's logic—or lack of it—drives me demented," says Debra Storr, a Balmedie councillor. "If the sand dune can't move, it's no longer mobile, is it?"
The young company man he dispatches to this wee town finds most of the residents eager to sell out. All that stands in the way of a deal is a stalwart old beachcomber, a man content with his whiskey, his wisdom, and his driftwood shack—in short, secure from the blandishments of consumer society.
A similar yarn is playing out on a scruff of hill and sand on the coastline north of Aberdeen, the prosperous hub of Scotland's North Sea oil trade. Here, in the bedroom community of Balmedie (population 2,000), Donald Trump hopes to build Europe's largest golf and housing resort.
The proposed $2 billion project has pitted local boosters and Scottish politicians against those who complain that Trump has tried to bully his way around the country's environmental laws. Still, with the project backed by Aberdeen's press, its business leaders, and much of its citizenry, passage seems increasingly likely.
The lone stumbling block may be Michael Forbes, a quarry worker who plays the Ferness beachcomber in the updated tale. The 55-year-old Forbes and his family have lived in a huddle of farm buildings behind the sand dunes for four decades. His 23-acre farm is encircled by Trump's proposed complex: The property borders the front nine holes and sits directly between the links and the hotel.
In Local Hero, the beachcomber blocks the ambitions of the tycoon by sheer folksy cussedness, which is pretty much the attitude Forbes has adopted toward Trump, whom he calls "Slippery Sam." P.G. Wodehouse could well have been describing Forbes when he wrote: "It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine."
Forbes refuses to sell his land. He prefers to remain on the ramshackle homestead he has named Mill of Menie, among broken tractor parts, battered junkers, rusting oilcans, and piles of discarded tires.
The burly Forbes wears a DUMP TRUMP pin on his jacket, and the most mischievous of grins. The front of his T-shirt reads: DON'T TRUMP ON THE PROTECTED DUNES. The back says: NO TRUMP.
"Slippery will have a giant red T flashing atop his hotel," he says. "On the roof of my shack, I intend to have my own flashing red letter: F, followed by a dash and O-F-F."
He says this from an easy chair in the sitting room of his mother's house, a yellow prefab bungalow—Forbes calls it a "chalet"—surrounded by roaming tribes of cats, geese, and cackling chickens. "To my mum, this place is paradise," he says. In fact, the word is inscribed on a plaque by the front door.
Amid this paradise, the main point of public contention over Trump's project has been mobile sand dunes that the government has declared a protected site. The Trump team has likened the dunes to giant sand slugs and wants to plant grass to stop them from drifting up the coast in rough weather. Conservation groups argue that such stabilization would do irreparable damage to the mobile dunes and the wildlife they contain.
"We always weigh economic impact against environmental sacrifice," says George Sorial, the Trump team's chief negotiator. "Critics have unfairly claimed that we'll destroy the dunes." In fact, he asserts, the developer merely wants to "modify" a small portion of one: "We're actually going to enhance it." And when it comes to enhancements, no one trumps Trump.
"Trump's logic—or lack of it—drives me demented," says Debra Storr, a Balmedie councillor. "If the sand dune can't move, it's no longer mobile, is it?"
By a single vote, an Aberdeenshire zoning board recently rejected the application of the New York developer, thereby infuriating the Scottish government, which stepped in and is expected to rule on the plans. "We hope all this will be resolved within three months," says Sorial.
Trump bought the 1,400-acre country property—a scenic old seaside shooting estate—for $10 million in March 2007. He envisions spas, a golf academy, a driving range, a conference center, 950 time-share units, dozens of golf villas, as many as 500 private homes, and an eight-story, 450-room Gothic hotel.
Sorial contends that the Trump International Golf Links will be a tremendous boon to the region, especially 30 years from now when the oil runs out. By his projections, the megadevelopment will generate 1,400 jobs and bring hundreds of millions of dollars in investments. Where those workers would come from is another matter: Aberdeenshire's unemployment rate—1.8 per cent—is among the lowest in Britain. (How would they get there if the oil runs out? The Eagle)
"People need to understand the impact this resort will have in terms of putting the northeast on the map," says project manager Neil Hobday. "If we're refused, nothing of this scope will ever come back to Scotland." (Hopefully! The Eagle.)
The centerpiece of the development would be two championship golf courses that Trump proclaims will be "the greatest in the world" and will one day attract the British Open. In the hallowed heart of the game—the home of St. Andrews, Royal Troon, Carnoustie, Muirfield, and Turnberry—some see this as laughable.
Trump International sits in a chilly, windy, rainy expanse with fog so thick and impenetrable that it has its own name, the Harr. "The kind of course Trump desires would be lovely in Florida or Dubai, where the sun is always shining," says Storr. "The golf season in Aberdeenshire is April to September, and even then, Gore-Tex is an essential part of your equipment."
Then again, some cynics believe the links are just a ruse. "This entire pantomime isn't about building a course—it's a marketing exercise in selling luxury homes," says Mickey Foote, a former producer for the punk-rock band the Clash, who is now spokesman for the anti-Trump group Sustainable Aberdeenshire. "Trump is really planning a wealthy town with a couple of courses attached."
As you might expect, Sorial disputes this notion. He insists the organization's intentions are strictly honorable. "Of course this is all about golf," he says. "Obviously the real estate is a part of the development. You have to justify the golf with a residential component to make the project financially viable. We've always been up front about this."
Golf, as it turns out, is anathema to Forbes, Trump's nemesis. "It's the one sport I've always detested," he says. "I can't see the fascination. And now, with this going on, I hate golf even more."
Forbes prefers fishing for salmon, as his father and grandfather did before him.
Years ago he and his dad netted 500 in a single day; last year he caught one all season. "Nowadays, the seals swim in too close," he more or less explains.
Life is slow and easy here in Mill of Menie. Time stands still. It's like Brigadoon, but without the curse. "I've never had a vacation," Forbes says. "That's how crazy I am about this place."
On this clear, sharp morning, the wind blusters low off the fields when Forbes dons his waders and stomps across the grasslands. "I walk the dunes every day," he says. "I see something new every day. Fox, roe deer, weasels, partridges, curlews, buzzards, owls, kestrels, skylarks, violets, wild purple hyacinths, sand lizards, thistles..." He insists Trump's resort would wreck everything wonderful about the place.
"Would I sell to Trump? No, never," Forbes says. "When this all began, I didn't care about the course, so long as it didn't damage the dunes. But the hotel and condos are something else again. Trump should build houses young married couples can afford, not for the rich. He won't listen, though. He thinks we're all a bunch of cabbages."
Last year, Trump visited Mill of Menie to talk turkey. Forbes sat with his wife, Sophie. His mum, Molly, served tea.
Trump told them that his late Scottish mother, Mary, came from the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides. "I want to build this resort as a testament to her," he said, according to Forbes. "From the moment I saw the dramatic dunes and rugged coastline, I was overwhelmed. I've never seen such an unspoiled seaside landscape."Trump bought the 1,400-acre country property—a scenic old seaside shooting estate—for $10 million in March 2007. He envisions spas, a golf academy, a driving range, a conference center, 950 time-share units, dozens of golf villas, as many as 500 private homes, and an eight-story, 450-room Gothic hotel.
Sorial contends that the Trump International Golf Links will be a tremendous boon to the region, especially 30 years from now when the oil runs out. By his projections, the megadevelopment will generate 1,400 jobs and bring hundreds of millions of dollars in investments. Where those workers would come from is another matter: Aberdeenshire's unemployment rate—1.8 per cent—is among the lowest in Britain. (How would they get there if the oil runs out? The Eagle)
"People need to understand the impact this resort will have in terms of putting the northeast on the map," says project manager Neil Hobday. "If we're refused, nothing of this scope will ever come back to Scotland." (Hopefully! The Eagle.)
The centerpiece of the development would be two championship golf courses that Trump proclaims will be "the greatest in the world" and will one day attract the British Open. In the hallowed heart of the game—the home of St. Andrews, Royal Troon, Carnoustie, Muirfield, and Turnberry—some see this as laughable.
Trump International sits in a chilly, windy, rainy expanse with fog so thick and impenetrable that it has its own name, the Harr. "The kind of course Trump desires would be lovely in Florida or Dubai, where the sun is always shining," says Storr. "The golf season in Aberdeenshire is April to September, and even then, Gore-Tex is an essential part of your equipment."
Then again, some cynics believe the links are just a ruse. "This entire pantomime isn't about building a course—it's a marketing exercise in selling luxury homes," says Mickey Foote, a former producer for the punk-rock band the Clash, who is now spokesman for the anti-Trump group Sustainable Aberdeenshire. "Trump is really planning a wealthy town with a couple of courses attached."
As you might expect, Sorial disputes this notion. He insists the organization's intentions are strictly honorable. "Of course this is all about golf," he says. "Obviously the real estate is a part of the development. You have to justify the golf with a residential component to make the project financially viable. We've always been up front about this."
Golf, as it turns out, is anathema to Forbes, Trump's nemesis. "It's the one sport I've always detested," he says. "I can't see the fascination. And now, with this going on, I hate golf even more."
Forbes prefers fishing for salmon, as his father and grandfather did before him.
Years ago he and his dad netted 500 in a single day; last year he caught one all season. "Nowadays, the seals swim in too close," he more or less explains.
Life is slow and easy here in Mill of Menie. Time stands still. It's like Brigadoon, but without the curse. "I've never had a vacation," Forbes says. "That's how crazy I am about this place."
On this clear, sharp morning, the wind blusters low off the fields when Forbes dons his waders and stomps across the grasslands. "I walk the dunes every day," he says. "I see something new every day. Fox, roe deer, weasels, partridges, curlews, buzzards, owls, kestrels, skylarks, violets, wild purple hyacinths, sand lizards, thistles..." He insists Trump's resort would wreck everything wonderful about the place.
"Would I sell to Trump? No, never," Forbes says. "When this all began, I didn't care about the course, so long as it didn't damage the dunes. But the hotel and condos are something else again. Trump should build houses young married couples can afford, not for the rich. He won't listen, though. He thinks we're all a bunch of cabbages."
Last year, Trump visited Mill of Menie to talk turkey. Forbes sat with his wife, Sophie. His mum, Molly, served tea.
"So why do you want to ruin it?" asked Molly.
Trump shrugged and turned to her son.
"Michael," he said. "What's your price?"
"Donald," said Forbes. "These 23 acres are not for sale."
"Everybody has a price."
"Well, you can make me an offer and see what I say."
Trump offered him $700,000, about what he plans to ask for a small vacation home on the property.
Forbes said, "What? I could build one house on my land and sell it for that."
According to Forbes, one of Trump's minions said, ominously: "We'll make sure that never happens."
Forbes was insulted and infuriated. "I thought, So that's the way you want to play it, is it?" he recalls.
Not long after the encounter, Forbes says a letter appeared under his front door: Trump had raised his offer to $900,000. Forbes wrote on the envelope, in large block letters, TAKE YOUR INSULT AND SHOVE IT. NOT FOR SALE. Then he mailed it back to Trump.
"That's when Donald and his people started kicking the stuffing out of their teddy bears," Forbes says. "A harassment campaign began." Legal letters arrived accusing him of damaging Trump's property; humane society inspectors appeared to check on his farm animals; police grilled him about an unlicensed shotgun. "I don't even own a gun," Forbes protests.
Without naming his prospective neighbor, Trump took his case to the media. "The area is in total disrepair," he told a TV crew. "Take a look at how badly maintained the piece of property is: It's disgusting. Rusty tractors, rusty oilcans—I actually asked him: ‘Are you doing this on purpose to try and make it look bad so I have to pay some more money?'"
Sorial says he has heard that Forbes would have settled for $2 million. "He's a very smart man, and he plays a very smart game," says Trump's man in Balmedie. "But his numbers are too high. We can only make an offer based on the current market value."
Forbes, says Sorial, is Caliban—enchanted at the idea of riches.
"That's lies, all lies," Forbes grumbles. "I've worked hard all my life to get this place and to keep it. Money means nothing to me. I've got everything I need. I'm not like Trump and his hangers-on. The only thing I've ever demanded was to be left in peace."
British businessman Tony Bowman, an ardent environmentalist, has offered Forbes more than $1.8 million for the land, just to block Trump's path. "Tony told me I could keep my home and live on the property as long as I wanted," Forbes said. "It was a nice gesture, but I'm still not selling."
Sorial says the Trump project will plow ahead—with or without Forbes' acreage. "We don't need his piece of land," he says. "But we at least want him to clean up his property, as a good neighbor."
On the other hand, Trump may be growing impatient. Sorial warns that if the government doesn't approve the bid soon "what was once a good deal can go sour." He hinted that the resort could be built somewhere else. Indeed, Trump has negotiated a six-month option to buy a sizeable spread on an alternate site in Northern Ireland. Sorial dismisses suggestions that the deal was timed to scare Scottish government officials.
Whatever happens, Forbes says he will be ready. "I plan to assemble a half-dozen hovercrafts and hold races along the edge of Trump's course," he says giddily. "I imagine the clatter will be spectacular."
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