"Better a moose in the pot than nee maet ava".

                It’s May and it’s still cold. The light streaming through the bedroom window at four o’clock in the morning suggests that it’s going to be up for plenty long enough to take the chill off, but it’s a tease. I go out into the garden and open up another couple of raised beds but I’m afraid to plant anything for fear that a late frost will kill it off. Instead, I come indoors and open a propagator kit we bought in Kirkwall. Starting off with courgette and sweet pepper, it’s well watered and put in a South facing window. In some pots covered with plastic bottles we sow a couple with chili peppers and two more with winter squash. Time will tell how successful we will be. I’d hate to have to be eating compost and flower pot stew in a few months.

                The Sanday Soulka events kicked off on May 4^th. I returned to Hjelsa Fjold, the unhappy venue for my job interview, for a seminar on the Orcadian dialect. A handful of children from the school also attended this fascinating and interesting lecture. Some of it dealt with statistical analysis of dialect usage but we also got to play a game where we tried to guess what some of the more obscure Orcadian words meant. Even the natives had no idea. The best bit was the introduction to Orcadian tales that not only served as a learning aid but also described what life is like on the island, if you can understand it. There is a good one on the orkneyjar website and I’ve since borrowed a book called ‘Benjie’s Bodle and other Orkney dialect tales’ from the library in Kirkwall. (Kirkwall, we learned, should be Kirkwaa having been derived from the Norse ‘Kirkjuvagr’ but the English have a penchant for sticking ‘ll’ at the end of place-names they can’t understand apparently.) The example on the website and read aloud to us went:

 “Hid wis a time whin some folk couldno deu without haein some dry tang tae burn tae keep thir fires gaan.

Weel hid wis puir times right enouch, whin wae hear thir sayings that hid wis "better a moose in the pot than nee maet ava".

Weel, of coarse, the pot on the fire hid tae be keepit gaan teu, as weel ais whit wis under hid, for aa the grain o' money they hid wis keepit for mair needfu things for thir livin and tae keep the hoose gaan.

Weel, the Guidman and Guidwife, wha lived in the peedie hoose o' Linn, wir a pair o' island wirthies if ever thir wis, livin a kindo near-be-gaan wey o' life, wae no miny comfirts tae enjoy bit a guid gaan fire o' wid and tang and dried coo-scones tae warm thir feet as weel ais thir herts whin night time cam.”

Other than the meat in the pot and a fire for burning seaweed and dried cow-pats, that’s pretty much how we’re living up here. OK, so we probably don’t qualify as ‘goodman’ and ‘goodwife’ either. (The whole tale can be read on http://www.orkneyjar.com/orkney/dialect/wirkintang.htm if you’re feeling brave.)

The next day we attended the opening of the historic crofter’s home at Lady village. It was very well supported, probably as many of those in attendance had had a hand in the reconstruction of this turn of the last century family home. I have to say it was very ‘des-res’ and I wanted to move in. The smell of the open fire and the fresh, local cheese on home-made bere-loaf were as intoxicating as the wine. You’ll be disappointed, no doubt, to hear that I wasn’t in any of the photographs of the event (as I was the one holding the ladder steady for Rod the ranger as he took them).

Panic at the crofter's house when half the island turns up for tea.

                That night we endured another series of power cuts. Not funny when we are so reliant upon electricity to keep us from freezing. A call to our supplier informed us that engineers were on site to remove a crow’s nest from a pylon. A few more outages later, they called to let us know that they had removed the nest, even though it had been partly made with barbed wire! However, it had not resolved the problem and they were now trying to locate another nest further along the line. We had juice within the hour. They even called again the following morning to ensure that everything was back to normal.

That the avian population had mastered the use of barbed wire was, if not a surprise, confirmation of suspicions I’d had since our arrival. The fear I have of the indigenous wildlife was now fully justified. To my shame, I’ve found that, yes, I truly am petrified of most of it. For example, considering it’s been such a horrible winter, there are significant numbers of bees buzzing around and they all seem intent on chasing me around the island. I’ve never been stung and I don’t want to be now. I know they don’t want to sting me either but they sure as hell make it clear that they could if they had to. I don’t need that. I know wasps are fair game, but tell people that you twatted a bumble bee with a seven-iron and they look at you like you’re Charles Manson or something. I’m sick to my stomach for doing it but the lil’ feckers just refuse to listen to reason. Maybe I’ll look for a beekeeper's suit on ebay and wear it whenever I go outside. How dashing and stylish I’ll look. I just hope that nobody will think I’ve joined the Klan!

Our first ‘harvested’ meal came when Gail made a gorgeous rhubarb crumble. Needless to say the flour, sugar and other ingredients came from the shops, but it’s a start. I honestly thought we’d be eating the grass before we managed to produce anything ourselves, but finding those two plants in the garden were a real bonus. And in fine tradition, we enjoyed the first half of the crumble so much that we had seconds almost immediately afterwards and made ourselves sick! You really can have too much of a good thing.

The rest of the opening week of May was filled with making plans for my journey South for Mum’s birthday. Additionally, our troublesome tenants complained that they were unable to change some light-bulbs, so I would have to pop ‘home’ to do that for them. I’d also have to get the car MOT’d, get the lock on the garage door changed and then fill the back of the car with as much stuff as I could to bring back. I’d also try to cram in a visit to Sainsbury to get some items we can’t get here or at least pick them up for considerably less loot. Before I could set out however, I needed to book four ferry trips and three night’s accommodation online. I should also have plotted a route using AA routemaster, but having made the journey once, I naturally assumed that I was now a navigational diva. Finally, I wasn’t permitted to leave Gail on her own for six days until we had stocked the larder and paid for a TV licence. God forbid that she should have had to leave the house for any reason at all!

Funny money and other stuff

                Hello! What’s this then? I hear you ask. This, my dear friends, is a one pound NOTE. Did you know that they still use them up here? The tricky bit is they are not legal tender. Actually, there is no such thing as legal tender North of the border. Money here consists of what are called ‘promisery notes’. Therefore, I’m not sure if they can be used South of the border. Our sub-postmaster in Lady thinks that shops would be reluctant to accept them mainly as they don’t have a space in their tills for them anymore. Tough.

                A very talented Orcadian band visited the island late in April, playing at the Kettletoft Hotel. 'The Condition' are a great covers group and played a wonderfully eclectic range of rock and alt. rock songs. Some of them, such as The View’s ‘Same Jeans’, were even better (imho) than the originals. Gail was well chuffed when they played Green Day’s ‘Holiday’. The only regrettable parts of the gig were firstly when someone in the audience fell over and smacked his head on the floor and secondly when we, as old farts, ran out of steam at half past midnight when the band took a drinks break. There is no way that we were up to staying out until two or three in the morning despite the quality of the entertainment.

                My German Deli order eventually arrived. I was concerned that the fresh sausages had spent six days in the post so I was obliged to eat them all rather quickly. This was my last ever order from them as the posting costs are prohibitive. It has been pointed out to me that it’s also rather indulgent behaviour for a serf.

 

                The weather is still being erratic and frustrating. There has been no return of what are supposed to be ‘prevailing’ SW winds as the Easterlies appear to have become a permanent fixture. After it brought with it some torrential rain, it began to howl through the front door and carried the considerable volumes of precipitation with it. Some flooding occurred. This prompted an urgent call to Orkney Builders to hurry up with our door. They promised to make it a priority and to their credit they were soon around to fit it. A stonking good job they did of it too. The hallway is now weatherproof and Gail and I have started a little routine every time we go out into it. There is an involuntary giggle, an embarrassed laugh and we announce to the other: “Look. We’ve got a door!” Don’t know how long it’ll be before it gets boring, but it appears to have plenty of miles in it yet.

                I managed to walk to Lady to do some essential shopping. It wasn’t such a chore although it is rather disconcerting that I can't think of a single footpath on the whole island, even in any of the villages themselves. My plan to time the trip to show to Gail that it isn’t such an unreasonable proposition was dashed when Ean pulled up in his ‘workhorse’ Peugeot 207. He got out to move a spare wheel into the hatchback and I sat in the back seat beside a cement mixer as he drove me the last two and a bit miles home. Gail suspected that I’d cheated to have got home so quickly so I had to tell her of my good fortune. This gave me time to check up on our leek and cabbage seedlings in the goat room. While they were coming up nicely, I suspect that outdoors I’ve killed the previously healthy beans that downsizer Andy donated to us. What I wouldn’t give to have inherited Dad’s green fingers.

                I had a mixed end of the week. An unsuccessful job interview blotted the first part of the day but the Backaskaill restaurant tasting evening more than made up for it. Geoff had planned some new dishes for the coming season and a trio of each of each course was presented for our criticism. Everyone in attendance agreed that it was all absolutely delicious. We overstayed our welcome (again) by chatting in our host’s foyer, to some more islanders we hadn't previously bumped into, for an absolute age before leaving.

                The next day there came a strange visitor to the door. A bloke driving along the road caught sight of the water filled plastic barrel standing just inside the gate. He walked all the way down our drive to find out if he could buy it. I umm’d and ahh’d about it for a while so he offered me a fiver. My reply to his offer was “Really?” This prompted him to take the largest wad of twenty pound notes I have ever seen out of his pocket and admitting that he probably didn’t have anything smaller on him. He then dug around in his ‘shrapnel’ pocket to fish out a blue note. Never understanding the true value of anything, I let him take it away for that. It was all I could do to stop myself blurting out that we had a bigger and better one in the shed. He walked back to his van to load up his aquisition and we had some income. It looks like that my Sage accounting City and Guilds might come in useful after all. I wonder if I should make an asset list for future reference but when I take a look around I am convinced that it’s all just rubbish. But then, what do I know? (Everybody tells me that the answer to that question is a resounding ‘nothing’.)

                Gail hadn’t been off the island for at least three months and so our inability to find a suitable present for Mum’s birthday prompted a shopping expedition to Kirkwall. Her continued good fortune afloat meant that the crossing was very smooth. We dropped in to Odin Stone and found a really pretty card and a fabulous, 20’s stylie woolly hat. They certainly have some lovely stuff but we managed, uncharacteristically, not to treat ourselves to any of it. We ate lunch at ‘Skippers’, the casual eating bar on the ground floor of the Kirkwall Hotel. Gail insisted that she had no idea that it just so happened that they serve Orkney beer. In the afternoon we found a homeware shop and then filled all the shopping bags we could carry in Tesco before struggling back to the pier to catch the return ferry. Our haul included some treats for Gail to enjoy while I was away South in mid-May. I, on the other hand, had assumed she’d just be glad to see the back of me.

                The weather was calm again the following day and prompted another impromptu cycle ride. I found myself being beckoned to the Quoyness burial cairn. My previous failure to reach the cairn at Troyness doubled my resolve to succeed this time. The signpost hinted that it was only a short way from the main road. It wasn’t. A rough track led around the expanse of Little Sea. Of course there is even less than a little sea when the tide is out. Across the sand was a great view to Andy and Denise’s house so I took a series of photographs that have been stitched together below to form a panorama.

The software's not great (it shouldn't kick up to the left) but you get the idea. View across Little Sea.

 I rode on determinedly. The rough track became sandier and flatter until it reached a house at the top of Els Ness. Beyond the farm gate there, the track onwards is very deeply rutted and while I assume that some brave souls have driven along it fairly recently, I wouldn’t risk it myself in anything short of a military Hummer these days. Even riding was fraught with danger and I was sure that, at any moment, a pedal would dig in and I'd be pitched over the handlebars. It got so bad that after barely a hundred yards, I left the bike leaning against a wall while I continued the journey on foot. This gave me the time and the confidence to enjoy my surroundings. A small boat was creel fishing in the bay of Sty Wick, an abundance of St. George’s mushrooms were growing in the fields, it's a pity that I didn’t have any carrier bags with me, and a couple of cows with young calves eyed me suspiciously as I traversed their turf. I passed plenty of evidence of the dangers of driving to the cairn too, losing count of the number of scattered bits of car bodywork I came across. The cairn is an impressive feature. Some torches have been placed in box beside the entrance. Unfortunately the entrance to the chamber is only about two feet high so a crawl on hands and knees is required to get inside. It would be more useful in my opinion if, instead of the torches, some knee pads were provided. Inside, it is an impressing edifice to be laid to rest in sure enough. The trouble is that one man’s grave is another man’s archaeology. I guess no one gets to sleep forever. I hope I’m wrong as I fully intend to challenge that assumption and I don't intend to wait until after I'm dead to start either!

Period home, in need of modernisation, featuring one reception and six bedrooms.
Quoyness Chambered Cairn.

Older but none the wiser for it

                I still have not worked out when the post gets collected around here. On the assumption that the boxes get emptied first thing in the morning, (‘first thing’ up here kicks off around fiveish), and given that there are no assurances that the weather won’t find its way into said boxes despite the clever addition of a door over the slot, I found myself walking down the unlit B9069 to post my sister’s birthday card at midnight earlier this month. It was a pleasant night and I didn’t really need the torch that Gail wouldn’t let me leave the house without. It was, however, quite scary, especially when, I swear, a dementor rose from the dunes beside the road and effortlessly rose into the air without making a sound. Uncertain of my capacity to cast a patronus charm, I quickened my step and hoped it wouldn’t spot me. When I next checked over my shoulder it was a relief to find that I was alone. Of course Gail just laughed at me when I got home, but I know exactly what it was that trepidation and a lack of sleep made me see.  

                There continue to be surprises around the garden. In a fenced off segment, partially covered by netting that otherwise poses as another dumping ground, I found a rhubarb plant. Further investigation revealed two more. I must confess that they were hard to distinguish from the Rumex Obtusifolius, or ‘dock leaves’, that were also prevalent. Well it is early in the season. As the area is probably the most rabbit-proof part of the garden, I’ve decided to clear it up a bit with a view to making it more productive. At present it is home to a bucket from a JCB, a concrete mixer and a selection of caravan windows in addition to other junk. We’ve since also found wild rhubarb growing on the side of the road to Kettletoft.

                On Easter Monday we were invited over to Andy and Denise’s house for dinner. We all enjoyed a wonderful vegetable balti. Denise is still based in the midlands for the time being and so was in ‘holiday’ mode. Andy on the other hand was in full-on downsizer mode and pretty much never stops moving. He had managed to provide an island sourced meal for his charming lady wife for each day of her visit, from their own chicken one day to razor clams harvested off the beach the next. Suddenly he asks if I wanted to go fishing. I admitted that it’d been a while. About thirty years. When I asked him what time he intended to start he suggested five in the morning. Denise did not look impressed so Andy raised the stakes and suggested that we head off right there and then and nipped to the shed to get his rods and tackle. I said he was keen. We dug up some worms from his garden and then we were gone. When we got the Bea Loch the signs were promising. There were ripples on the surface and some bubbles coming to the surface suggesting that the fish were feeding. Within half an hour though the wind had died and the lake was still. Two hours later all we had to show for our efforts were fewer worms. Andy had landed two small eels but even though they are a favourite delicacy of mine they were a little immature so got put back. As we were packing up, two fish breached the surface to wish us adieu. The bastards.

    

                The guttering that I took down in February was finally replaced by yours truly. There was significantly less swearing I am happy to report. I am even happier to report that it’s still up there. The strain it had had on me only became apparent later that day when it took me over eighty strokes to complete a nine hole round of golf. The owner of the field may well contemplate turning it to arable use as I’d done the ploughing for him! I generally berate myself for having ‘lazy days’ but I gave myself a break the following morning after all that. The one thing I did manage to have the strength to do was phone up for an application form for a job. It’s not really what I had planned for my immediate future but as it is in the service of the island community I felt compelled to at least put my name forward.

                As a peasant farmer, I thought that it was about time that I began growing things. After making another raised bed, I sewed some carrot seeds in it. That’s the last we’ll see of them, I am certain of it. Having placed my trust in Mother Nature, I thought I’d have a go at something that I could do myself and that would yield an immediate result. Having had some waste paper mulching away in a bucket for about a week, I made my first ever paper briquette. It’s not art and we don’t even have a fire place but it filled me with as much pride as I think any parent would have felt at the birth of their first child. More, even.

                For my birthday, Gail took me to a football match. It was a cup game, no less. Sanday were playing South Ronaldsay at home in the opening round of the Orcadian Parish Cup. A chilly, blustery day with occasional hail showers kept most of the supporters in their cars, parked beside the touchline. Despite being second best in the opening half, a superb 30 yard direct free-kick flew straight into the back of the net to put the home team ahead. Car horns sounded jubilantly. Sanday continued to counter-attack well and could easily have been three up at half time. A sluggish opening to the second half proved costly though and the visitors were soon level. Passions rose and some of the tackling grew a little agricultural. There seemed to be little between the teams until Sanday won a corner in the last five minutes. The ball was lofted into the six yard box, disappeared from view as a scramble ensued and it was only the shouts and raised arms that gave us the clue that the ball had ended up in the net. Again the car horns sounded triumphantly and once more when the final whistle was blown. Result! 

The view across Cata Sands at low tide.

            Back home, restless and prompted by a request on Facebook, (I’ll get you back one day, Alison!) I went cycling around the island for some nice spring photographs. Gail thought that I was just going up the road, but as it turned out I was gone for more than two hours. I rode on the beach at Cata Sand but the tide was coming in so I didn’t hang around. It looks like a miniature Morecombe Bay and that area has a well-deserved fearsome reputation.

Thinking of riding on the beach? It's hard work.

                The shitty weather returned with a vengeance and decided, as is its wont, to try something new on us. A depression over the rest of the country means Easterly winds for us so everything gets chucked at our front door and bedroom window. The puddles on the windowsill are easily mopped up with tea-towels, but the torrents coming in under the door were altogether more of a problem. An indoor swimming pool was already forming in the hallway and the drafts whistling through it were a cacophony. With liberal use of wedges and folded up scraps of cardboard, the door was made tight, even if it meant that it could no longer function as a door. Egress and ingress were, at the time, strictly secondary and tertiary considerations.

A day late, we managed to get out and do a bit of shopping only to find that there was a traffic jam in Lady Village. We must have been stuck in it for at least fifteen seconds before the horse and two dogs made their way off the road and three vehicles caught up in it could all continue their journeys. I can’t wait for next month’s Sanday Sound to see if it makes the front page. While we were out we picked up some surplus bean plants which I planted in the first raised bed I’d dug and covered with a fenced frame for them to clamber up, in the unlikely event that they don’t die in the next few days. A portentous electrical storm kicked off that evening. We had suffered five or six power outages in the course of about half an hour. I went to the window to look out across the fields to see if our neighbours had any lights on when, without so much as a “by your leave”, a blinding flash of lightning followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder, which itself was merely the prelude to a full minute of rumbling that shook the whole island, burst from the heavens. Now I do love a good thunder storm and this one was a peach but, upon reflection and with the benefit of hindsight, it probably was not the ideal time to have been standing in a metal roofed house beside a metal frame window. Faraday cage or not, it could easily have been a ‘brown-trouser’ moment.

            The next day was fairly still so I dug two more raised beds. Then, and only then, it occurred to me that I had nothing to plant in them. I never claimed that I was smart. I managed to salvage a couple of shallow trays, filled them with egg boxes, filled the egg boxes with compost and sewed one tray with cabbage and the other with leeks. I watered the trays generously and placed them in the window of the South-facing, goat room. (The room faces South, not the goat. Not that we have a goat). I’m hoping that, within months, the plants would have filled the egg boxes. I love omelettes. But knowing my luck I’ll just get cabbages and leeks.

"A good walk, ruined."

                There comes a point when you realise that the unsightly flab that you were more than happy to see the back of was in fact the one thing that was keeping you warm. Now that I have only the one chin and my 38” jeans refuse to defy the laws of gravity, I have begun to notice that despite having seen off the winter months, I am actually colder than ever. I appreciate that some of it may be down to my unrealistic expectations of the relevance of the coming of Spring to the high latitudes, not to mention that we have run out of tea-lights, but I swear that if it wasn’t for the abject poverty I think I’d be stuffing my face right about now to put it all back on again.

 

                Not being particularly enthusiastic about participating in the regular traditional dancing, bingo or knitting evenings held on the island, my one chance to get out and meet some of the locals presented itself early in March when the golf club held its annual general meeting. I can only bow to their wisdom in choosing to hold it in the pub. The turnout was rather thin, given that only the members of the committee itself were in attendance. Until we turned up that is. Between them they monopolised the trophies that were presented. It is my hope for the forthcoming season that, by a combination of dogged determination and a persistence bordering on the pathological, I will be able to prevent such a ‘love-in’ reoccurring. During the meeting it was decided to retain the existing membership and green fees, meaning that I can play all the golf I want, which isn’t that much really, and help myself to spare clubs and sundry equipment for a paltry £12.50, plus a fiver deposit for a key to the clubhouse. Bargain. Meeting over, we availed ourselves of the establishments liquid hospitality.

                We had a visitor the following day. Andy, the kind gentleman who gave us the aerial, popped by the shed to let us have a couple of large trout steaks that he had caught in Bea Loch that very morning. I guess food doesn’t come much fresher than that. I don’t really know if pan frying them was the best way to compliment them, but they were gorgeous none the less in spite of my culinary naivety. When we’d visited him at his home earlier, it was apparent that he’d been having a few problems with the polytunnel he’d bought. Apparently, the frame was an eighty foot leviathan but he had been supplied with the plastic sheeting to fit the next size down. Fortunately, after the requisite phone call advising them of their faux pas, they dispatched the correct size sheeting. Now it’s just a case of waiting for a calm day to redress the framework.

                As if on cue, summer paid us all an unseasonal visit. Even Gail dared the outdoors. We lugged one of the spare baths lying forlorn by the stables, (every horse should have access to an en suite!), and packed it in a bed of hay. Once we can rely on regular double digit daytime temperatures, we aim to fill it with compost and Gail hopes to sew her mushroom spores. Then I didn’t know whether to turn my attention to starting to dig the foundation for a small fire pit or preparing some small beds for planting, so I did both. For some reason we are blessed with an abundance of fish crates so I have decided to use them to create raised beds that I can cover with netting. There is quite a bit of animal manure that some worms have very much taken a liking to available so I’m able to work it into the sandy soil. Hopefully it’ll do the trick. It was nice to have a good excuse to get all muddy again now that my goalkeeping days are behind me.

                The good weather stretched into the following day too, but before I could get going again Andy requested my assistance on the polytunnel front. My garden wasn’t going anywhere so I got on my bike and pedalled to his place. The ‘short’ cover that he had somehow managed to fit himself was still in place and the new cover was inside warming up. We soon had the old one off and folded away and threw the new cover over the frame. It was then necessary to let it sit there to stretch a little more, so we went inside for a cup of tea and, in his case, a roll-up. I was exceedingly well behaved and did not demolish the pack of bourbons he’d opened. It took a great deal of willpower but I can confidently assert that Simba, his dog, ate more than me. After a while we returned to the job at hand, earlier than recommended but concerned that the wind was picking up a bit. Large swathes of plastic make rather splendid kites whereas we were of the steadfast opinion that we would much rather it not do that but remain in a permanent, fixed position on the ground. After battening down the sides, the complicated bit was the pleating on the ends. Here Gail’s dressmaking skills would have been an invaluable asset, however we made a quite decent hash of it despite the significant shortage of X chromosones. Another cup of tea and biscuit later, we returned to do the last bit of stretching and fixing into position. With one of us standing on the batten, the other tightened the nuts to the bolts locking the cover in position. The cover had expanded so much that the battens often went below ground level so a bit of rudimentary landscaping had to be carried out to get ratchet down that far. It had also got stifling inside so we only managed a few at a time before having to leg it outside for some fresh air. Then it was a case of walking around it, quite a trek on its own I can assure you, and drumming your fingers on it. The result was a lovely and reassuring timpanic sound.  Job done.

                The weather reverted to type the following day when the surveyor from Everest came around to measure up. He said he didn’t need my assistance so I left him to it. He came back indoors to a hot cup of tea and he and Gail discussed some options, “which way do you want the windows to open?” and “how high up do you want the cross beam?”, that sort of thing. When it was all done, we recommended the Orkney beer at the Belsair while he waited for his return ferry to arrive. Everest later telephoned to explain that their computers had gone a bit wonky so they couldn’t give us a schedule for completion yet. They have since been in contact again to say the units will be delivered to Inverness early in June. As we’re not in Inverness, it’s a bit of a lottery as to when they’ll actually get them out to us, but given that they won’t get the rest of their money until they do then I can’t see them hanging around for too long. Famous last words.

                Gail wasn’t up to swimming at the end of the week so I went on my own. I was quite chuffed with 96 lengths of the 15m pool until I was reminded that a mile was 108 lengths. I am determined that that day will soon come. My next ‘sporting’ endeavour was the opening round of the Sanday Golf Club ‘Tuesday’ series. The course is just under a couple of miles away so Gail gave me half an hour to walk there. The club captain, Ean, and another islander named Brendan were the only brave souls to show up. I had intended to caddy for them but when Brendan confessed that he was resigned to Ean trouncing him I made up my mind not to let him suffer alone. The 9 hole course zig-zagged its way through a cow field with cows still very much in residence. Many of the cows had calves and Ean warned us that if a ball landed close to them to count it as lost otherwise we would get charged at by the protective mums. As well as the livestock, there were large pools of mud and the obligatory mounds of cow poop. The rules annexed hereto state that a ball can be replaced to an improved lie after each stroke, provided you can find the damn thing after it has plugged itself so deep that even Doug McClure would need a sand wedge fashioned from a Tyrannosaurus Rex thigh bone to get it out. 

Of course my score isn't on there! The boxes ain't big enough.

Having nearly lost a Merrell in the mud and spent over twenty minutes sheltering on the beach from a nasty shower of hail, we called a halt to proceedings after the sixth. I don’t know if the result will count for anything and I must confess that I am not particularly bothered, happy enough just to have got out of there in one piece. I mean: how many courses can there be in the world where getting onto the greens involves scaling three strands of barbed-wire fencing? If I’m not singing Castrati by September I will be very much surprised!

Look out! He's got a gun!

                And then it was spring. Allegedly. The temperature plummeted, the hail tipped down and our constant companion, the wind, howled like a banshee day and night. We’ve pretty much given up on weather forecasts and begun instead to rely on the ferry company websites. You know that if they cancel sailings then it’s going to get nasty. More accurately I should say ‘really’ nasty as those boats go out in some atrocious sea conditions ordinarily. Time to batten down the hatches and bury your head under a pillow ‘til it all blows over.

The locals make the most of the prevailing Southwesterlies

                Andrew and Denise had let us take away their spare aerial and cable so that we could check to see if it was possible to pick up any TV reception. We were not optimistic, so much so that we’ve already told the licensing people that we don’t watch any. A bit of wiring-in by yours truly later, even more reason to be sceptical, we plugged the cable in and turned on the box. White noise. What else did we expect? Gail gave the ‘auto-tune’ button a stab and, lo! and behold, a crisp picture appeared and persisted. Shocked, I lowered the aerial to waist height and the signal broke up a bit, but as soon as I lifted it above my shoulders, it came back and stayed. Blimey! Just in case there was a detector van hiding over the dunes, we unplugged the cable and wound it up ready to give it back. (Our sponsors have since told us to keep it so now we have to consider the prospect of getting a licence. So far we’ve managed without it, but it’s a dilemma we hadn’t anticipated having to face.)

                Gail fitted those door handles that I’d picked up in Kirkwall for her. However, if I’d thought it would keep her happy for a while then I was mistaken. As soon as she’d sat down she was on the Screwfix website for more stuff. It was as if all that I had achieved was to give a little nudge to a runaway train. The order bloomed and my modest part of it was a single box of 200 wood screws. In an attempt to make it at least look as if I intended to do something in near future, I told her I needed a garden fork and the car and bikes could do with a foot-pump. This ensured that I would get a little bit of the joy when box of goodies arrived.

                As soon as the weather permitted, we made a start on chopping up the carpet mountain by the gate. The Stanley knife made short work of turning a large, unmanageable roll into a number of swatches that could be effortlessly crammed into a rubbish sack. Suddenly, Gail jumped at what had sounded like a crack and asked what it was. It was clearly a gunshot and not far off. Our neighbour, Richard, made his way across his field toward the fence with his .22 rifle over his arm. With him was his dog, a black retriever, with a dead rabbit in its mouth. We chatted for a while, not to the dog obviously, but soon he insisted that I take a shot at one of the plethora of bunnies that were scampering about merrily on our side of the boundary. I was only happy to have a go following his reassurance that I would miss. He explained that the telescopic sight was adjusted for him and he hadn’t meant to imply that I’d be a crap shot. In the end it was a case of both being true. At the last second I raised the end of the barrel and fired way too high. Relieved more than anything else, I handed back the gun.

                Richard has recently had a wind-turbine erected on his property. Even on such a calm day it was spinning like a top. We were invited over to have a closer look when we fancied it. The next morning he came around to give us the phone number of the local agent with a view to having one put up on our land too. It would certainly help to placate me and even make me reconsider my low opinion of the maelstra* so prevalent in these parts. I may have mentioned it once or twice in the past. (* Ask Oxford insists that the plural of ‘maelstrom’ is ‘maelstroms’, but I think bunging an ‘s’ on the end of things is a bit boring so I’m having no truck with it. I hope that this is acceptable.)

                Gail made an appointment for Kate from Orkney micro-renewables to drop by the next afternoon. As the house is in Gail’s name, it was down to her to show her around with a view to where a turbine could be placed. We are not in a position to be able to afford a wind-turbine of our own but we hope to hear soon that someone will be interested in siting one here and we can make use of some of the power it would generate. We had our first Scottish Hydro electricity bill arrive in the post and were not too horrified by it but spending less is always a good thing. Well it’s a good thing when we are talking about utilities, let’s put it that way.

With that in mind, we had a salesman from Everest pay us a visit to quote us for new windows. We’d applied for a quote but not heard anything and then got a letter from the guy to say that he could improve on it. He apologised for the breakdown in communication and then admitted on the phone that he doesn’t travel well so an excursion to the island was a big adventure for him. He also hadn’t done his homework on the sailings and planned to visit on a day when there was only one ferry. I suppose it is always possible that he’d planned it that way so he would get an overnight stay at the Kettletoft Hotel. If I was married to a harridan, I’d do the same. It’s lucky for me that I am not so you can put that sharp knife back in the block now, dearest. At least he didn’t have a wasted journey as the quote was less than we’d expected and accounted for so we bit his arm off, metaphorically speaking of course. We’re not THAT hungry.

Strange, then, that the very next morning we received a quote from Orkney Builders, the guys that Gail got in to replace the door which we are still waiting for, to do the windows for 25% less. Now, contrary to what I asserted barely two paragraphs ago, scrimping on good glazing is not, in my own humble opinion, a smart thing to do so we’re more than happy to stump up the difference. Especially as they guarantee the units for longer than I’ll be alive for and given that while I was writing in my diary, sleet was landing on top of the bookcase I was leaning on, I am more reassured than ever that we made the right choice. I doubt, however, that it will render us immune from their junk mail, but I’m not expecting miracles here, people.

The Screwfix order arrived. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough that our postman, Tony, has to tromp so far from the comfort and security of his van to drop off our mail, today he was laden down with a large, heavy box and a wrapped garden fork. It was a relief, therefore, to find that I’d actually left the gate open from the night before, (rap on knuckles), so he had driven up to the house to spare my blushes. Once again Gail went into overdrive repairing the internal doors. It’s quite uncanny now how it is possible to gain ingress and egress to and from every room in the house these days. It’s almost civilized. I, on the other hand, had to go and shut the gate. I leave it to you to judge who was the more industrious. I’ll give you a clue, though. It wasn’t me.

On Friday (9^th) it brightened up in the morning. It was just one of those days where eleven degrees centigrade in your living room is warm enough, thank you. The news, or the bits we read at least, was full of talk of coronal mass ejections. It looked as if it was going to be a good weekend for aurora. We left for the pool early as the car was running on fumes. It had to happen one day and today was the day that I paid one pound sixty five pence for a litre of go-go juice. That’s even with a five pence subsidy. I’ve no idea who gets the benefit of that because it doesn’t appear to be the consumer. Needless to say I didn’t fill the tank. One mortgage is quite enough in my opinion.

The Northern lights? Well, they were a no-show. We went to bed with the curtains open and I’d even gone to the trouble of washing the crud off the outside of the windows. What I really needed was a mile-long pencil with a rubber on the end to erase the cloud cover with. The Chinese did wonderful things with silver nitrate that we could learn much from.

                We have been assured by many islanders that this has been the wettest and windiest winter that they can remember for many a year. It is, however, of little comfort when you’re lying awake half the night waiting for your home to be whipped off the ground and blown half way to Bergen. To its credit, this pile is made of hardier stuff than me. Mind you, so is the cushioning in the sofa!

                Having had enough of doing very little, I resolved to cycle into Lady village to pick up some shopping that the store didn’t have on the shelves the day before. It was a rare still day in January and a pleasant journey considering it was more exercise than I’d had in a good while. For a flat island, it was a deceptively uphill ride all the way. Even the downhill bits! I filled up a rucksack with goodies and steeled myself for the slog back. Bizarrely, after freewheeling it away from the store, I barely had to do any pedalling at all. It had taken me nearly half an hour to get to the shops and yet only about fifteen minutes to get home again. Solving such a geographical conundrum will take considerably longer.  

                I am determined that I am never going to miss the dustmen again. To elucidate, we cannot put our rubbish bags out the night before due to the extreme likelihood that the feral cats that roam the island will rip them open. This necessitates getting out of bed first thing on a Monday morning and donning all available layers of arctic expedition clothing, including chunking great boots, just to ensure that our domestic waste doesn’t become a health and safety concern and to allow those nice men from Orkney Island Council to dispose of it in a proper fashion. At least I trust they do. One week, after spending so much time getting kitted up, I couldn’t be arsed to get undressed again and back into bed only to have to repeat the process in a few hours, so I chose instead to play Skyrim on the X-box. If it wasn’t for dinner being cooked ten hours later I’d probably still be on it and, indeed, quite possibly dead.

                One benefit of nearly freezing my elbows off up here is that it has proved my longstanding belief that the cold is an aid to slimming. Within a month, both Gail and I had each lost a stone in weight and the trend is continuing. In saying that, it must be said that progress has slowed a little. Partly this is down to there being considerably less of us to begin with, but the discovery of the menu for one of the islands fast food outlets must also be considered a mitigating factor. Fortunately Ayres Rock only cook up fish and chips on Saturday otherwise I’d have to stay off the beach for fear of being mistaken for a stricken marine mammal and pushed into the sea. To further save us from ourselves, the new cooker arrived.

                The funny thing about having a brand new cooker is the singular joy of not being able to cook anything with it. They don’t tell you in the showroom that none of the important and quite essential wiring is excluded from the deal, leaving you with an expensive and cumbersome ornament in your kitchen and yet more microwave dinners to be had. This is where it is invaluable to have the contact details for someone who is not a sea voyage away who can do the wiring for you.

                At the turn of the new month, we arrived at the swimming pool for our regular appointment with the water, only to find that we'd missed our session as the powers that be had changed the timetable. We were planning to pick up the February edition of the local publication: The Sanday Sound, on the way past the Lady shop on the way home. It’s a vital periodical for determining what’s happening on the island like the swimming pool timetable being revised. We won’t be making that particular mistake in future. It’s certainly an interesting read. From the most basic aide memoire, a handy calendar of the month’s happenings, to news updates from the school and the Ranger. Of course it has advertisements in it too, from a private sale of a washing machine (with some programmes in working order) to local businesses. The highlight was a flier from a B&B holding a Valentine’s night restaurant event. The menu looked very appetising and we were sold.

We’d driven past Backaskaill every time we’d been to the ferry stop at Loth Pier. However, as it is hidden from the main road, we still had no idea where it was. It is not well signposted, so it was as well that one of the last things I’d bought before we set off was a site-centred OS map of the island to help out with these little ‘butt end of the universe’ problems. The gap in the fence was exactly where it was supposed to be and we plunged down the hill, fortunately not in a ‘The Italian Job’ kinda way but definitely in a steep, dark, rocky track way. After wishing for a good few minutes that I was driving a Chieftain Tank, the track led to a picture postcard farmhouse and the lights were on. We were met at the door by our hosts, Jane and Geoff. It may well be that I am getting tediously repetitive by now, but they too are fantastic people. Sorry to disappoint, but they are. So much so that we arrived just after six o’clock, almost an hour before any of the other guests arrived and we were still the last to make ourselves scarce over three hours later and they made no motion toward the telephone to call in the bailiffs. What is more, the food was gorgeous.

Gail is a member of an internet site called ‘Downsizer’. It was instrumental in her finding the house so as far as I’m concerned it has a lot to answer for. She corresponds on there with a couple who moved to the island shortly after we did and we took the opportunity to meet up with them at The Belsair. After a drink, we went back to their house a mile or so out of Kettletoft. We’d actually driven by their door many times already. Denise and Andrew already have chickens and have all the bits for a large polytunnel piled in their garden. I’ve offered to help when it comes to erecting it and, foolishly and rather cheaply, Andrew has offered to give as much time to us in return.

The wind picked up again and the guttering started to bang on the side of the house. Most of the brackets had broken so that a long section of it was sagging loosely. There was no option but to take it down for the time being. I must confess that there was a profusion of adult content throughout the course of the endeavour. The next problem is finding the replacement parts. Then the fun will start in earnest. Me, a ladder, a screwdriver, a bracket and some screws. There cannot be a more potent cocktail for disaster anywhere in the whole of Christendom.

A solo trip to Kirkwall ensued. My feet were still blistered from my walk to the lighthouse an aeon before. I was never going to make a whole day on my feet without some serious bandaging. A humiliating visit to Jewsons was necessary but proved rather fruitless. I managed to get a sack full of brackets and Gail wanted me to pick up some door handles, but I hadn’t given much thought to what was going to be holding the brackets in place when I finally get around to fitting them. My DIY handbook doesn’t mention magic as a viable solution so a little more thought will be required. I retired to Café Lolz and had Earl Grey tea, some pea and ham soup followed by a warm chicken and cashew nut salad. Now I felt guilty as well as stupid, but well fed. My last appointment was Tesco where I sought to appease Gail with coffee, Marmite and Nutella. It worked. She was also delighted with the pancakes and fresh lemons. That girl is putty in my hands. Oh! Look. a flying pig.

A Sanday sunset (sans flying pig)

"Cheers! Miss Sophie"

What can be more homely than cuddling up during those long winter nights in front of the fire? Alas! What constitutes an open fire at the Tractor Shed is the sputtering flame of a lone tea-light. Fortunately, the TV emits more heat and that alone should be reason enough to leave it on most of the time. We have quite a lot of DVDs to get through too, purely in the interests of survival you understand. There's still no cooker to warm us either, but Gail has begun to excel with the microwave and has knocked up some proper dinners, with veg and everything. The complicated bit is keeping the cooked parts warm while the next is being irradiated.

                And, bless her thermal socks, she found the pages to my Filofax diary on Boxing Day, on the very day they started. We still hadn’t hooked up the washing machine or sussed the vagaries of the shower, but we had music at last when my i-pod turned out to have been in the car all along.

                Within days we even had a phone. We got up early on the understanding that the man from BT would be dropping by but, instead, the Home-hub and connections turned up in the post and the engineer only came out as far as the exchange to connect us. Gail opportunistically took a stroll outside and managed to get reception on (one of) her mobile(s) and picked up missed call messages. She went inside and lifted the receiver on the landline to find that we had a dialling tone. The engineer then kindly phoned us to say that we were connected and to confirm our number to us. He had actually come over to the island and done it the day before. Gail unpacked and set up the internet connection. I am far too much of a Luddite to be trusted with such things. Relieved that we were no longer entirely cut off from civilisation, we went for a swim.

                Adjacent to the school at Lady, is a community complex that that includes a 15m, indoor swimming pool. It’s great and it’s only a quid. I’d have paid that just for the shower as I must confess that I was beginning to get a little ripe. After a week of shivering, cocooned under layers of clothing it was a blissful experience. The pool was quite crowded as it was a public session avec toys. We’ve since found a timetable and discovered that the adult sessions are less well attended. In fact, during some of our more recent visits we’ve, to all intense porpoises, had the place to ourselves.

Sunrise at Lopness Bay

                We were invited to a neighbour’s house for a little soiree on the penultimate day of the year. We’d been told not to bring anything as there would be plenty to eat and drink. Irene wasn’t joking. Even with half the islands inhabitants crammed into her wonderfully converted school-house not a single one went hungry. Nor thirsty. In Gail’s defence, Irene’s daughter was practically pouring gin down her neck. We tried our best not to humiliate ourselves in front of the other attendees and gathered as much information on island survival as we could. The walk home in the early hours was in terrible weather and pitch black. The focus required to get back disguised just how inebriated my good lady had got. Once indoors it became quite obvious.

                I'd been babysitting a rather expensive firework for the past couple of years and I always told myself that it would be set off when I had the space. On the last night of 2011, I dutifully cleared a spot away from anything combustible and planned an escape route from the pyrotechnics. After watching ‘Dinner for one’, the same procedure as every year, I put my Sylvester hat on and lit the wick. What I wasn’t prepared for was the strength of the wind that continually blew the end of the wick clean off so, with 2012 already many minutes old, I was forced back inside in order to grab the matches. Half a Norwegian pine forest later and now much closer to one than twelve, the fuse finally leapt into life. Stumbling away through the mud, overwhelmed with shock and fear in equal proportion, I made minimum safe distance just in time to witness the conflagration. The rescue services weren’t scrambled and we both thought it was quite pretty so, all in all, a successful gig. After a much later than usual champagne toast, our New Year rituals were complete.

                The day after Gail’s birthday, (there were no direct sailings on the Fourth so all I could offer her was lunch at The Belsair), we made our first trip back to Orkney mainland. We had to take the car as she specifically wanted to visit a shop in Stromness. Sixty pounds, two hours and many miles over sea and land later, we found that the shop closed on Thursday. In fact, most of the town was shut without any explanation. We drove back to Kirkwall and enjoyed a splendid lunch at ‘The Shore’ before exploring the virtues of the Tesco and Co-operative (not very super)markets. We also tried to open a bank account as neither of our current banks have branches this side of the Great Glen, it would seem. Oddly, in a progressively paperless society, they were demanding paper bills as proof of domicile. We took the forms away to think about it.

                The next day I had to risk the mayhem that is the outbuildings in order to rescue our bikes. Inside, the ground is wet and muddy and, more than likely, quite shitty so they needed saving from what is effectively the outdoors as they would have quickly turned to rust and disintegrated. The boats lying beside them are built to be afloat, which they very nearly are despite being supposedly under cover. I’m sure that they will be quite comfortable there for the time being.

I remember how really annoyed I used to get when traffic, usually buses, would stop in the middle of the road so that the driver could have a chat, usually to his mate driving a bus in the opposite direction. How times have changed. Now, when we're out in the car and see our postman’s van on the road heading toward us, I wave him down and we both stop in the road while he hands us our mail through the window. This saves him from the long trudge from our gate to our front door. I've apologized for not installing a letterbox by the gate and suggested, as a compromise, that he just leave any deliveries in the car, especially when our path gets too waterlogged. We’ve also been a hazard to other road-users by stopping beside the ‘airport’ to witness the arrival of the afternoon flight from Kirkwall. We pulled the car over beside the end of the runway and watched the Loganair Britten Norman Islander on approach. It flew around and came in to land right over our heads. Had it been any lower and I would have been scrubbing tyre marks off the roof of the Skoda. It may be an extravagance, but a trip in one of those tiny, 8 seater planes is a must. In summer they do special flights around some of the islands, including the shortest, scheduled flight in the world, the thirty odd second hop from Westray to Papa Westray. (See http://www.loganair.co.uk/xtra_files/OrkneySightSeerInfo.pdf)

To date, the healthiest meal we’ve had was when we broke out the 'Raclette'. If you’ve never tried it, I would recommend it wholeheartedly. After weeks of ready-meals it was bliss to have so much fresh vegetable and seafood. The thing also warms the house up a bit and as the granite hot-plate is too heavy for Gail to lift I can truly say that I helped with the cooking and the washing up. 

                After a couple of days of quite horrendous weather, we’d got (even more) into the habit of stirring late. One such morning(ish), I woke to what sounded like someone at the door, quite a skill when the whole house is creaking and banging all the time. I got up anyway and explored. Looking up toward the road I saw that our gate was open. My neighbour, Richard, had told me off for not closing it once before, as it isn’t good for it, so I knew I hadn’t left it like that overnight. Just as I was about to shut it a tractor trundled up and turned in. Richard had said that he would let the local ‘rag ‘n’ bone man’ know we had some white goods for collection but neglected to tell me that he planned to take them away for us in the first instance. We manhandled the old fridges onto the digger scoop attachment on the front of his tractor, I thanked him very much for his kindness, closed the gate behind him and waved as he sped off, the dodgy cargo threatening to spill out all over the place. That just leaves us now with a scrap carpet mountain eyesore to deal with. We’ve been advised that the hessian backed stuff can be laid down in the garden for car parking however the foam backed is just rubbish and has to go! Somewhere. Perhaps into another hole in the garden. So do I dig a fresh grave for it or not?