June comes to 'Dune' country

Not Frank Herbert's 'Dune', obviously!

We had some letters to post and a menial task, that would have taken just a couple of minutes barely six months ago, somehow turned into an all-dayer. Gail was still experimenting with her new camera and wanted to visit Kettletoft at low tide to snap the seals that are invariably hanging around there. On our way, we stopped just past Lady village at a derelict church to take some pictures there before continuing. We walked along the short pier at Kettletoft, posted our letters and that could have been an end to it. But it was not. Our attention was drawn to a sign for a walk to Bea Loch and decided to follow it. Past lovely beaches, clumps of wild flowers and seagulls nesting in the rocks we headed for a second derelict church. From there the path continued its circuitous route back toward, I hesitate to call it, ‘town’ past fields in which a handful of horses and ponies roamed. It was all very nice and postcardy. We had a tasty dinner at the Kettletoft Hotel before setting off for home. 

I was happy to find that someone on the island had worse windows than us.

On the way, we remembered that we were out of eggs so resolved to stop at a friend’s house to buy a dozen from him. When we’d driven past his house, a good few hours earlier, our friend Andy was mowing his lawn and we were surprised to find that he had still not finished it. Surprised until we saw how small the mower he was using actually was. It was very similar to those baby-walking trolleys with coloured balls bouncing around inside a small, Perspex dome. He reminded us that it was bought to keep his postage-stamp, suburban garden in Brum under control, not the near acre of steppe that he now had to contend with. Its replacement was imminent. Andy invited us in for tea and coffee and we chatted for a while before he showed off the array of plants abounding in his polytunnel. It was like an Eden in there. He picked some radishes and greens to take home with us and fed us peas fresh out of the pod, a plethora of salad leaves and a couple of strawberries. I was offered a pepper but refused, however Gail gladly accepted one. Glad until she was very much in need of a glass of milk to quell the pain. While Gail was sorting herself out in the kitchen, we made our way around his fruit-house. In between the trees he was growing clumps of herbs which we tried in turn. When the extent of your culinary experience is trying to harness any flavour at all from eight year old, dried herbs you don’t appreciate the taste of the fresh stuff. It’s a shock to the system I can tell you.

I’ve grown quite attached to the B98, the wreck of which lies just over the dunes from the house. It’s an old ship and it’s not as if it was ever a particularly pretty one either, but it has a history. It saw action in the Baltic against the Russians before WW1, where it served at Jutland. During the Armistice discussions, while the German Grand Fleet were interred at Scapa Flow, it was one of the supply ships between there and Wilhelmshaven. It had just left before the scuttling, leading to speculation that it had delivered the order to do so, and was seized before it reached home waters. While being towed away to be scrapped, it broke free and was washed ashore on Sanday. Needless to say the natives helped themselves to this fortunate bounty. Now, apart from the remains left on the beach, its guns are on display at the museum in Lyness. Internet research led me to the site of a model maker that produces a 1-700 scale kit so I ordered one. (Gail has pointed out to me that considering our experience with scaling, it is embarrassing that it never occurred to me that the kit would only measure fourteen centimetres in length.) A cycle trip, including two ferry crossings, to Hoy is planned for later this summer.

I did say that she wasn't much of a looker.

On the Fourth, we attended Sanday's Jubilee beacon lighting ceremony. The island is predominantly long and flat, but it does have a few hills, mainly on the West side. The site at Fea Brae afforded some fantastic and unexpected views. It was also clear that some wet weather was closing in and from our vantage we noticed that the beacons at North Ronaldsay and Eday were, quite shrewdly, lit early. Following a sausage and mash supper, a veggie one for Gail and a small cheesecake each, a local councillor gave a short speech, though not short enough. Then the beacon was lit at the appointed time, helped with the liberal application of a blowtorch. Even a miserable republican like my missus was impressed by the spectacle.

The next day was the islands Fun Day, held at the Community Centre. We watched as the islanders of all ages participated in egg ’n’ spoon, three-legged, wheelbarrow and sack races. I entered an over 45s sprint race in order to get a sticker and then, in the best interest of diplomacy, lost out to three, much older, local gentlemen. Other sports were taking place in the middle of the day but the girls wanted to get changed for the sit-down do later. The evening comprised a tea followed by a disco interspersed with traditional dancing. I was horrified to be hauled to my feet to participate in a Bernard’s Waltz. Through no fault of my suffering partner, it was an ordeal that I am in no hurry to endure again.

Orkney Micro-renewables turned up to lay the foundations for the wind-turbine. It started off with three guys in a van, but soon we had a massive aggregates truck, a trailer, a tractor, a JCB digger and some kind of scoop loader all carrying out manoeuvres around the garden, a proper 'heavy plant' choreography. I’ve no idea how they all squeezed through the gate. It all looked a very ‘International Rescue’, albeit perhaps a third-world version of it. They dug a massive hole in the sand and poured concrete into it. I now have a little mountain of sand to use and move around to my heart’s content, or I might just stick a flag on top of it where it is. The concrete needs to set for about four weeks before they erect the turbine and lay the cabling into the house to connect to the grid. Then we get to use the juice it produces when we need it. The rest of it gets fed into the grid and the company gets to make good on its investment. By the time they come back to do that, hopefully Everest will have been in to fit our new windows. We can’t be one hundred per-cent sure that they will as the fitters telephoned us recently to ask if we could suggest where they might stay on the island. They had only just been told that not all of their gigs were on mainland Orkney so if they can’t find anywhere to stay then I assume that there will be a delay. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.

The big boys, with all their toys, turn up to play

Our latest excitement was a shopping expedition to Kirkwall. We paid half of the fare for our friend’s van so that we could go bonkers and fill it up with more stuff than we would ever have been able to carry ourselves. Unfortunately, we didn’t really have our ‘bulk-buying’ heads on so while we did pick up some bits of hardware we needed, we only got a few weeks-worth of essentials from Tesco and Didldidi (more commonly known as Lidl). Next time we’ll be a little wiser to the opportunity and stock up properly. We did buy a whole book of 50 passenger tickets from Orkney Ferries to cover us for the year. It works out at about half price, provided we use them all up. Given my penchant for boats, I really don’t see that that is going to be a problem. Getting Gail to cross on a stormy November day might prove to be much more of a challenge! 

Back to the top of the map.

               I can wholeheartedly recommend the Travelodge at Lancaster. The rooms are basic in the extreme, not to be confused with 'in extremis', but considering that thousands of vehicles were hammering past on the M6, it was like I’d stepped into Narnia. Indeed, it was so quiet and comfortable that I overslept. Not a good start for the longest leg of my journey home. I realised that I wouldn’t have made it to my usual petrol stop in Gretna, so I drove into Lancaster itself. Almost immediately I wished I hadn’t, but I did quite accidentally find a Sainsbury petrol station so cheap fuel and nectar points were a real bonus. The route back toward the M6 would have taken me South so I headed up the A6 towards Carnforth instead and was rewarded with some fantastic views over Morecombe Bay.

                A longs days’ drive, interrupted only by an impromptu visit to a branch of HSBC in Perth, concluded at my overnight stop at ‘The Weigh Inn’ in Scrabster near Thurso. Here I was again surprised by my accommodation. Guests parked in a square surrounded by what looked like storage containers on four sides. Each ‘container’ had four doors in it. I was not confident of what I would find inside. Despite my doubts, the rooms were absolutely fine. I was knackered and not wanting a repeat of the previous night I asked Gail to phone me in the morning. I didn’t want to miss the ferry but mostly I didn’t want to miss breakfast. I don’t get to enjoy kippers and poached eggs much.

                The Pentland Firth that morning bore little resemblance to the body of water I had crossed only six days previously. Again I assumed that the captain would head for Scapa, but au contraire! I faced a wobbly spectacle of the Old Man of Hoy from a bucking deck. I couldn’t help thinking of how Gail would have fared, so I captured the view on her phone for her to enjoy. I would have to ensure that I had a bucket on standby when I showed it to her. Having reached Stromness, I took a stroll to get my land-legs back. The town always looks closed to me so I explored the harbour instead and found the ferry to Hoy, which I am determined one day soon to take to the Scapa Flow Visitor Centre and Museum at Lyness. I also found the RNLI shop and museum. It was even open!

                I had five hours to wait before my final ferry crossing from Kirkwall to Loth Pier. Whilst in Kirkwall, I went to the Library and registered. A mobile library visits all the islands in the group so books can be returned without getting your feet wet. I borrowed two books and spent half an hour on the internet . After lunch, I couldn’t help having a stroll around the branch of Didldidi. It was intended to be a perusal, but there was so much interesting stuff around for not much loot I had to grab a basket and go mad. The prize find was a box of chocolate covered marshmallow in a ‘Super Dickmanns’ stylie. (If you don’t know then you haven’t lived!) I still got change of a tenner for a basket full. Perhaps if I’d given in to temptation and got the electric drill set then it might have been worth breaking out the plastic.

   

They probably have them up in every library, but it made me laugh.
(Courtesy of those nice people at Calm-o-matic.)

                Needless to say I had plenty of unloading to do when I got home. From garden shredder to tins of paint, the shed and stables filled up with stuff. It was good to be able to fit the rear seats back in the car to make it look less like a van. The starlings were glad to see the Skoda back, too. Within four days they’d built another nest in the engine bay and laid two more little blue eggs.

                As the temperature reached double figures, Gail was keen to get into the water at Bay of Lopness. Sooner or later we would have to try the kayaks out but I’d be reluctant to do so without experience of just how chilly the North Sea was. I donned my wetsuit and carried snorkel, goggles and fins over the dunes and onto the beach. Together, we waded out, Gail just in her cozzy. It was brass monkeys out there, but after a while, I could catch my breath and swam out. After only a few minutes, I headed back to the sand and found Gail cackling hysterically. She was having a wonderful time in the breaking waves, oblivious to the chill. I put on my snorkelling gear and headed back out into deeper water, where it got even colder. I kept on finding myself being spun around, but as it’s such a wide bay that there is land about three quarters of the way round. I guess it was therefore kind of inevitable that I’d be facing land whenever I lifted my head above the surface. It’s better than the alternative, I suppose. I could follow my progress by watching my shadow on the sea bed and had the feeling, at times, that I had company. Although I could see no other signs of life, occasionally it appeared that other shadows would dance around my own. It was disconcerting to say the least, as Gail was playing in the wake many yards away. Soon, I looked up to see her getting out of the water so I headed back before she caught a chill. It was all brilliant fun. Next time I’m out I’ll try to find somewhere to place my lobster pot.

                Back in a gardening frame of mind, I sowed some dwarf pea seeds indoors, planted out a box of mixed vegetables that  my little sister had bought for us quite a while ago now, thinned out some leek and cabbage seedlings and planted out a couple of squash plants in a raised bed away from the house. They turned out to be sacrificial lambs, however, as the rabbits munched all the secondary leaves off them and then kicked soil up all over them. When I checked on them a day later I scared off a rabbit, which scared two more, that each scared off two more. The exodus continued to escalate as I made my way through the garden until it began to resemble a helicopter view of a huge herd of wildebeest crossing the Serengeti. The ground practically shook. I exaggerate of course but if there was any justice in the world it certainly would have done.

                The next morning, after reading in bed for quite a long time, there followed a profound sense of guilt at letting a sunny morning pass me by, so I got up to find that it was not even seven am. I decided to take my frustrations out on an old sofa that the previous occupant of the house had left behind, with a heavy lump-hammer. I went around the stable block to get the hammer and woke up a slumbering Siamese-like cat lying in one of the doorways. It was pleasing that our guest stayed for a fussing before stalking off toward some rabbit holes to find its breakfast. Upon arriving back indoors I heard a bee in distress in the goat room. At the risk of sounding like a coward I will admit that the glorious, industrious and beautiful beasties frighten the bejesus out of me. After getting over a period of running around, shrieking and general panic, I resolved to rescue the poor chap. When I placed it on the grass outside, it seemed to be on its last legs, so I smeared some of Gail’s Sanday honey on a small dish in front of it. When the little tongue came out to lap up the sweetness, my optimism grew. It was amazing how quickly the peedie thing became energised. Within minutes it had enough get up and go to get up and went, while I adopted a very smug and self-satisfied air. Me and Dolittle could have been twins. After that it was an effort to get fired up to give that ragged bit of furniture a good, old-fashioned tonking.

Redefining 'cute'.

I can do destruction. It’s creation that I have trouble with. At present, everything I’ve planted in my garden has died. In order to be able to keep a closer eye on things, I created six more raised beds right outside the door, where I hope the local wildlife will be too afraid to come. I even got into the Jubilee spirit by pairing up two red fishing crates, then two white ones and finally two blue ones out of the stock of them that had been lying about the garden. It’s true that they look a lot like the French tricolour, but any resemblance is purely coincidental. Each bed is the correct size to be covered by a pane of the windows that Everest will be removing in late June. Perhaps then something will make it to maturity. It’d be nice if something around here did. ;-) 

"Thank you kindly". ('Due South'. Get it?)

                My journey South began, like many do I suppose, early in the morning. The first ferry of the day left Loth Pier just after seven and that’s the other side of the island to us. It was difficult to come to terms also with the fact that I was going on my own. Gail has been my ‘sensible grown-up’ for so long now that I have become lazy and reliant. It is very seldom these days that I intentionally leave home without beaver.

'Beaver' is my keyring. What were you thinking?

                The sleepy little island became more congested as cars and vans converged at the pier like flies ‘round a coo-scone. The boat had ‘overnighted’ at Loth and made ready for sail while we waited. The cars were loaded first, then lorries, mostly empty but not any less imposing for that, followed by some stragglers who turned up, barrelling down the hill to catch their ride after the scheduled time of departure. I had already made my way to the lounge and watched the Krypton Factor organisation of the car deck beneath me. Soon we were on our way and I contemplated how welcome a hot bacon roll would be for me about now.

                An hour and a half later I was in Kirkwall, but only for as long as it took to get out again and on my way to Stromness for my next aquatic appointment with the MV Hamnavoe. This is a much bigger ship and though I expect it gets pretty full in Summer, it’s cavernous car deck looks ominously hollow with only two long lines of cars in it. I sat down in the lounge for another ninety minute crossing. It hadn’t really crossed my mind that it was a calm crossing and that the ship would not go the same way round as it had when Gail and I had arrived in December. Then, in pretty nasty weather in the Pentland Firth, we’d made straight for the sheltered water of Scapa Flow. With this in mind, I picked up a copy of ‘The Grand Scuttle’ by Dan Van Der Vat and started to read. After a while, I look up and see ‘the old man of Hoy’ out of the window, so I dump everything on my seat, i-pod included, and headed out onto the optimistically named ‘sun deck’. A spectacular view and one that I have to confess I would not have enjoyed more from closer range in a kayak.

                I arrived in Scrabster at lunchtime and filled up the Skoda with petrol. An expensive exercise but not as much as it would have cost me on Sanday. I saved myself about seventeen pence a litre, though still paid nearly ten pence more than the national average. When you take into consideration the proximity of the oil terminal on the island of Flotta less than thirty miles away, it’s pretty criminal really. Gail, who has about the same level of confidence in me as I have myself, made me promise to phone her at regular intervals to check my progress. It would have surprised neither of us, I think, if I’d got back into bed earlier that morning with some excuse or another. But here I was, back on the actual mainland, sans ‘sensible grown-up’, on time with all my papers intact and all prepared for anything the A9 could throw at me. I had no idea at that time that I had stowaways and how close to disaster I was to come.

                The roads were still fairly empty. I was doing my most restrained, economical driving speed, in other words ‘painfully slow’, but still only a handful of cars overtook me. I was shovelling wine gums down my neck like nobody’s business and trying not to spit them out singing along to the CD’s I’d brought with me. Without a navigator, I saw a little more of Cumbernauld than I’d intended, but, with the aid of a decent sense of direction and good fortune, arrived at the Travelodge from the opposite side. The sweets had given me a god-awful, splitting, sugar-rush headache and the noisy navvies down the hall did nothing for my health. I had an awful night sleep and was not looking forward to another four hundred and fifty miles.

                It pissed down just about the whole way. I must confess that I actually prefer it that way and also, given revelation that would occur the following day, it was very fortuitous. Despite the weather and the additional mileage caused by taking the M5 route around Birmingham, I made Emsworth without a hitch and in fantastic health, especially considering my state in the morning. Invigorated, I took a stroll around the millpond and waved to my kind hosts on the A259 roundabout as they made their way home. Dave and Ania made me very welcome, fed me like a king and gave me a bed. It was my own bed, actually, but they had brought it in from the container and assembled it for me. They made no assurances that it would last for the two nights of my stay however. I had more faith in them and Ikea than they had in themselves.

                I knew I was going to hate Friday. I dropped the Skoda off in Fareham for its MOT and walked to ‘the old house’ (that I am not allowed to call home any more). I called a locksmith to change the lock on the garage and sat down to read my book while I waited. When I get a dog, I’m going to name him 'Reuter’. My hero, Paul, arrived and affected his work without complaint, even though it was a fiddly bastard, compounded by the door counterweight being broken. We took it in turns to hold it open while the other operated in semi-darkness with a little spanner. He confessed that he was afraid of spiders and we concurred that he was probably in the wrong line of work.

                Then it was a walk back into Fareham to buy lightbulbs for the tenants. Don’t ask as I most definitely don’t want to talk about it. That was followed, after a happy meeting with a friend, Sam, in West Street, by the walk back again for my appointment to fit them. Crawling around the loft space, I was thankful again for all the weight I had lost. I replaced the bulbs in one fitting but would have to return on Saturday for the other. Following that, I found that I couldn’t shut the garage door, so begged Paul to come back and help me, which he did at no extra cost. (Always use a checkatrade artisan!) Fixed, I continued to wear out the pavement to West Street to collect the car.

                “How often do you check the oil?” the guys at Fastway asked. I admitted to being too scared to even pop the hood and that reply came as no news to them. They showed me the starling’s nest they had removed and the dead chicks that had been in it. If the catalytic converter hadn’t been soaked on the journey I’d have become nothing more than a scorch-mark on the tarmac. They reassured me that they’d seen worse, but it was little comfort.

This was the second nest the starlings had built under the bonnet, this one within four days of my return. The original, which I had driven for over seven hundred miles, must have, I can only imagine, been much more extensive. 

                I drove back to the garage to fill it with as much stuff as I could, whizzed around Sainsbury’s for grocery essentials and more go-go juice and then back to Emsworth.  The next morning I had to leave, without taking my leave, to find more bulbs and to fit them and make it up to my first home, in Uxbridge, in time for Mum’s birthday. I left Dave and Ania a note and apologised by phone later.

                I love my family very much, but I never tell them. They never criticise even though I know I’m an idiot. I am thankful, always, for them. Margaret made me check the car before she’d let me leave and there we found that Fastway had only removed the most dangerous part of the bird’s nest and left an awful lot of it behind. Bob helped me pick and hoover the rest of it out as best we could. Over an hour after my intended departure time, I headed for the M40 and the first leg of my three day journey back North and an overnight stop at Lancaster services on the M6.

                I found myself torn again, by wanting to be in three places at the same time and wishing that the world was a much smaller place. Adventures are all very well and good but there is no place like homes.

"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!