"It's a funny old game."

It wasn’t until we wanted to watch the first semi-final of Euro 2012 that we discovered that the new windows blocked the television reception. I was almost tempted to phone Everest to get them to put the old ones back in. Fortunately the weather was still pleasant, so we set the aerial up outside, gaffer-taped to a microphone stand and stood on an upturned barrel. Typically, the weather deteriorated on Thursday, so we were forced to go into Kettletoft to watch the other semi-final in the pub. I donned my Germany shirt and regretted it as soon as we arrived to find the bar packed with Dutch workmen. We sat in the corner and were soon chatting to a couple holidaying on the island and another couple who have recently taken up residence. Andy (I know! Another one) and Karen run Ferret Education and Welfare (FEW) and invited us around to see their animals, including a skunk. If we don’t see them before, they are holding an open day in mid July that will definitely be on our ‘to do’ list. Alas the game itself went with tradition and my interest in Euro 2012 ebbed.

A serious bout of ‘man-flu’ decimated my weekend. A consequence of not making it to the swimming pool on Friday and Assen never racing the Dutch TT on a Sunday meant that I spent the whole of it not knowing what day it was. I just knew that it ended with a football match, so I looked out for that, if for no other reason than I knew that that would be the night I had to stay up late and put the bin out.

Gail decided that the new week would start with her painting the shower cubicle. It is only fair that if I do the outdoors stuff then she has to do the indoors. I was asked to assist, however, with taking down a rotten, wooden shelf. I was thus engaged, employing nearly all the expletives at my disposal, when the cavalry arrived. Our friend Andy still insisted that he owed us a day from our polytunnel exploits. Today he turned up in his van to see if there was anything we needed done. With his help, indeed it was he that did most of it, we put up a curtain rail in the bedroom and rearranged the kitchen worktops to accommodate the cooker. Then, while extracting the snapped screws of the stubborn shower shelf, we discussed the cubicle itself. It is located in the corner of the room, is partitioned from floor to exceptionally high ceiling on one side and likewise above head height on the final side. This means that there is a large, unventilated space above in which plumes of steam hang around, peeling the paintwork and generally making everything soggy. I was hoping to drill some holes in the partitions but, in the end, we agreed that it should be possible to remove both of them above six and a bit feet. That would cure the damp and improve the light in there, too. It would also save Gail some painting. I just need to develop the hero blobs to have enough courage to take the unwanted sections out. Watch this space.

After Andy had left us, we hung up the new blackout curtains that Gail had ordered over the internet. Smokey took full advantage of the darkness and slept all afternoon. It was amazing. Not only because we weren’t getting meowed at all the time, but knowing that there was a place where night was a genuine possibility in the land of, to all intents and purposes, the midnight sun. After six nights at the mercy of pale skies and a sun that refuses to be a stranger, not for a few more months at least, we were looking forward to a good long sleep. If you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know we’ve overdone it.

Photo courtesy www.itsnature.org

I’d been spending far too much time moping around and feeling sorry for myself with my stubborn flippin’ cold. Consequently there was absolutely shed loads of weeding for me to do. Yeah! Grubby knees and fingernails coming right up. I’ve been remembering to water all the plants in the shed, which is quite good for me as I’m usually an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ kinda idiot. Before I get to go inside, however, have to let the house-martins know that I’m coming so that they can fly off out of a broken window. They circle about outside while I’m busy in there and, after I’ve left, they gradually swoop closer and closer before returning inside to roost. Some of the plants are beginning to outgrow their pots. Some just need thinning out and re-potting. The squashes are starting to flower. I’ve replanted some of the carrots to give them more space and so it’ll be interesting to find out if my interference has been of any benefit or if those I’ve left crammed together in the old bed will do better. Interesting to me at least. 

After swimming and shopping, we sat down and watched Andy Murray get through to the final at Wimbledon. I hate tennis, but British successes in sport are less frequent than Halley’s comet so it’s one of those ‘being there’ (in front of the TV at least) moments. Having seen first and second practice from Silverstone I was surprised to see that they were playing at all. I had already gathered from news and friend’s FB comments that the weather has been quite nasty again in the old place. We had a gorgeous day. Gail snapped over fifty shots with her camera and I had to babysit the cat as she had her wandering boots on in the sunshine. Everything changed at about six o’clock. It had been quite breezy all day, but it was suddenly obvious that some very low cloud was scudding across from East to West. It was like watching time-lapse. Gradually, but consistently, the fog grew thicker and thicker until visibility was down to only a hundred metres. That means that we lost sight of the neighbours. I still don’t understand how it can be so foggy and yet windy at the same time. I should have taken my Geography studies a bit further, I suppose.

Snapshot image from video footage. Want one!

After watching final practice from Silverstone, we headed out to Lady to visit the ferrets at the open day. Those creatures are so cute. We were given a little talk about ferret history and ferret care. We got to watch ferret races but most of all we got to watch a ‘gang’ of ferrets frolicking about. We even got to stroke a skunk and even though it sounds more like it’s a euphemism for something else, we actually did the literal thing. It got me thinking about how there are no predators, other than the feral cat population and some guys with guns, to keep the rabbit population under control. Perhaps ferrets are the answer. Well, ferrets, a big sack and a rock. And maybe someone else can handle the sack and the rock bits. Knowing us, we’d be weaning our ferrets onto a vegetarian diet.

  

Marsh orchid having a jolly time on my 'lawn'.

                The grow box that I’d planted months ago suddenly leapt into life. I’m assuming that it hadn’t really and it was just that I hadn’t checked in on it for a while. I had no idea what the plants were, but it certainly looked like some of them would benefit from a little more space and something to climb up against. A bit more digging and weeding later, what I am reliably informed are broad beans were happily trained to something sturdy and the little shoots that I’d left behind have been able to collectively loosen their belts. But the activity had upset the locals and I was chased indoors by a swarm of angry, hungry flies. It will be a while before I am confident enough that it is safe to get the washing in but as it’ll be light until about 11, I’m sure the little bastards will be asleep by then. The clothes line is out the back of the house and we tend to spend most of our time there looking around at the wild flowers that are flourishing. There is a huge abundance of marsh orchids. There are so many that it would lead one to assume that our back garden is in fact a marsh. Actually, that sounds entirely accurate and explains a lot.    

The longest day and other stuff

My problem is that I’m more of a spectator than a doer. It means that, while I know too damn well that there are loads of things around here that need doing, I am all too easily distracted by things like music, books and TV. It is not to be unexpected either for me to be so captivated by my new surroundings that it completely slips my mind that I’m supposed to get my fingers stuck into them for my subsistence. Then, of course, stick a Grand Prix or a football competition on and I’m lost. I commonly suspect that I am fit for nothing and there is plenty of evidence to show this to be the case.

It is therefore, quite obvious when the distractions run out. The twentieth was the first day in a fortnight when there was no football on the television. While initially distraught, having already finished reading my library books and not allowing myself another i-tunes download for another few days, I had to search for a release for my modest amount of pent up frustration. Satisfaction arrived in the shape of an eight pound lump hammer and a rusty cement mixer. 

Pleased to still have toes after this episode.

The dolly that it was attached to fell away as I but the drum itself and the motor were more substantial bits of kit. If I was to use it as a flower pot in future, then the motor had to come off and some drain holes made. I naively assumed that the metal would be rusty enough to be holed by a nail, but after bending the nail and twatting my thumb instead, I realised that the thing was still pretty solid. I turned my attention instead to the motor attached to the base of the drum. Fortunately, a few well aimed tonks, not to mention the myriad of poorly aimed ones, broke the motor off and left a nice big hole in the base. I love it when a plan comes together. I had already started digging a hole for a firepit, a while ago now, before realising that it wasn’t the best place for it, so now I’ve sunk the bottom half of the cement mixer in it instead. Content and a little tired, I went indoors to find a more relaxing distraction.

Mark Twain referred to golf as a good walk ruined. While it is not to everybody’s cup of tee, it is exercise and some fresh air. As a ‘gentleman’ of mature age, it is now one of the few sports that I can participate in without serious threat of serious physical harm. (For me, sport and psychological harm are synonymous.)  As a regular player in the Tuesday handicap competition, where I proudly prop up the league, I like to think that my game is coming on a little. At least I’ve found one club in the bag that I can get a reasonable return with and anyone with a passing knowledge of the film ‘Tin Cup’ will guess accurately that I have adopted the ‘single club’ method of getting around. I also find it useful to only hit a ball a hundred yards or so at a time as I can often see where lands.  It must be remembered that Sanday Golf Club bears no relation to the neatly manicured fairways of Augusta or The Belfry. Often, it is only by observing the direction from which the wildlife is fleeing that you get an idea of where your ball has ended up. Even then, if it has rolled into a rabbit warren or under a ‘coo-scone’, you could stand within five feet of it and still not find it.

I am a glutton for punishment. Even in ideal weather, nine holes at Sanday is a challenge enough. It has been a notion of mine, ever since we arrived on the island, to test the legend that it is possible to play a round at midnight during the shortest night. A few people celebrate the solstice. As an astronomical inevitability, I try not to get too excited about it, but it deserves to be acknowledged and observed. I chose to acknowledge and observe it by leaving the house at half past eleven and trudging up the road to the clubhouse. There was no moon in a predominantly clear sky. The Northern horizon was aflame. The road was empty and I cursed myself for not riding my bike instead of taking ‘Shanks’s pony’. I grabbed my clubs and headed for the first tee. I could easily read the scorecard but I must confess that the uneven ground was full of dark shadows. I teed up a bright orange ball and addressed it armed with a three wood. I didn’t see the ball leave but I knew that I hadn’t middled it. I next set up a white ball and dug out my ‘old faithful’ seven iron. A clean strike this time, but I couldn’t make out its flight. All I could do was grab the clubs and set off toward the pin. If I didn’t fall over the ball within a hundred and twenty paces then it would be lost. After about five minutes of searching, I gave them both up and resigned to just have a go at the short, par three third. What could go wrong on such a short hole? I hit two balls toward the green and set off in pursuit. I had no luck in finding them until I saw that one had found the green. It certainly wasn’t the first place I’d thought to look. Just a few weeks earlier, not a single member of the club had managed the feat during a ‘nearest the pin’ competition.  It was satisfying therefore to be able to two-putt for a par in the middle of the night. I even found my other ball on my way back and took a more familiar eight strokes in getting that one to the flag. I can now boast that I have tried it and found out that midnight golf is a really stupid idea. I got home at a quarter past one and turned in.

It was nice to get back into the routine of a Friday swim at the pool. I’ve been regularly attempting to swim a mile each time but trying to count up to one hundred and eight, for some reason, I find incredibly difficult. Although the upside of my amnesia is that it allows me to go and play instead of pounding relentlessly up and down. I often berate myself for not making more use of the beach just across the road, but even though it’s free and pretty much endless, it is undoubtedly those few extra degrees centigrade that make a whole world of difference and worth the expense. When we arrived home from the pool and the shop, we found that part of the cabling trench had been dug from the turbine site toward the house. Neither of us recalled seeing it there when we’d left just a couple of hours earlier, nor were we expecting any more work on it for about a month. Not that we are complaining. It’s not as if we were at risk of falling in. We just hoped that they hadn’t scarpered because they’d hit a pipe or a cable. Fortunately, we checked and were still connected to the services we had that morning.

This is how the old windows looked. Nasty!

The following week started with a call from Everest. They were finishing up a job in Orkney a day early and could they make a start on ours? That prompted a flurry of activity. All the houseplants were vacated to the shed that I’d partly ‘mucked out’. We also took down the curtains and ugly plastic curtain tracks, moved some bookcases around and generally improved accessibility around the place. (Our properties tend to become one continuous series of tripping hazards!) The boys arrived punctually and began working their way around, removing the metal-framed, nadger’s thick windows and fitting huge-paned, double-glazed sealed unit jobs in their place. The transformation is nothing short of spectacular. I often criticise Gail for wanting to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but in this case it must be conceded that the views are wonderful, the exclusion of the elements is very pleasant, it’s lighter and they can actually be interacted with. Previously, any attempt to open or close the windows would have involved the removal or application of considerable amount of sealant. The fitters overnighted at the private residence of an islander who previously had run her house as a B&B and was persuaded to take visitors due to a shortage of accommodation on the island as there are presently lots of workmen in Sanday doing all sorts of major infrastructure works. 

These are the new ones. Nice!

They arrived just after half past seven the next morning to do the last three windows. They were booked onto the 18:30 ferry to Kirkwall so that had to finish up that day. I helped them a little by retaining nearly all the windows they had taken out and most of the timber. I am fairly certain that I would have been escorted off the island if I’d let that much salvageable material get chucked into a skip. As it was they were done by lunchtime, so we gave them directions to the Kettletoft Hotel and gave them some money for drinks until they needed to head off for their boat. We on the other hand just walked around the house saying “Wow!” a lot.

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.