News from Nowhere

I quite often skip the human interest stories in the newspaper; I certainly wasn't hooked by the headline I thought I understood my late father. Then I was forced to spend lockdown in his home. But the picture at the top of the article made me look twice. It showed a child climbing over a fence, in a landscape of water and round green hills (in the online version it has been moved further down the page) and I thought: "Orkney?" It doesn't take much to make me think "Orkney?", but I wasn't far wrong: this was Shetland.

The article begins:

I wanted to reach out and feel the weight of the speckled eggs in my palm. Guillemot eggs: longer than a chicken’s and slightly pear-like in form, so that when they roll, they do so in a tight arc, rather than towards the cliff edge. There are plenty of cliffs to roll off in Shetland, a group of wind-scalped islands where the North Atlantic and the North Sea crash together, as well as other wild delights, like the precious mosses and orchids threading through the craggy peat bogs. Just over the hill, a low orange glow served as a reminder of a very different island treasure: Sullom Voe, one of the largest oil and gas terminals in Europe.

I stood by the trestle table staring at the strangely static greenish-blue eggs. A closer look revealed they were not what they seemed; in fact, they were not eggs at all. They were ceramic plates so cleverly designed that the slightly concave base appeared to curve outwards. It took a moment to re-adjust my focus.

Haven't I seen something like this before? The article continues to explain that this is the work of the author's late father, ceramicist Bill Brown; this name, too, seemed familiar. If I was right, I could check this journal, which I think of as my external memory -

- which turned out not to be so easy. I found photographs of what must surely be those eggs (though the description makes me think of something smaller, something you could hold in the palm of your hand...):



Another picture shows more of his work:



But I was beginning to think I had not after all posted about the gallery where I saw them, and that this post would be about the failure of my external memory (in a reversal of the usual situation, my organic memory seemed to be functioning better than my virtual one). All is well: I found it eventually hidden under a cut.

Two functioning memories: such riches!

In the Guardian, Charlotte Higgins takes the new Stonehenge exhibition at the BM as an excuse to visit Orkney. Well, you would, wouldn't you?

Tired of Wordle? Then try Wirdle, the Shetland dialect version.

Three deliveries yesterday: this may be a record. Coffee from Traidcraft, plus rice and dried fruit, but no toilet roll (not a big surprise); meat and some veg from Broom House Farm, but no yoghourt (a morning phome call warned me that the supplier's van had broken down); as far as I know, durham_rambler's beer order was delivered in full. Ocado are currently playing "You just missed today's release of slots", which is annoying.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying sorting my photos from Shetland last summer. Here's one from Quendale Mill:



Another showed the inside of a cubicle door in the ladies' toilets at Lerwick's museum: a poem from the 'Bards in the Bog' project, Alison Brackenbury's Honeycomb. Explanations and more poems on the Library website.

Today's 'message in a bottle' story brought to you by the BBC, with the help of the Shetland Janotial (shet_janitorial) twitter stream.

It begins with Emmanuel Goldstein, crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary II in December 2018, putting a message into an empty bottle and tossing it overboard. The BBC describes Mr Goldstein as the publisher of "a technology security magazine called 2600," - that'd be 2600 The Hacker Quarterly, which makes me suspect that he had taken that bottle of Club-Mate on board with him for that very purpose, but never mind ...

The message said that magazine staff would be "astounded" if anyone found it in their lifetime. I don't know whether this was because of any calculation, or just from a general feeling that the Atlantic is a big place. Either way, it was only 14 months before Henry Anderton picked it up on a beach in Shetland: specifically at Littleure (it has a camping bod!) near Walls, where the bakery is. Mr Anderton was less astounded, as he'd picked up messages in bottles before -

- but the surprise this time was that the sender of the message replied, and there was a reward of a thousand dollars. What would you do if you won a thousand dollars? Mr Anderton is putting it to the appeal to renovate the Lera Voe phone box. He has already bought the phone box (it cost him a pound) but he has great plans for it. First, though, he has to find a door ...

The story at 2600.com (includes pictures, plus audio which I haven't listened to).

Up Helly Aa in pictures (quite a lot of pictures!

In accordance with the rule that you wait hours for a bus and then three come along together, we have failed to watch all the big TV dramas, but are dividing this weekend between three northern crime series. Two of them spin off from the novels of Ann Cleeves, who is both friend and client, and it is one of the vagaries of scheduling (rival channels, so it can't be collusion) that they are both running on TV at the same time.

Vera is the least northern of the three: it's set in Northumberland, but strays into neighbouring counties, and location-spotting is not the least of its pleasures. It's the least noir, too. The convention appears to be that crime fiction is divided into 'noir' and 'cosy', and cosy is inferior in both literary and moral terms, treating murder as an entertainment and avoiding the grim realities of life. The crimes Vera solves are personal, domestic in scale. They show violence - and the pressures that provoke the violence - breaking into the sort of life lived by the majority of her viewers / readers: I don't see what's so cosy about that (and the first story ended with something genuinely shocking and unexpected, so don't let me overstate this 'cosiness'). One episode of the four in the current series was based on the latest Vera Stanhope book (The Moth Catcher), the others are original stories, but retain the flavour of the books. Much as I like the books, they suffer from being cut down to fit into however long remains of two hours when you have subtracted the interminable advertising breaks; perhaps I prefer to original stories because I don't have the novel to compare them to. Vera has been an agreeable way to spend Sunday evenings, and I'll be sorry to say goodbye to her tomorrow.

Shetland is made by the same company as Vera, but they have made some very different choices. Given six one hour slots, they have opted to tell a single continuing story, and that story is harsher and more violent. It's probably obvious from the previous paragraph that my own tastes in crime fiction tend towards the so-called cosy; I am more interested in exploring why an ordinary person might commit murder than in contemplating the actions of people whose wickedness is sufficient to explain whatever they might do. If you want me to stay interested when the investigation moves to Glasgow and the Mr Big of gangland, you have to work twice as hard to make me interested. This series of Shetland has achieved that, by keeping the focus not on the hard men but on the effects of their activities. (Here's what Ann had to say about this, though if you are watching the series you may not want to read it before you have seen episode five). There's enough suggestion that the dénouement will bring it all back home to Shetland to make me impatient for the final episode: a two week wait, thank you BBC schedulers!

Further north and more noir yet, we have just watched the first part of Trapped: which begins with a headless, limbless torso being fished out of an Icelandic fjord (later we get a good look at it). As in The Bridge, there's an international complication: the body may have come from the ferry which has just docked, and the captain insists that he is subject to Danish law. It's a curious mixture of grand guignol and officialdom. The scenery - before the weather imposes a white-out - is spectacular. In an extraordinary piece of negative product placement, the ferry, with its probable crime scene, obstructive captain and other suspicious characters is - as it is in real life on this route - the Norrona, which has been on my wish-list since the long ago days when it used to call at Lerwick on its way from Denmark to the Faroe Islands.

It's a sunny Saturday evening and I feel a little lazy, a little unfocussed - maybe I could tidy up the old travel supplements that are littering my desk: nothing as demanding as making travel plans, but dream a little of places we might go, sometime... And idleness has been rewarded, because underneath the newspapers I found a book I've been meaning to return to A. next time we see her - and we will see her on Monday, and I would have forgotten it was there. Does that in itself make the process worthwhile? No, on with the links:

The Centre de l'Art et du Paysage is on an island in a lake in the plateau de Millevaches, in the Corrèze (a thousand springs, etymologically, it seems, and not a thousand cows): you reach it by crossing a footbridge. Its website is uninviting, but if you read the Guardian article first, you have some idea what you are looking for, and the Bois des Sculptures soundslike my sort of place (there's an Andy Goldsworthy, which is always a good start).

I can't really see us taking a holiday to savour slow food in rural Turkey: but it does sound good...

Why do I have a copy of the books section here? And why do I not have last week's article about wine tourism in Sicily? (Never mind, I found it!)

This isn't much to show for several months worth of weekly supplements. Most of what they publish just isn't for me: skiing holidays, cycling holidays, how to amuse your children, city breaks... And sometimes I may be a bit dismissive of this material. "Hah!" I might say. "Who on earth plans a trip around recommendations for an outdoor cinema?" Let this be a lesson to me not to be so hasty - because the Cromarty Film Festival sounds rather wonderful: outdoor screenings in Scotland in December night be a challenge, but "Join the audience near the shoreline for mulled wine and watch the opening film as it is projected on to the lighthouse..." (mulled wine? the Festival's own website talks of Glen Ord...)

And one that's not from the Guardian: Britain's most northerly accommodation property (it's on Unst).

Trying to complete the story of our last trip to the Northern Isles, three years ago, before we are there again in the summer.

So: We took the Good Shepherd back to Mainland. Sailing to Fair Isle we had embarked from Lerwick, but our return sailing left us at Grutness, on the southern tip of Mainland. If you are expecting any kind of ferry terminal, it's a bit of a shock. There's a jetty and a bus stop - and, as Ann Cleeves points out, at least there is now a public toilet. Despite the informality, it works: the bus turned up and took us, and our luggage, to Lerwick. It was easy enough to find the B & B we had booked, and although our hostess was out, there was a post-it note on the front door: "Mr & Mrs durham_rambler - you are in room 6 - ground floor on your right - keys are in door - see you later D."



We were spending a couple of nights in Lerwick, rather than catching the ferry south that night, mainly because the next ferry would allow us to disembark in Kirkwall, and take a day or so in Orkney. But we were happy to spend a little more time in Shetland, too. Lerwick isn't a big town, and we'd spent a week here a couple of years earlier, but somehow we had never explored the Lanes - the Lons and Klosses, until they were renamed in 1845. A tangle of narrow streets climb steeply (my notebook has the single word 'reticulation') between high walls allowing just a glimpse of the sea below or opening out onto gardens. This one, I think, was Pirate Lane. Elsewhere, Law Lane had been renamed Sherriff Court.

Each time we made the trip from our B & B to the High Street we took a different route, turning from the upper road down a different lane. In one of them we found Monty's Bistro and Bar where we dined on goat's cheese quiche (pleasant but subtle and creamy, which is not what I want from goat's cheese: it was upstaged by the accompanying beetroot), fish pie and tiramisu, with a South African sauvignon blanc - and a glass of Beaumes de Venise, and brief chat with Ann (dining there with some journalists) to sweeten the dessert.

The next day we took the commuter ferry (a seven minute ride) across to the island of Bressay, and spent the day walking in the sunshine, enjoying the views back across the water to Lerwick. I was also impressed by the burnt mound which seems to have been rebuilt, each stone carefully numbered, and by the remains of Ham Fishing Village, a short-lived project (1880 - 1910). (Photos of Bressay)

That night we sailed south on the MV Hrossey, and lingered in the restaurant to watch from its panoramic windows as we passed Fair Isle.

The Northlink ferry from Aberdeen to Shetland is a very civilised way to travel. We returned to the terminal, transferred our big suitcase to the trolley, then boarded, found our cabin and relaxed until dinner time, when we dined in the restaurant. We were woken early next morning by the announcement that we were approaching Lerwick, but there was no hurry to vacate the cabin, and we could breakfast in leisure before we left the ferry.

We were due out of Lerwick to Fair Isle on the Good Shepherd in the afternoon, but Ann told us that once the Good Shepherd arrived, we could put our luggage on board. The four of us headed for Hays Wharf, where the Good Shepherd docks - which just happens to be outside the Shetland Museum.

It was a damp and chilly morning, and the museum took pity on us, first letting us in to wait in the reception area, and stack our luggage in a corner out of the way, then tipping us off that the galleries were open and we could look round. We hadn't necessarily intended to spend the morning at the museum, but it is a wonderful museum, and we found enough to detain us and keep us entertained with only the shortest excursion to town until lunch time.

Somehow we all ended up in the museum cafe, and somehow we ran into more of our party there. We told Ann how kind the museum staff had been to us, and that the lady who let us in had lived on Fair Isle for several years. It's typical of the island, I now realise, that this was not just a stray interesting fact, but something to be pounced on and worried until the marrow had been extracted from it in the form of an identification: "Oh, I know, she'll be..."

Eventually - after warnings all round to take seasickness pills - it was time to board the Good Shepherd.



I had expected a modern ferry, like those that link Shetland Mainland to the North Isles: but the Good Shepherd's first purpose is to carry cargo. Anything that is imported to Fair Isle must either be flown in, or travel on the Good Shepherd (we shared our passage with a boat). If it's too big to fit on the Good Shepherd, you have a problem - and this is why the renovation of the Bird Observatory has been delayed. My initial reaction was to blame the builders, but on this occasion, it seems, that's not fair. The new building is a modular construction, the modules are too large to come in on the Shepherd, and plans to float them in on special rafts weren't put into action early enough to benefit from the summer weather. The island gossip (Fair Isle is a great place for gossip) says that the modules were built in Orkney by a firm who thought that this meant they knew all there was to be known about islands, and learned otherwise.

So passengers are not the raison d'être of the Fair Isle ferry service. The crew treated us with gentle solicitude, as if we were a particularly sensitive cargo, and settled us in the cabin or on deck, as we chose. It was a lively crossing: the boat rolled impressively, especially once we had cleared Sumburgh Head and were on the open sea. The windows veered from showing nothing but sky to showing notng but sea, and back. You read descriptions of storms with mountainous waves towering above the ship - this was nothing like that. Rounded billows barely disturbed the surface of the sea. But the boat reacted energetically enough, and the voyage lasted for four and a half hours (I hadn't quite taken on how much longer it took as a result of sailing from Lerwick rather than the usual Grutness at he southern tip of Shetland).

We were glad to arrive, and grateful Deryk, the warden from the Bird Observatory, who gave durham_rambler and me a lift down to our accomodation at the South Light (and then went home and blogged about it). We didn't stay up to watch the election results: I'm not sure we'd have had the stamina for it, even if it had been an option, but in fact the electricity at the South Light goes off at 11.30 (the generator stops for the night) so we went to bed with a clear conscience.

Today we took the plunge and booked our trip to Iceland. Which seems as good a reason as any to post one last installment of last year's holiday in the (not quite so) Northern Isles.

My notes say: "All you really need to eat well in Scotland is a sweet tooth." Oh, yes. The comment was provoked by Shetland's Sunday teas, but it applies the length and breadth of the country. Almost the first thing I ate, in Coldstream, as soon as we'd crossed the Tweed, was a piece of Border tart (from the debatable lands on either side of the border).

On Shapinsay we were served a dessert which our hostess called 'Island Mist': like Eton Mess, it is a mixture of whipped cream, broken meringue and red fruit (raspberries, being Scottish, rather than strawberries). But it is enriched with small lumps of fudge, and then crème de cassis is poured over the top. It's served with a finger of shortbread, presumably to reduce the overall richness.

In Shetland, home baking is a competitive sport. Each week the Shetland Times carries advertisements for 'Sunday Teas' (there is no singular; it's always in the plural, and I see why) held in the Village Hall to raise funds for some good cause. We went to Aith, where the Teas were combined with a plant sale. The trestle tables along one side of the hall displayed the plants (although most of these had gone by the time we got there - but what does it tell you about the desperate yearning for trees in the Northern Isles that there were sycamore seedlings for sale? For sale, admittedly, not all sold, but still, something that I uproot from my garden with a vengeful cry...). On the other side of the hall, the tables were piled high with scones and cakes and buns and traybakes and biscuits. You paid a trifling amount, you piled your plate high, you found a seat and someone came round with an enormous teapot and poured you a cup of tea. And when you'd emptied your plate, you went round again. Each time you went round, something new would have appeared, as the plates were emptied and replaced: it's apparently a matter of pride to contribute something home baked, and people have their specialties. We ate as much as we could, honestly, but it wasn't possible to try everything.

I'm told there are people - well, I'm told there are women - who visit several teas in an afternoon, just to compare the standard of what's on offer.

And the next day we sailed back into Aberdeen. There were traffic lights! And trees - tall trees, in full leaf, some of them - once we left the city - silhouetted against fields of rape. Things were flowering: rhododendrons and lilacs and even the occasional hawthorn. Spring had arrived while we were away in the north.