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shewhomustTwo days of hiding from the weather, mostly: Wednesday on Yell was grey and windy, yesterday on Unst was grey and wet. Today was brighter, and this makes more difference than I ever imagine, but even the grey days are not as depressing as they sound.
A whistle-stop tour of the north of Yell took us to the Gloup memorial, erected for the centenary of the disastrous storm in 1881 in which ten fishing boats and 58 lives were lost. Now it seems unbelievable that so many people could ever have lived here, but even at the height of the herring boom, it must have been devastating. Our next stop was at the point where a path led down to the golden sands of Breckon. We were tempted, and followed it far enough to admire the view - which also exposed us to the wind, and we retreated. I took the opportunity to admire the abandoned farm:
For the full Shetland scene, you'd need to be able to see the sheep, which is hidden by the corner of the shed: but I know it's there, which is the main thing.
On the road south we came to Sellafirth Industrial Estate: two brightly coloured sheds (one red, one blue) and a sign saying 'Gallery'. It wasn't obvious where it was, but another car was ahead of us, and the wind picked us all up and blew us through an open doorway. We found ourselves in a gallery of sorts, but not, I suspect, the one we were looking for: this was Shetland Tweed, and "Hello, I'm Andy," ready to show us round, full of technical details about threading the looms and sourcing the wool (they buy the wool ready to weave, and, if I've got this right, have a choice of two suppliers, one of whom offers wool from the traditional Shetland breed of sheep, but not necessarily in Shetland; the other sells wool exclusively from Shetland, but from a mixture of breeds). I kept being distracted by the wonderful and eclectic collection of textiles on display: their own weaving, but also patchwork hangings, a fragment of Coptic work and the most recent acquisition, a vintage Shetland tweed dressing gown whose checks of green and grey exactly reflected the colours of the landscape outside.
Yesterday we took the ferry to Unst: D. had arrived, and the three of us visited the gin distillery at Saxa Vord (in a former RAF base). I had thought the idea was to move into distilling malt whisky, scooping Highland Park's title of 'most northerly single malt', and that gin would be something they could sell straight away, while they were waiting for the whisky to age the required minimum (looking it up, I see that's only three years - but that's a legal minimum, not necessarily enough for the desired quality). That doesn't entirely match the set up we saw. This, for example, is nothing like any whisky still I've ever seen:
But they were lucky with their timing, and found themselves in the middle of a gin explosion, so who knows, maybe they'll say with gin. That's distillery manager Mark Turnbull doing the mad professor act. He was an excellent host, and plied us with samples, including the 'Wild Fire' which is currently out of stock. I liked the 'Ocean Scent', which is flavoured with seaweed, and the 'Up Helly Aa 2019' which is matured in whisky barrels and perceptibly so. I note that a gin is an artisan product even if you buy in your neutral spirit and the bulk of your botanicals, dried (though not the seaweed), and that there's no point in being snobbish about this if you enjoy the end product - which I did, though not enough to buy any gin.
Also on Unst, we paused at the famous bus shelter, paid a quick visit to the Boat Shelter, and ducked out of the rain into the reconstructed Viking longhouse.
Today was brighter, and we went for a walk on the beach at West Sandwick, and watched the Arctic terns squabbling:
Later still there was actual sunshine and blue skies, and a fish feast pizza at LJ's, where they still have the Emerald Rock CD on permanent repeat.
A whistle-stop tour of the north of Yell took us to the Gloup memorial, erected for the centenary of the disastrous storm in 1881 in which ten fishing boats and 58 lives were lost. Now it seems unbelievable that so many people could ever have lived here, but even at the height of the herring boom, it must have been devastating. Our next stop was at the point where a path led down to the golden sands of Breckon. We were tempted, and followed it far enough to admire the view - which also exposed us to the wind, and we retreated. I took the opportunity to admire the abandoned farm:
For the full Shetland scene, you'd need to be able to see the sheep, which is hidden by the corner of the shed: but I know it's there, which is the main thing.
On the road south we came to Sellafirth Industrial Estate: two brightly coloured sheds (one red, one blue) and a sign saying 'Gallery'. It wasn't obvious where it was, but another car was ahead of us, and the wind picked us all up and blew us through an open doorway. We found ourselves in a gallery of sorts, but not, I suspect, the one we were looking for: this was Shetland Tweed, and "Hello, I'm Andy," ready to show us round, full of technical details about threading the looms and sourcing the wool (they buy the wool ready to weave, and, if I've got this right, have a choice of two suppliers, one of whom offers wool from the traditional Shetland breed of sheep, but not necessarily in Shetland; the other sells wool exclusively from Shetland, but from a mixture of breeds). I kept being distracted by the wonderful and eclectic collection of textiles on display: their own weaving, but also patchwork hangings, a fragment of Coptic work and the most recent acquisition, a vintage Shetland tweed dressing gown whose checks of green and grey exactly reflected the colours of the landscape outside.
Yesterday we took the ferry to Unst: D. had arrived, and the three of us visited the gin distillery at Saxa Vord (in a former RAF base). I had thought the idea was to move into distilling malt whisky, scooping Highland Park's title of 'most northerly single malt', and that gin would be something they could sell straight away, while they were waiting for the whisky to age the required minimum (looking it up, I see that's only three years - but that's a legal minimum, not necessarily enough for the desired quality). That doesn't entirely match the set up we saw. This, for example, is nothing like any whisky still I've ever seen:
But they were lucky with their timing, and found themselves in the middle of a gin explosion, so who knows, maybe they'll say with gin. That's distillery manager Mark Turnbull doing the mad professor act. He was an excellent host, and plied us with samples, including the 'Wild Fire' which is currently out of stock. I liked the 'Ocean Scent', which is flavoured with seaweed, and the 'Up Helly Aa 2019' which is matured in whisky barrels and perceptibly so. I note that a gin is an artisan product even if you buy in your neutral spirit and the bulk of your botanicals, dried (though not the seaweed), and that there's no point in being snobbish about this if you enjoy the end product - which I did, though not enough to buy any gin.
Also on Unst, we paused at the famous bus shelter, paid a quick visit to the Boat Shelter, and ducked out of the rain into the reconstructed Viking longhouse.
Today was brighter, and we went for a walk on the beach at West Sandwick, and watched the Arctic terns squabbling:
Later still there was actual sunshine and blue skies, and a fish feast pizza at LJ's, where they still have the Emerald Rock CD on permanent repeat.
