ORKNEY - Wonderful things

Tuesday 24th August 1993 - Day 90

I left Inverness at 2.20pm on the Orkney Express, a comfortable coach with a "hostess" on hand to serve refreshments. According to the menu, a continental breakfast is available for those who travel on the early-morning run. This afternoon it carried only myself and four other passengers: an Australian girl, an Orkney lad, a backpacker and a German lady who wanted to stay in Kirkwall overnight, then join up with tomorrow's party of day-trippers for the tour of the island and the return journey. The driver and the hostess were both rather sceptical about this as no-one had ever suggested it before, but eventually succumbed to her determined wrangling thanks to her reasoning that she would be paying the same fare as the day-trippers.

Once this was settled, we set off up the A9 across the Beauly Firth to the Black Isle, then over the Cromarty Firth where oil platforms under construction sat offshore in the grey sea like predatory insects. Just past Golspie I managed to glimpse the fairy-tale pile of Dunrobin Castle through its wooded grounds. Then we continued following the railway line up through Brora to Helmsdale. By now heather-covered brown hillsides formed a wall hiding the interior of the country from view and I looked out across the North Sea wondering what lay over the horizon. All of a sudden, we found ourselves approaching a squall being blown inland. Unexpectedly, the sun appeared through the dense clouds and a rainbow sprang up in front of us. As we drove under its multi-coloured archway, one of the ends seemed to fall in the field right next to the road. Had the coach windows been cleaner, I feel sure I would have seen a pot of gold.

Berriedale Brae was another surprise with its steep drop to a river masked by trees, then a tough climb up, round and safely out the other side. Shortly afterwards we passed by Dunbeath Castle on the way to Lybster and finally arrived in Wick, the largest town for over a hundred and twenty miles. From here onwards the land flattened out into an inhospitable wilderness of windswept desolation as the road continued forever northwards past signposts to places that belonged to another world: Papigoe, Noss, Tofts and Winless Sibster.

After the beach at Sinclair's Bay and more castles set facing invaders from the ocean, I glimpsed my first stone pinnacles rising out of the sea near Duncansby Head and soon we came to a halt at John O' Groats. Although situated at the end of the A9, it is not quite the most northerly point on the British mainland. That honour goes to Dunnet Head, some fifteen miles to the west, not that it stops all the tourist hype.

With almost an hour to go before the 6pm ferry, the driver kicked us off the coach and I just had time to have a quick scout around to get my bearings before a steady rain set in. After spending a while in the Tourist Information Centre to keep warm, I feigned an interest in one of the souvenir shops in order to keep a look-out for the boat. From inside the doorway I had a good view of the tiny harbour. On the slope leading down to the sea was what claimed to be the "First and Last Shop in Scotland". Nearby was a photographer's hut and his huge signpost which listed, amongst other statistics, that Land's End was 876 miles away and London a mere 690.

The red-decked MV Pentland Venture eventually emerged from the murkiness and I hurried around the stone harbour wall to join the others who had surfaced from their own hidey holes. Two hundred day-trippers piled off in various bedraggled states and trooped over to their coaches. We waited until the gangway was finally clear and then dashed onboard out of the rain. The interior was fitted out with 150 plastic seats arranged in rows on a bare deck. Together with the five of us who had travelled up from Inverness, there were now two other people who must have reached John O' Groats by different means.

The ferry left dead on six o'clock and began battling across the Pentland Firth. We all spread ourselves out and stared through the portholes into the enveloping greyness. Various blobs came and went during the forty-five minute voyage northwards. They were probably Stroma, Swona and the Pentland Skerries which lie in the seven mile stretch of water separating the tip of South Ronaldsay from the mainland. Occasionally someone would get up and stumble towards the exit as the boat lurched from side to side in the choppy seas. It was impossible to walk in a straight line. I soon moved closer to the open door at the rear to keep near the fresh air just in case.

After a long three-quarters of an hour, we manoeuvred our way alongside the pier at Burwick where more hordes of day-trippers were anxious to get onboard. In the driving rain I looked for the Orkney Express connecting coach and realised that it had to be the old bus the local lad was heading for. The driver didn't bother checking our tickets and immediately set off on the twenty-mile ride to Kirkwall.

Thanks to the weather, the journey was little more than a blur. Outside the windows everything seemed flat and green except for a patch of high land which was noticeably darker. We crossed causeways and saw carcasses of rusty ships. To the west, the Flotta oil terminal glowed through the gloom like a giant Bunsen burner. Panicking, the Australian girl pointed it out to the driver thinking it was a major fire. Once over the final causeway and onto the main island, it was a straight drive to the capital. Later on the map I discovered we had gone through a place called Wilderness.

It was 7.20pm when we arrived in Kirkwall and I realised that it had only taken me five hours to get from the comfort of Inverness to this. Mrs. Cooper had said that she would "probably" be able to pick me up from the bus stop in her car. As I waited in the pouring rain by the cathedral walls watching every vehicle that went past, my hopes were raised by the sight of one which exactly fitted the description she had given me and I could already see myself in the cosy warmth of the B+B. When it didn't stop, I was more than just cold, wet and disheartened. Surely it must have been her I thought. After all how many maroon cars of that make could there be on this island? Perhaps I was in the wrong place. The empty streets could not provide me with an answer.

By 7.45pm I decided to walk around the corner to the telephone boxes I had seen earlier. After patiently waiting for a Scandinavian couple who were evidently ringing home, I dialled the number. No reply. The lights were still on in the Tourist Office and so I dripped my way inside to find that the chap behind the desk was on the 'phone dealing with a booking request. When I was finally able to ask him for directions to the house, he produced a photocopied street map and showed me the best route. It was further than I had hoped. Just as I left, a taxi drove past and I managed to flag it down through the incessant rain.

I knocked on the front door of Miada to no avail and soon realised there was an inner door. There taped to the glass was an envelope containing the keys to both the house and my room, together with a note explaining that she was out. Upstairs I found myself unlocking a huge family room with a double bed, a single bed, TV and washbasin, situated right next to the shower room. Later, when Mrs. Cooper returned home, she came up to welcome me and apologise. It transpired that she had been taking part in a bowls competition. Due to the recent spell of bad weather, there had been a backlog of matches and the club had finally decided there was nothing for it but to play in the rain.

Wednesday 25th August 1993 - Day 91

Having, for the first time on my trip, arrived in the dark, I was pleased this morning to be able to get some idea of where I was at last. My room overlooks the surrounding housing estate and, in the distance, green fields stretching out towards Wideford Hill. At breakfast I sat by the window watching the showers that came and went across the open land.

By the time I was ready to leave, the sky was clearing and I followed the hill down into the town. As I drew closer to the centre, the buildings became visibly older. After passing through a deserted alley, lined on one side by a row of stone houses, I suddenly found myself propelled into the heart of Kirkwall. It was as though I had mistakenly walked out of the wings and onto a stage. I had emerged in a busy commercial street which, given its covering of stone flags, I naturally assumed to be pedestrianised. That was until a succession of vehicles came silently pushing their way through the bands of shoppers.

It soon became obvious that the majority of other tourists are Scandinavian. Even the newsagent displays Norwegian papers next to The Orcadian and the Daily Mail. At the baker's I bought myself a sandwich for lunch and continued down the main street past the supermarket and numerous cafés. Woolly jumpers and Viking jewellery are sold in the inevitable rash of souvenir shops. Outside one stands a seventeenth century sycamore planted in what was then the garden of a town house. Even though this part of the street was widened in 1870, "The Big Tree" still survives.

As Albert Street became Broad Street, the way opened out onto the Kirk Green in front of St Magnus Cathedral. This small group of islands situated near what feels like the edge of the world would seem an unlikely place to find such a huge religious building.

Its presence originates in events which occurred over eight hundred years ago during the time of Norse rule. Just after Easter 1117, Hakon tricked his cousin Magnus into meeting him on the island of Egilsay with a view to discussing the ownership of Orkney. As the peace-loving Magnus pleaded for his life and prayed for the soul of his murderer, Hakon ordered him to be struck down with an axe. Magnus was seen as a martyr and soon canonised when rumours of miracles spread. Before setting out to win possession of the islands, his nephew Rognvald vowed to build a church in Magnus' name if he was successful. It was duly started in 1137, under the expert eye of masons from Durham and the supervision of Rognvald's father.

Impressive when viewed from the exterior, this grand creation is even more magnificent inside. On entering the nave, I was first struck by the overall size and general structure of the building. Then as I began to walk around, I was taken in by the variety of things to see and the detail which has been lavished on them. Following extensions over the centuries, Romanesque, Transitional and Gothic styles all blend together in patterned arches, ogives and pillars made of red and yellow sandstone.

Against the inner walls stand dozens of inscribed tombstones mostly dating from the seventeenth century and all seemingly carved with the skull and crossbones. Despite the cold air, the colours of the stone added a warmth to the atmosphere and as I made my way up the south aisle, the sun shone through the stained glass windows.

In the choir, the remains of Magnus and Rognvald lie sealed within two pillars. After initially being buried on Birsay, Magnus' body was brought to Kirkwall once the cathedral was ready. His relics were found during renovation in 1919, a hundred years after the discovery of his nephew's skeleton.

In the far corners of the choir aisles, I came across the elaborate tombs of two Orkney-born explorers. John Rae, a doctor who joined the Hudson Bay Company in 1833, participated in many expeditions to the Arctic. Whilst William Balfour Baikie, a naval surgeon, navigated up the River Niger into 250 miles of uncharted territory.

Between them is the communion table which is overlooked by three golden statues set on a red background on the rear wall. Flanked by his father Kol and Bishop William the Old, Rognvald stands in the middle carrying a model of the cathedral as he designed it.

Heading down the north aisle, I was surprised to see a large painted statue of a Norse king. It turned out to be a representation of Saint Olaf which was presented by the Church of Norway to commemorate the cathedral's octocentenary. Further down is a small plaque in memory of the 833 sailors who died when HMS ROYAL OAK was torpedoed in Scapa Flow.

In the north side of the nave hangs an example of a seventeenth century Mort Brod. This dark wooden board features a shrouded skeleton representing Death on one side and an inscription about the deceased on the other. Appropriately for a cathedral which sprang from the untimely passing of its patron saint, death is omnipresent here but not overwhelming.

Last night, waiting by the side wall in semi-obscurity, I was intrigued by signposts to two palaces. Set back from the road, across the grass and under a sprinkling of sycamores, the Renaissance ruins of the Earl's Palace were today warmed by the morning sunshine. Oriel windows and decorations carved in the sandy coloured stonework gave glimpses of the former splendour of the residence.

After paying the friendly custodian, I entered the dark corridors of the ground floor. The temperature dropped as steps led down to store rooms and cellars. In one, I stopped to watch a video outlining the history of Orkney. It is said that the name comes from orca since the early settlers mistook the islands for whales when they first saw them on the horizon. I also learned that Earl Patrick Stewart started his palace sometime between 1600 and 1607, but was unable to complete it before running into debt. Having taken over Orkney from his tyrant father, Mary Queen of Scots' half-brother, he continued to use the local people as slaves and was eventually executed for treason in 1615.

From there I went into the old kitchen and then up the main staircase to the first floor. A stone hand basin was clearly visible in the antechamber to one of the Earl's apartments where he would no doubt have kept his visitors waiting before granting them an audience. In several rooms, water closets had been built into recesses in the walls.

On entering the great hall with its elaborate fireplace and bay windows, I was surprised to hear disembodied voices and found that to the rear it overlooks the bowls club. It was hard to imagine the huge dining table where Earl Patrick would have sat almost four hundred years ago, surrounded by tapestries, trophies and servants, entertaining those he sought to impress.

As a party of Scandinavian teenagers began a noisy invasion, I crossed over the road to the mid-twelfth century Bishop's Palace which was constructed by Earl Rognvald to provide his friend William the Old with premises near the cathedral. In its day, the rectangular hall-house would have comprised apartments built over cellars, but now the wooden floors have all gone and the grey stone walls stand empty. It was here in 1263 that King Haakon of Norway died following his ill-fated attempt to prevent the Western Isles falling into Scottish hands at the Battle of Largs. Within three years his son had sold them to Alexander III ending four centuries of Norse rule. However, Orkney and Shetland were not relinquished for another two hundred years.

The palace itself was rebuilt in the fifteenth century and then restored by Bishop Reid in the mid-1500s when he added a strong round tower known as the "Moosie Toor". A dark, spiral staircase leads to the top and a bird's eye view of the cathedral. Standing cautiously back from the edge in a gusting wind, I found myself opposite its rose window, looking down on the graveyard. Over the rooftops on the western horizon, Wideford Hill, a gentle curved bump rising some 250 metres above sea level, was the only patch of high land to be seen. Scapa Flow was visible to the south, but since the sky had clouded over I was unable to distinguish the mainland.

Once safely back on the ground, I decided to investigate more of the narrow streets designed to protect houses from the frequent gales. The guide books list some good examples of seventeenth century buildings with gable ends fronting on to the street and decorative base stones known as skew-putts. These could almost be considered quite modern when you realise that the town is at least nine hundred years old.

My wanderings eventually brought me back to the centre and into the courtyard of Tankerness House. Originally built as two manses for members of the cathedral clergy, it was extended in 1574 and bought by the Baikies of Tankerness for use as a town house in the early seventeenth century. Following restoration in the 1960s, it is now a museum which charts the history of Orkney from its earliest inhabitants to the present day.

On the ground floor, displays explain what archaeological finds have revealed about life in the islands from agriculture to religion. Weapons, tools, jewellery, combs, pottery and even human remains provide a fascinating portrait of ancient times. Many artefacts are kept in perspex boxes with strict temperature and humidity controls. A series of rooms including stones carved with runic inscriptions tells the story of the Picts and Vikings. Upstairs the exhibits date from more recent times with paintings, family heirlooms and documents relating to local customs. A room is devoted to the Arctic explorer, John Rae.

Rather than look for somewhere to get a meal, I bought some food from the supermarket to eat in my room. In the minimarket further down the street, I discovered packets of local shortbread which reminded me of that my grandmother used to make, a taste from my childhood which I have never been able to recapture until now.

Thursday 26th August 1993 - Day 92

In the little dining room, a Belgian couple were tucking into their breakfast when I came down this morning. I wondered whether to let on that I could understand every word they were saying and decided against it, lest I get roped into conversation. As I left, the maroon car I had seen the other night was in the garage. Perhaps Mrs. Cooper's son or husband had borrowed it.

Having gone into the Tourist Office to book myself a place on this afternoon's coach tour of the south and east of the island, I set off to investigate the harbour. Kirkwall comes from the Old Norse word Kirkjuvagr meaning "church bay" relating to a long since disappeared church. The waterfront turned out to be little more than a collection of grey stone hotels and shipping offices which gave me no reason to linger. It seemed an empty, windswept place in comparison to all the other ports I have seen so far which have generally shown at least some colour, interest and life. Later I found out that the harbour's lack of charm is due, quite logically, to its lack of history. So much land has been reclaimed from the sea over the last hundred and fifty years that this part of town is in fact relatively new.

Somewhat disappointed, I headed back towards the centre, discovering along the way two Chinese restaurants, a curry house, an American diner and an antiques shop. Once in the main street, where Boots and Woolworths mingle with a variety of businesses including two travel agents, an office supplier and a computer shop, I repeatedly heard locals exclaiming what a good day it was. To my mind, it was reasonably mild, yes, but so dull and overcast. Then I realised that the wind had dropped. For them it must have been a welcome break from the gales that probably dominate the weather patterns here.

After strolling around the shopping area, I returned to the Tourist Office for a little warmth. With yet more leaflets for my collection, I sat in a replica of a wooden long boat to watch a video about Orkney's wildlife and topography. To eat my lunch, I went into the peaceful gardens behind Tankerness House and then paid another visit to the Cathedral.

I completed another circuit of the interior, then sat quietly to one side. I gazed upwards and tried to imagine the figures who would have walked in the shadowy arcades that run around the nave. I stared at the intricacies of the arches and thought of the craftsmen who had laboured to create such elaborate carvings. I examined the patterned floor under my feet and wondered who had gone before me.

In the wall opposite, my eyes fell on an aperture behind which lay blackness. From the guide book, I remembered reading of a dungeon where people were imprisoned as late as the eighteenth century. Marwick's Hole is situated between the south wall of the choir and the south transept chapel. Its presence is betrayed only by this small opening well above eye-level. Previously I must have walked past it without realising.

I went over for a closer inspection, but could see nothing other than darkness. Before moving to a seat in the choir, I looked at the ornate wooden doors and pondered over what lay behind them. By the marble font, I sat absorbed by sculpted faces peering down on me. So many of the columns are decorated with strange human and animal heads. Finally, the time came for me to leave. From the serenity and mystery of the past, I stepped back into the outside world and the present.

The coach tour left from the side of the cathedral where I stood last night. Our guides, David and Liz Lea, arrived in their GO-ORKNEY coach around 2.15pm. Having set up their business in 1982, they run tours every day for seven months of the year. Amongst the passengers today was the rather dizzy French-speaking woman I saw in the Tourist Office yesterday asking after a scarf she had lost.

We began by driving eastwards to Skaill where we trooped through the churchyard to watch seals basking on rocks just offshore in Sandside Bay. Liz set up a telescope and began talking about the local wildlife. Out to sea was the island of Copinsay which was bought for £7,500 in 1972 by the friends of the naturalist James Fisher who died in a car crash. Subsequently it was gifted by them to the RSPB.

I wandered away from the group to try and film some of the scenery. Soon I realised everyone was heading back to the coach and, fearful of being left behind, I had to run to catch them up. Here though, the party split into two. Liz was to lead a walk along the coast for those prepared to cover 4½ miles in the 2¾ hours it would take her husband to drive the rest of us on a tour of the southern islands.

Eight or nine of us remained on the coach with David and we started to retrace the route I had followed on my arrival from the ferry. As we crossed over the first of the Churchill Barriers, he explained the reason for their construction. During the Second World War, Scapa Flow was protected by "block ships" - old ships which were strategically scuttled to prevent vessels entering through the channels between the string of islands in the east. When a U-boat slipped through these defences and sank HMS ROYAL OAK six weeks into the Second World War, Winston Churchill ordered the sea to be filled in between Lamb Holm, Glims Holm, Burray and South Ronaldsay.

The work was carried out by Italian Prisoners of War who were captured in the North Africa campaign and held at Camp 60 on Lamb Holm. Far from home, they requested permission to turn a couple of old Nissen huts into a Roman Catholic chapel. This was the next stop on our tour.

Trimmed with red, the white angular façade and belfry hide the original shape of the two buildings with an exterior akin to a wedding cake. Inside, the surprises continue. Walls covered in plasterboard have been painted in mock brickwork. Plain glass windows have been painted to imitate stained glass. Corned beef tins have been turned into candle-holders and stair rods into candlesticks. The ornate ironwork of the sanctuary screen was formed out of yet more scrap. The altar was sculpted from concrete and polished to resemble marble. Painted on the roof above it, a white dove symbolising the Holy Spirit looks down on a magnificent mural of the Madonna and Child. Restored several times over the years, the chapel stands as a reminder of the unfailing faith of the Italians and their ingenious use of scavenged material.

Outside, somewhat inexplicably, stands a statue of Saint George slaying the dragon. In the distance I could see the glow from the Flotta oil terminal and behind it, the island of Hoy appeared as a dark mass with white cloud hanging over the top.

In his cricket commentator style, David explained that there is a two-hour difference in the tide between the water either side of the Churchill Barriers. It is almost as though the east was the North Sea and the west was the start of the Atlantic. Scapa Flow appears as a huge natural harbour. As well as being the resting place of HMS ROYAL OAK, whose wreck is marked by a single buoy, it is also the graveyard of the German High Seas Fleet. On Midsummer Day 1919, Admiral von Reuter gave the order to scupper his ships. Fifty-four out of seventy-four were sunk, but most were later salvaged and today only seven remain on the sea bed.

After crossing the other Barriers, we arrived on South Ronaldsay to visit St. Margaret's Hope. David dropped us outside the Wireless Museum which turned out to be a tiny room packed from ceiling to floor with wartime communications equipment, wireless sets, headphones, old magazines, ancient valves and numerous items whose function was impossible to guess. One of the displays included a card left by Ken's friend who recommended I stay at Mrs. Cooper's B+B. I dutifully tried to record everything on film for my father, a keen radio amateur, then went down into the village. Once a busy port, it is now a rather sleepy place whose attractions of the wireless museum, blacksmith museum and craft co-operative are somewhat limited. It reputedly owes its name to Edward II's Norwegian child bride who died at sea on her way to become Queen of Scotland. Her body lay in St Magnus Cathedral before being repatriated to Norway.

When it was time to leave, we headed back northwards to pick up the walkers who were waiting for us at the end of the road near Deerness. They had just passed the Covenanters' Memorial which was erected following the loss of two hundred souls in 1679. Found guilty of religious dissent by Charles II, they were being shipped to America to be sold as slaves, but were hit by a raging winter storm.

On our return to Kirkwall, the Leas pointed out a windmill which provides power for an inland salmon farm. Unusually, it was not turning today - a sure sign that the midges were out. Another rare sight was dozens and dozens of curlews sitting well-camouflaged on brown seaweed. Then we passed the airport just as a British Airways plane was taking off for Shetland. The air ambulance was also there. Due to its pukey green colour as Brenda Couzens described it on Barra, the Orcadians call it the Opal Fruit.

The landscape appears to be basically flat and very green, quite unlike the West coast scenery I have been used to. In fact, I don't think I've ever been anywhere with such luscious green fields. Not that I have really come across actual fields before. Where the land on the other islands has been open for the most part, here it is distinctly divided up by dry stone walls or barbed wire fences. Apparently there are about 120,000 cattle (currently fetching between £850 and £900 a head) and the same number of sheep for a human population of 20,000.

Friday 27th August 1993 - Day 93

Any ornithologists or archaeologists would have been very satisfied with today's tour of the west of the island. For £11, we made eight stops at various points of interest between 9.45am and 5.40pm and saw an owl in flight, three heron, a small kestrel (possibly injured as it was on the ground), several lapwings, some hen harriers and two Arctic skuas trying to make gulls vomit their last meal.

Our tour began on a farm four miles outside Kirkwall. The access road was totally unsuitable for coaches, but Liz Lea explained that they had an arrangement with the owner. We parked next to a barn and walked over to the middle of the farmyard. Enclosed by iron railings was a sort of manhole cover which Liz lifted to reveal an almost vertical metal ladder disappearing down into the darkness. This was the entrance to the Rennibister Earth House, a two-thousand year old souterrain whose purpose remains unknown. Giving us a torch, Liz warned that there was only enough room for about six people at a time. Fortunately, there were only ten of us in the party, so it was easy to take turns.

Below in the oval chamber was where the jumbled bones of six adults and twelve children were discovered in 1926 when a tractor fell through the roof. The original means of entry was probably the narrow passage which leads off one side of the chamber. It is not thought to have been built as a burial vault and yet after its initial function was fulfilled, it appears to have become the resting place either of those who used it or those who came after them. In one of the recesses of the thick stone walls someone found the fusty visitors' book and I lent my pen to the Korean girl who wanted to immortalise herself in its pages.

Once back on the main road, we continued on our way through Finstown which, legend has it, was founded by an Irishman called David Phin. Formerly a thriving port which used to trade with the mainland, it lost out to Kirkwall and Stromness long ago. Today, the only reason for stopping would be to take a closer look at the upturned boat that one of the residents has converted into a roof for his house.

We drove across more farmland until we turned down another unsuitable track. After a dull start to the day with much low cloud, the sun finally put in an appearance as we arrived at the Rendall Doocot. This is a five-tier round tower dating from the eighteenth century. Inside, niches left between the stones provide nesting boxes for doves which are still in use today judging by the piles of droppings and accumulation of feathers we found. In years gone by, the owners would have taken a number of birds for food, but nowadays they are not disturbed.

Past the nearby farm we all trotted, down to the coast to see more seals and enjoy the view over to the islands out in the Sound. Rousay, Wyre and Gairsay were not far offshore. Behind them lay Egilsay where we could just make out the mid-twelfth century St Magnus Church which may have built on the site of the earlier church where Magnus was murdered.

By popular demand, we made an unscheduled stop at the Tingwall ferry point to avail ourselves of the public conveniences and then continued on to the Broch of Gurness. The remains of a central round tower dominate the promontory and directly overlook the island of Rousay opposite. Built in the first century BC, it may have stood up to twelve metres high and had three lines of ditch and rampart defences. Around it were dwellings, some now destroyed by the ever encroaching sea, but many of whose stone skeletons are still visible just above ground level. Finds of Norse and Pictish artefacts indicate ten centuries of almost continuous occupation. Historic Scotland now owns the site and has opened a small exhibition which is included in the £1.50 cost of admission.

Having ducked down through the entrance into the broch itself, I was surprised to find so much to see in the interior. To the side the beginnings of a staircase lead upwards. In the middle was a square hearth and close by a deep well. Upright slabs acted as partitions around the inside of the dry stone wall. One cell so formed was said to be a toilet. The Koreans climbed up onto the wall and walked around almost full circle.

I went outside to film and was plagued by the French lady who, in her beige raincoat and white ankle socks, seemed determined to get in every single shot. When our thirty minutes were at an end, we drove over to a nearby sandy bay for lunch. I sat with my sandwiches overlooking the turquoise, shallow water as most of the others queued for their food. Considering how few of us there were, Liz did a good trade in hot soup, filled rolls, Swannay cheese, apples, home-made flapjack, Westray shortbread, herbal tea, coffee and cartons of fruit juice. It was the stuff of Famous Five picnics. By the end of the day an Argentinean and his friend had bought up so much of her stock of flapjack that she said she would have to start baking as soon as she got home.

By 1pm we were slowly heading up Burgar Hill on yet another tricky road. At the summit are three experimental wind turbine generators which can be seen for miles around. Of the two smaller contraptions, one appears to have three Manx-type "legs" whilst the other is basically a metal shaft topped by a box with two prongs. The third resembles jumbo jet wings stuck on a huge concrete tower. I think Liz said it had a span of some sixty metres and produced seven Megawatts. It cost millions to build, but doesn't work anymore due to a crack in one of the blades. Since it is unique, there are no spare parts and engineering them is considered too expensive. Apparently all Orkney turned out to see it arrive in Kirkwall. This was before the big ferries started running, so it had to be brought over on a barge. Getting it from there to the top of Burgar Hill was even more of a headache. The island's narrow roads and soft verges were hardly ideal for the special sixty-two-wheel lorry that had to deliver it. An army of local men equipped with metal sheets ran between the front and back of the lorry to help it around the corners.

Adjacent to all this is an RSPB hide overlooking a small loch. Unfortunately, today there was nothing more interesting than ducks to be seen. Eager to film some of the scenery, I left them to their bird-spotting and went outside. As the sun played on the green fields of Rousay, I watched a whispy white cloud racing up Eynhallow Sound.

We carefully wound our way back down the hill and drove into the boggy interior of the island. At one point, we were completely surrounded by moorland. Liz explained all the various stages of peat cutting, drying, stacking, etc. As I'd noticed on Harris and Lewis, this always seems to fascinate foreigners and our mixed bunch was no exception.

Soon we were stopping again, this time at the Click Mill, a horizontal water mill used for grinding grain in the nineteenth century. For those who hadn't come prepared for a trek down a muddy track and across a field of sheep, Liz offered the loan of boots and waterproof gear which were wisely accepted. She then led the way to a tiny stone building which could only hold about a dozen people. The name comes from the wooden bit which releases the grain between the stones: it clicks each time it goes around and lets some grain through the hopper. As ever, the Koreans were keen to take photographs and very nearly came to grief on the slippery grass when trying to capture the stream on film.

With everyone safely back on the coach, we carried on through the network of single-track roads which link up all the farms. We seldom met any other vehicles which was probably just as well since there are virtually no passing places. In an emergency though, I suppose you would always find a farm entrance to pull into.

The tour continued with a visit to the assortment of stone buildings that make up Kirbister Farm Museum (entrance fee £1). Hens and baby geese chattered away to each other on the grass by a brightly painted blue and red wooden cart. A collection of old farm machinery rusted away in one of the barns, next to a little garden with a low stone wall.

In the house, some of the back rooms were still being fitted out in the style of the early nineteenth century, but the main room was very evocative of the period. Similar to the Black House at Arnol on Lewis, the cow and pig would have been kept in one half of the room, whilst the family lived in the other. Around the walls were baskets, pans, a dresser and one of the high-back straw chairs for which Orkney is famous. An uncomfortable-looking stone bed was made up in the thickness of one of the inside walls. On its way up to a hole in the roof, smoke rose from a peat fire in the centre of the room and drifted up past salted fish which had been left hanging to dry.

When Liz was counting heads to check we were all there, she feared I'd gone missing. "Have we lost the Lady in Green?", she exclaimed. Slouching in my seat as usual, I must have been just out of view. The Australian girl said it sounded a very romantic name, whereupon someone suggested that it would make a good title for a murder mystery.

However, when we reached our next stop at Marwick, I soon felt more like a character in some sort of cross between Wuthering Heights and Poldark. The usual scenario on the tour is for the less energetic members of the party to walk on the beach and immediate coastline for an hour, whilst the rest climb up Marwick Head. For some reason - I suspect that a few people were scared of getting lost if we didn't all stick together - everyone wanted to go up the hill and into the mist. When the ten of us eventually made it to the top, some faster than others, we found a two-hundred foot drop straight down into the foaming sea. Visibility was poor, but we could still see birds nesting in the nooks and crannies of the cliffs. A couple of brave souls lay stretched out on the grass near the edge to get a better look.

Then Liz led us over towards the Kitchener Memorial which only came into view when we were right on top of it. This tall, square tower was erected in memory of the six hundred men who lost their lives when HMS Hampshire struck a German mine and sank on 5th June 1916 while conveying Lord Kitchener and his staff to Russia. As the mist swirled around us, we tried not to lose sight of one another for the trek back down to sea level.

Our last stop was Onstan cairn which dates from around 2500 BC. Liz stayed with the coach on the main road as there was nowhere to park and told us to follow a muddy track towards what appeared to be a grassy bump on the landscape. After crouching down to pass through a low, narrow passage, we came out into a rectangular chamber. At either end, upright stone slabs made screens behind which human remains were found in 1884. Runic letters and a bird are carved on the lintel of an opening in the side wall which gives access to a small cell where two crouched skeletons were discovered. Since most of the original roof was lost in centuries gone by, a modern structure had to be built within the earth mound. A hole provides a reasonable amount of daylight, but doesn't detract from the sensation of entering a tomb. During excavations, finds were also made of pottery whose distinctive style has become known as Unstan ware.

Finally, after passing a signpost to The Loons Self-Catering Accommodation, we dropped off a couple of people in Stromness which for some reason is called the Venice of the North. Known as "haven bay" in old Norse, it is still a busy harbour thanks to the P+O car ferry which links Orkney to Shetland and mainland Scotland. Although with a population of only two thousand, it is over three times smaller than Kirkwall.

Saturday 28th August 1993 - Day 94

After such a full day on the coach yesterday, I was unsure what to do for relaxation this morning. I began by buying all the postcards I need for the twenty-seven people I want to write to before I return home. Then I made my way along the main street and found firemen standing next to their fire engine rattling collection tins and selling plastic yellow helmets for the kids. Tonight, the local pipe band is supposed to be playing (weather permitting according to the notice).

Once the early morning showers had blown over, the weather started to improve. Having had little opportunity of walking recently, I decided to head down the road towards Scapa Flow. As the sun became hotter and the end seemed no closer, I suddenly thought I might be better taking a trip over to one of the other islands for the afternoon and turned back. There was nowhere to sit by the roadside, so I hurried over to the gardens of Tankerness House to eat my long-overdue lunch.

When I went down to the harbour, it was virtually too late to make a ferry ride worthwhile. Besides, the sky was turning grey again and none of the vessels inspired me with confidence. Somehow they didn't look as safe as the CalMac ferries I have grown so used to over the last few months.

Instead, I went to investigate the other end of Kirkwall by the Peerie Sea. This used to be a natural harbour which provided a haven to generations of seafarers. Over the last 150 years, as land has been reclaimed to expand the town, it has been gradually cut off from the sea and is now more of a lake.

The tourist brochures mentioned that otter crossing signs were located here. Sure enough, I found one on the busy causeway which heads west and the other just around the corner next to a petrol station. Needless to say, at that time of day I didn't spy any otters. However, from the causeway I could see the Victorian baronial pile of Balfour Castle, which stands on the shores of the island of Shapinsay opposite.

As I went back towards the town centre, I saw a sign to an earth-house at nearby Grain which I misread and dismissed as being unlikely to hold any interest for me. Only later did I discover from my book on ancient monuments that it was an Iron Age souterrain bigger than the one at Rennibister. And it has stairs! All in all, it turned out to be something of a day of missed opportunities.

Sunday 29th August 1993 - Day 95

The day began in a very wet and windy fashion, but by breakfast-time the clouds were beginning to clear and a rainbow brought hope of improving weather for the "major monuments' tour" I had booked. On our way to Stromness to pick up a few more passengers, the sky blackened and a couple of heavy showers battered down on us as we crossed the open countryside. Yet minutes later when we drove over to the cliffs at Yesnaby, the sun was shining more brilliantly than I've ever seen it since I arrived. The sea was an unreal deep blue mesmerisingly topped by white crests of waves whipped up by the fierce wind.

Formed by layer upon layer of the Middle Old Red Sandstone that makes up most of Orkney, these cliffs are a warm, ochre colour. Their exposed slab-like surfaces seemed to be frittering away almost as we scrambled over them. David pointed out a crevice which will be a cave in a few thousand years time thanks to the pounding of the ocean. By listening carefully during the rise and fall of the sea swell, you could hear the air being pushed out of it.

Nearby he showed us fossil "horse-tooth" Stromatolites, blue-green algae that grew in the lake that covered Orkney 350 million years ago. In another fissure, were tiny, blue-grey snails that live in the spray zone about fifty metres above sea level and feed on lichen on the rocks.

Next he went off in search of the Scottish primrose (primula scotica) which is found only in Orkney, Shetland and Caithness. On the wet heathland we were able to spot several specimens of this rare mauve flower with its yellow centre once we knew what we were looking for.

After clambering over a few barbed wire fences and jumping over a stream, we came to the Brough of Bigging. Overlooking the sea stack known as Yesnaby Castle, this ruined tower had recently been defaced with someone's initials.

Here, our party split into two. The walking group was led off by Liz on the ten-mile trek up the coast to the Brough of Birsay where the rest of us were to join them later after our tour of the archaeological sites we all wanted to see. Once they had gone, I did a quick shot with the camcorder but soon discovered I was trailing quite a way behind the others who were already speeding back to the coach. After a few energetic spurts in an attempt not to be the last person back, I found myself catching up the French lady who was yet again on the tour. Suddenly I realised I could see the island of Hoy to the south and just offshore the Old Man of Hoy, its picturesque 450-foot sea stack. As I hurriedly unpacked the camcorder from all its protective wrappings and began filming, along came the French lady. By then David had raced off into the distance complaining that we were falling behind schedule and I was wondering if he would drive off without us. She, however, as I patently stood there filming, was determined to show me the hem of her Inspector Clouseau-style raincoat which she had torn on one of the fences she was too small to climb over without help. Ill-equipped as ever, she had also slipped earlier whilst scrambling up the muddy slope near the stream and was intent on pointing out the evidence. As a consequence of her untimely distractions I have a lot of sky on tape and very little Hoy. Fortunately the wind was blowing so much, her voice was carried off far inland and away from my soundtrack. When we did reach the coach, the Koreans were still trying to get out of the bright orange GO-ORKNEY waterproofs they had borrowed and so they were blamed for our late departure.

With all ten of us finally ready, we drove the few miles up the coast to the prehistoric village of Skara Brae. Built before the Pyramids, Stonehenge and the Great Wall of China, the ten houses that can be seen today were occupied from about 3100 to 2500 BC. Historians believe that the site was gradually abandoned as the island's community developed and people's needs changed. Over the centuries it was covered with sand and remained untouched until a winter storm blew up in 1850, thus bringing the Stone Age into the modern era.

It sits just above the magnificent white beach of the Bay of Skaill that arcs round in one huge semicircle. After waiting for a shower to pass overhead, we left the coach in the parking area located some distance from the site and made our way across the sandy fields. With a good hour ahead of us, we didn't have to rush which was just as well. When travelling back through several millennia, you hardly want to be constantly watching the minutes tick by. Besides, the going wasn't easy with a still fierce wind which was apparently intent on blinding me with blasts of sand.

Yet when I reached the site, the clouds suddenly lifted and the sun shone radiantly as if a window had opened up in time itself allowing me to step through into the past. However, it is difficult to believe that these dwellings can be five thousand years old. No doubt their spell in the sand is what has preserved them so remarkably. Since their original roofs of turf have long since disappeared, we can now look down into the mound and see the layout of the village. The main "street", a semisubterranean passage linking the houses, runs down the middle of the site from today's entrance to what is thought to be a workshop at the other end where tools would have been made.

Each house has its hearth in the centre and box beds around the walls. Bracken or heather would have been used for bed linen and animal skins for quilts to keep out the cold. In some there are seats, grinding stones and boxes on the floor. Possessions were either hidden in alcoves in the walls or displayed on shelves on the dresser which faces the entrance of most houses. Larger cells in the inner walls, under which primitive drains were found during excavations, may have been used as toilets.

It is hard to imagine the families who lived in these one-roomed structures that protected them from the elements. In their time, the landscape and climate wouldn't have been quite the same as today. For one thing, the sea would have been further away. It has visibly eaten away some of the surrounding land and may have swallowed up other houses before the village was uncovered.

As I prepared to leave, a number of elderly Germans arrived on the site. They were the advance party for the rest of their compatriots who were all strung out along the sandy path. When I returned to the car park, I went off in search of a modern toilet and saw a paper bag in the grass. There on the verge sat some postcards and a leather wallet. I looked around for a possible owner, but there was absolutely no-one in sight. Picking up the items, I examined the wallet for clues and found it contained a large quantity of foreign tobacco and some keys. Liz's band of merry followers had just arrived on foot from Yesnaby and had congregated at the public conveniences. I went over to see if it belonged to one of them and she suggested I ask the drivers of the two German coaches which I did to no avail. On reaching our coach, I handed it over to David who discovered that the keys came from a guest house in Stromness and held it up to show our gang. Whereupon it was claimed by a rather large Dutch woman who occupied most of the back seat and had spent the better part of the morning there when she wasn't outside puffing away on what must have been hand-rolled cigarettes.

Next we drove to the Ring of Brodgar, a stone circle which has been dated to at least 1560 BC. Even though today only thirty-six stones remain out of the original sixty, I was immediately struck by the size of it. Most monuments you visit often turn out to be smaller than you'd imagined from postcards and brochures, but none of the photos I'd seen had prepared me for the scale of this place.

Set on a promontory between the Lochs of Harray and Stenness, the circle is exactly 125 Megalithic yards across (just over 100 metres). Around it runs a ditch some three metres deep which alone would have taken 80,000 man-hours to dig. The stones themselves were somehow brought from a quarry situated to the north of Skara Brae and carefully erected at six degree intervals.

We followed the muddy path up a short distance from the road and entered the circle by the one of two opposing causeways that cut through the ditch. It was deserted but for three German bikers who were trying to heat a tin of baked beans on a calor gas stove, using one of the stones as a shelter from the wind. By now the sky had turned an unfriendly shade of grey and low clouds hid the distant tops of the hills of Hoy. The openness of the Ring's location would have made it an ideal setting for a lunar observatory if that was indeed its role.

Walking around the stones, I found some to have fallen over, others were merely broken stumps in the ground and one had been spectacularly split by lightening. When I was almost half-way around, the rain came in over the lochs and I stood with my back against one of the hugest stones of all. Peering out of my waterproofs and into the bleakness, I could see no-one. It was as if I was completely alone. At last I could have my private moment with the stones, a time to ponder and imagine.

As I waited for the storm to blow over, it occurred to me how strange it was that in this land of endless green fields, only the Ring itself was grass. Both the outer ditch and the interior of the circle are covered in dark brown heather. Within minutes, it was dry enough to continue, but most people were on their way back to the coach, so I knew I had better make tracks.

David told us that several burial mounds exist in the immediate vicinity, but the centre of the circle has never been excavated. Along the short ride over the modern bridge and road which link the promontory with its companion spur of land to the south, he pointed out other tall stones which may have originally formed part of an avenue.

Within less than a mile we arrived at an earlier circle known as the Stones of Stenness. Few of the original twelve stones are still intact and upright, two having been damaged by a farmer in the last century and others having simply disappeared. Laying on the ground in the centre, four small stones have been set in a square. When excavated, human remains were found to have been cremated there. Historians can only speculate as to possible links between the two sites, but it would seem that the Ring of Brodgar was built slightly after its smaller companion.

Soon it was time to get back on the coach for the even shorter drive to what is the best example of a chambered tomb to have been found anywhere in north-west Europe. Accessed via a field of cattle, Maes Howe appears as a large green hump on the landscape. On arrival, we found a wide ditch which circles the mound to form an enclosure over a hundred metres across.

Having ridden ahead of us on his bicycle, the custodian had unlocked the door and was ready to take us inside. A low passageway runs some sixteen metres into the middle of the mound. Halfway along in a recess on the left is a blocking stone thought to have been used to seal the tomb from the inside when rituals were taking place. At this point the roof and side walls were constructed using massive slabs weighing up to thirty tonnes. From there, the passage expands a little and slopes upwards into darkness where we could at last stand upright.

As if by magic, the custodian activated several dim lights and we realised that we had emerged through one of the walls of a square chamber. Part way up each of the other walls was the entrance to a small cell. These three individual tombs would probably have been blocked up by the huge stones found lying on the ground in front of the openings. When the sun sets near the winter solstice, it shines directly through the passageway and onto the rear wall of the main chamber.

In modern times Maes Howe wasn't successfully investigated until 1861 when someone managed to get in through the roof which had long since collapsed. Only the remains of a human skull and some horse bones were found. It is believed that the Vikings plundered the tomb in the mid-twelfth century and carted off whatever had been lying there for the previous 4000 years. In compensation, they left behind a series of inscriptions which amounts to the biggest collection of runic writing in the world.

Mysteriously, several of the runes talk of treasure being carried away by Hakon, whilst others speak as though it is still hidden in the mound and to the north-west. However, most of their writings are frighteningly similar to the graffiti we see in our streets and playgrounds today. In the Norse equivalent of "I woz 'ere", one set of squiggles proudly proclaims "Haermund Hardaxe carved these runes". Tryggr, Arnfithr and Ottarfila all recorded their visits in the same juvenile manner, but another scribe obviously thought himself too famous to bother with his name. "These runes were carved by the man most skilled in runes in the Western Ocean" he brags. Someone else, with an equal show of imagination, tried to carve the sixteen-character runic alphabet but unfortunately managed to get the last two wrong. Then right across the wall of the south-east side chamber next to an extremely bizarre drawing of what researchers have described as a slobbering dog stretches "Ingigerth is the most beautiful of women", under which is written "Benedikt made this cross". Whether or not they were there together remains another matter of conjecture.

Intrigued by his translations, I asked the custodian how the stick-like symbols were ever deciphered, but he didn't seem to understand what I was getting at. Just as the Rosetta Stone was the key to the Egyptian hieroglyphs, I thought there might have been something similar in Norse culture. He continued rattling off his lines and switched on the spotlights to show us the carvings located on the side of a tall slab that forms part of one of the corner buttresses. Executed by the Vikings, they represent a lion (which looked more like a dragon), a walrus (which could in fact be an otter with a fish in its mouth) and a most peculiar snake (which appeared to have tied itself in a knot). Another pillar bears primitive lines and triangles which, through their similarity to ones found at Skara Brae, are likely to have been etched by the builders of the tomb.

When our time was up, he turned off all the lights and we crouched down to scramble back out through the passage. Outside, the next small group of tourists was ready and more were trampling across the field. It was the two coachloads of Germans we'd left at Skara Brae. Just before the majority of them arrived, we had chance to look at the site interpretation boards which the foreigners in our party could have done with reading before we went into the tomb, as I don't think they grasped much of what the man said in his soft Orcadian tones. They were all visibly impressed by the place, fascinated like me by this, the spiritual and ceremonial heart of Stone Age Orkney.

After witnessing a minor altercation between a rather anxious German woman and a curious cow which insisted on blocking the concrete walkway through its field and forcing us all into a well-trodden mixture of mud and defecation, we eventually made it back to the bus. Our next stop was the Corrigall Farm Museum, twinned with the one at Kirbister that I visited on Friday. Having retained my ticket, I didn't have to pay to get in.

We were welcomed by an assortment of unusual geese and several North Ronaldsay sheep whose bluey-grey wool is prized for chunky sweaters. Apparently the island's entire twelve-mile coastline is walled by dykes which force the sheep to stay on the beach and exist solely on a diet of seaweed.

Following a quick glance at the stable, barn and now familiar collection of farm implements, we went into the house where the custodian showed us around. This small, middle-aged man had roofed the place himself in traditional Orkney fashion with stone slabs covered by weighted-down heather "rope". It was much better than straw, he said, and only needed changing every nine years or so.

From his enthusiasm and knowledge, it soon became apparent that the farm was his main passion in life. In the hearth a pan was suspended over the peat fire with his "tatties" and egg cooking away. Flour covered the kitchen table in preparation for his afternoon baking session. If we'd been able to stay longer, I think he would have made us some bere bread. Around the fireplace dangled lots of little fish and from the roof hung some pork he'd salted last year, the procedure for which he was keen to convey in all its gory detail.

Picking up or pointing out objects as we went through the rooms, he must have explained to us the use of virtually every single item. In the kitchen, he had a DIY barometer which consisted of a jar full of water with an upside-down milk bottle in it. Equally ingenious was the mousetrap he demonstrated with his finger. A wooden contraption fitted with a heavy stone and some strong string, it was very easily sprung and looked quite lethal. His favourite item though was the cogue, a sort of huge wedding cup which is used for a hot mixture of homebrew (he showed us some he just happened to be making in a barrel), stout, rum, whisky, sugar and spices - quite enough to keep everyone sufficiently merry at the reception.

He paused only once, when one of the sheep came in for a nosey around. Shooing it outside, he explained that it kept coming to eat the petals of some flowers on a vase on the windowsill, so he'd had to move them. Impressed as we all were by his many talents, someone asked him if he played a musical instrument. He replied that as a child he had once started to learn, but with eight brothers and sisters, he had never got very far without one of them telling him to shut up.

Even without music, this character was something of a one-man band. Perfectly at home on his farm, he obviously adored his nineteenth-century lifestyle and enjoyed involving others in it. You could almost have believed that he lived there permanently, devoting his days to looking after the animals and doing all the odd jobs, then going to sleep in one of the box beds at the back. In fact, I'm not so sure as he didn't.

Our final stop of the day was a couple of miles north of there at Birsay. Driving through the village, we went past the sixteenth-century mansion of Robert Stewart whose son built the Earl's Palace in Kirkwall. David parked right on the coast and sent us over to the Brough of Birsay. It is situated on a small island which can only be reached at low tide plus or minus two hours. Once over the concrete path which leads through the sand and rocks, we found ourselves amongst a jumble of ruins from Pictish, Early Christian and Viking settlements.

Enclosed within a large square wall, lie the remains of a twelfth-century church and cemetery which may have been built over an earlier ecclesiastical site established by the Celts. A Pictish symbol stone was discovered in this graveyard. With the original in an Edinburgh museum, a copy now stands in its place, showing three bearded warriors, an eagle and a fantasy beast known as the swimming elephant.

Around the church are the remains of other buildings which have proved harder to identify. Birsay is said to have been the seat of Earl Thorfinn the Mighty and some of what can be seen today could be what is left of his palace. Archaeologists though are in no doubt as to the significance of the foundations found up on the grassy slope. Long ago, they were Norse hall-houses. From there I had a good view of the surrounding area. Further along the coast in both directions were magnificent cliffs. To the south-west I realised I could see the Kitchener Memorial on top of Marwick Head where we walked on Friday in the swirling mist.

After barely half an hour, water was beginning to lap around our only escape route. The sea moved in much faster than any of us had imagined and several sections of the path were already flooded with water by the time we returned to the mainland. David told us that even the custodian thought the tide was early today in relation to the tables. When we left, she was still over there. Apparently, she has very high boots.

Having been joined by Liz's party of windswept walkers who had successfully made it all the way round from Yesnaby, we set off for Kirkwall to be back in time for dinner.

Orkney has definitely been a revelation. Through its richness in history and archaeology, it reminds me of what Howard Carter is reputed to have said as he first looked into the tomb of King Tutankhamen. When asked if he could see anything, he replied "Yes, wonderful things".

Monday 30th August 1993 - Day 96

A very wet day filled by a little shopping and much postcard-writing.

Tuesday 31st August 1993 - Day 97

This morning I said my goodbyes to Mrs. Cooper and left the B+B at 8.30am to make sure I would be down at the Cathedral for the nine o'clock bus. After a dull start and a shower of rain when we crossed the Churchill Barriers, fortunately it was fine when we reached Burwick. With a quarter of an hour to spare before the arrival of the ferry, the driver decided he wanted to hose down the bus and so asked us all to get off. Another coach turned up whilst several cars came and went dropping off more people until there were some 25-30 of us stamping our feet and trying to shelter from the wind. The only moment of light relief was produced by a mischievous cat who clawed its way into some backpacker's food supplies hissing and spitting at the poor chap as he tried in vain to rescue his breakfast.

The ferry dutifully disgorged its next consignment of day-trippers and we set off back across the Pentland Firth. The return crossing proved to be identical to my outward voyage: a choppy sea under a grey sky with a sprinkling of drizzle. At John O' Groats another couple of coachloads were impatiently waiting to sail over to Orkney. By the time I'd walked up the pier and onto the bus, they were already onboard and the ferry was manoeuvring its way out again.

The journey south continued to be grey and humid, yet the heather seemed more purple than I remember from last week. Perhaps the coach windows had simply been cleaned since then. The sun finally emerged around Golspie and by 1.30pm we reached the outskirts of Inverness where we promptly stopped at a filling station for a hundred litres of petrol.

Sylvia kindly came to pick me up from the bus station and on the way home informed me that her son-in-law was driving over to Skye at the weekend to put his parents back on the ferry for North Uist. This seemed an opportune moment to mention the fact that ever since leaving Skye on that windswept afternoon in July, I have been secretly harbouring the desire to return and see what I missed.

Wednesday 1st September 1993 (Day 98) to Friday 3rd September 1993 (Day 100)

A few days of shopping and writing. I have booked a week at the B+B where I stayed in Portree last time. Even though it is a little out of the way, at least I know what I'm letting myself in for.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

Journal index - Info on Orkney

The Internet Guide to Scotland
includes:
Accommodation - Books - Outdoor Activities - Travel Tips
Features - Castles - Photos - E-Postcards

Please send any questions and comments to me
at joanne@scotland-info.co.uk
or leave a message in my Guestbook

Copyright Joanne Mackenzie-Winters
http://www.multimania.com/jwinters/chapt14.htm

May 1998