“We don’t seem to have made much progress”, says the First Mate, emerging from the cabin. “I remember seeing that headland half-an-hour ago and it hasn’t got any closer.”

She is right – it is slow going. I feel somehow that she thinks it is my fault. We need to head almost due east to get to Rattray Point, but with the wind coming from the ESE that just isn’t possible, and we are sailing close-hauled with the wind about 30° off our nose. As a result we are gradually being pushed away from the Scottish coast in the direction of Norway and will have to tack soon towards Fraserburgh if we are to get back on course.

Why is it taking so long to reach that headland?

We had left Whitehills Marina that morning at 0530 to give us enough depth of water to get out before the low spring at 0900 when we would have been grounded again. The plan was to anchor in deeper water just outside the entrance to the harbour for a few hours, have breakfast, then catch the east-flowing tidal flow. The main ebb tide flows down past Wick, heading roughly for Cullen, before splitting into two, with one stream heading westwards in towards Inverness, and the other stream eastwards towards Fraserburgh and around Rattray Head. It was the latter stream that we had wanted to try and catch when it started flowing eastwards at around 1000. All had gone according to plan, except for the wind, which had had a little bit more east in it than had been forecast. We could still sail – it just meant that we would have to tack more often and the going would be slower than we might have liked.

The wind strengthens, driving a band of cloud in from the east, and the temperature drops as Scottish weather reasserts itself. The First Mate goes back down into the cabin.

I think back of the trip behind us. We have been on the boat now for more than three months. The time has passed quickly. I muse on why I see the trip ‘behind us’. I recall a book that I had finished a couple of weeks ago – “How the World Thinks: A Global History of Philosophy”, by Julian Baggini. In it, he questions the Western concept of time – we see it as linear with the past behind us and the future in front of us. It just seems the natural way that things are, but there is no reason why it should be that way. Many other societies see time as circular, with no beginning and no end, which neatly gets around the problem with linear time of what there was before time started. In societies where life was dominated by the cycle of the seasons and there wasn’t a huge number of changes between one generation and the next, I can see this kind of worldview makes a lot of sense.

And still other societies may still see time as linear, but completely the other way around to us – the past is in front of us and the future is behind. My mind goes back to the time I spent working in Zambia where the First Mate and I met. The local people in the north of the country, the Bemba, had this worldview, and I recall several discussions we had trying to understand it. They see the past as definite as it has already happened, and therefore it is better to face it to focus on it and keep memories alive. On the other hand, the future is unknown with no one knowing how it will develop, so it is pointless facing it as it could go in any direction. I thought at the time that this seemed so alien to my own way of thinking, but again there is some sort of logic to it.

We are now opposite Fraserburgh. We tack and head directly for the town, the wind now on our port side. Fraserburgh harbour is very commercial and not particularly welcoming to sailboats, so we give up any idea of stopping there for a break. We approach to within a kilometre from Kinnaird Head with its lighthouse, and then decide to motor directly into the wind, aiming to get around Rattray Head. The tidal current becomes stronger at this point, and we are swept along at 8½ knots by it as much as by the engine. The seas too become quite choppy, churned up by the currents around this extremity of the British Isles.

Passing Fraserburgh.

Eventually we round Rattray Head and turn south. As if to welcome us, the sea becomes smooth again, the clouds clear, and the sun comes out. The wind is now on our port beam and we skim along comfortably on a beam reach, so much more pleasant than the tough beating into the wind that we had been doing for most of the day until now. Ruby Tuesday sails herself, her sails fully out, so we relax for the first time and have our lunch and enjoy the sun. Ham and tomato sandwiches have never tasted so good! I lie down in the warm sun and close my eyes while the First Mate takes over the helm.

The First Mate in control.

But are these different ways of looking at time of any use in the modern world? It seems so obvious that there is a direction of travel and that we are not just going around in circles. There is an unrelenting pressure towards more complexity and innovation – who would argue that there hasn’t been any progress over the last century, or millennium or epoch for that matter? Whether it is all for the better is another question, but certainly there has been rapid change over that time.

And if we dismiss the future as something behind us, and not worthy of focus, how can we plan and achieve things? When we sail from A to B, we need to have a picture in our minds of the route, the conditions along the way, and the final destination in order to plan. All of that is in the future of where we are in the here and now and we are journeying towards it. I suppose we could just focus on where we have come from, and see where the future takes us, but it seems to be a bit of a risky strategy, with sailing at least.

Time is a slippery concept, and it is interesting that all cultures seem to use spatial metaphors to think about it, even though the metaphors may be different. But in reality time doesn’t exist like any of them – those metaphors are just inside our heads. I eventually decide that I still prefer the linear approach to time with the future in front and the past behind, not only because I am most familiar with it, but it also seems to be the most useful. Nevertheless, it is always good to examine one’s own assumptions and think of other ways of seeing things. I make a mental note to give it some more thought when I get a moment.

“What about a cup of tea before we arrive in Peterhead?”, says the First Mate, waking me from my reverie. “We’ll be there in half an hour or so.”

We arrive at Peterhead Harbour at 1730. As advised by the Sailing Directions, we call up the Harbour Authority about a mile away and tell them that we are heading for the marina. Peterhead Harbour is a busy fishing port and also home for many of the supply ships for the oil rigs in the North Sea, so there is a lot of activity.

Arriving at Peterhead harbour.

“Peterhead Harbour Authority, Peterhead Harbour Authority, Peterhead Harbour Authority, this is sailing vessel Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday. Over.”

There is a gap of a few seconds, and I wonder if they have heard us. Then a broad Doric accent answers. It sounds friendly.

Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday, this is Peterhead Harbour Authority. Good afternoon.”

“Peterhead Harbour Authority, this is Ruby Tuesday, and we are heading for the marina. Request permission to enter the harbour”, I say.

Ruby Tuesday, this is Harbour Authority. Where are you coming from, what is your speed and estimated time of arrival?”

I look down at the instruments and do a quick calculation.

“Harbour Authority, this is Ruby Tuesday. We are coming from the north, we are doing about six knots, and should be there in about 20 minutes”, I respond.

Ruby Tuesday, this is Harbour Authority. Thanks for letting us know. Proceed until you are just north outside the harbour entrance, and then call us again.”

Fifteen minutes later, we are there. We furl the sails and start the engine, letting it idle in neutral. I call the Harbour Authority again to let them know we have arrived, although I am sure they know already.

Ruby Tuesday, this is Harbour Authority. Can you just wait for ten minutes or so? There is a ship just about to leave, and then you can enter”, says the Doric accent.

Not wanting to come off second best with one of the massive supply ships, I put the engine in gear and let it tick over so that we can circle around on the same spot. Before long, we see the supply ship coming out through the entrance to the harbour. It towers over us as it passes, and Ruby Tuesday wallows in its wake like a cork.

Oil rig supply ship leaving Peterhead harbour.

Ruby Tuesday, this is Harbour Authority. You are free to enter now. Come in through the entrance, keep to your left, and head for the green can on the south side of the harbour. The marina is just past that. You will see the entrance to it when you get to the can”, says the Doric accent.

We motor slowly across the harbour, past a magnificent tall sailing ship called Sea Cloud II with a Maltese flag, reach the green can, and turn to the left into the marina. The marina manager, Keith, is waiting for us, and grabs our ropes. We leap off and help him to tie us up to the outermost pontoon where the water is the deepest. This is to be Ruby Tuesday’s home for the winter. We spend the rest of the day cleaning up, sorting out what we need to take home, and treat ourselves to a filling pub meal in one of the hostelries in Peterhead.

The Sea Cloud II, a temporary neighbour in Peterhead harbour.

The next day, our friends Uli and Ian arrive and come down from the car-park to the pontoons where we are tied up. They live not too far away from Peterhead, and have kindly offered to come and collect us and take us back home, saving us a complicated bus ride. It is great to see them again. The First Mate makes a soup and cuts the bread into slices. I clear the table.

Soup and sandwiches in Peterhead marina.

As we eat our soup and sandwiches, we spot the Border patrol vessel motoring out of the marina. It has been tied up at one of the fingers at the other end of the pontoons from us. We joke that perhaps Brexit has happened while we have been away, and that it is off to make sure that we have taken back control of our borders properly. Either that, or it is just practising for when it does happen.

The Border Force off to take back control of our borders.

That evening, we are home again. Everything looks much the same. It’s nice to be back, but we feel a little deflated – our summer voyage from Scotland’s West Coast to its East Coast is now starting to seem like a dream as we try to adjust once more to the normality of everyday life. But we have our memories – Neolithic temples and villages, holy islands, Viking churches and settlements, picturesque canals, magnificent rugged scenery and awe-inspiring wildlife, remote islands, challenging but exhilarating tidal races, and perhaps best of all, we have met old friends and made new ones.

And once again, Ruby Tuesday has looked after us and kept us safe, and taken us to places that we might not have seen otherwise. There is lots of maintenance to do on her that will keep us busy over the winter, as we plan and prepare for the voyage across to Scandinavia when the season starts in 2020. New adventures beckon!


We leave Wick marina at 0630 the next morning to catch the southward tidal flow down to Whitehills. Several of the supply ships are leaving the same time, so we have to call the harbour control on Channel 14 to let them know we are planning to leave too. We edge our way out of the narrow dogleg behind the breakwater and motor out of Wick Bay before hoisting the sails and turning southeast. A fishing boat follows us, and soon passes us.

The narrow entrance to Wick harbour.

After a couple of hours, the Beatrice Offshore Windfarm Ltd (nicely abbreviated as BOWL) starts to show up on the radar. It is the one that we saw Prince Charles opening in Wick. We slow down, debating whether we should go through it or deviate around the side. On the radar the turbines look close together, but in fact each one is 0.9 km from the next one, and I had also read somewhere that the lowest point reached by the rotors is 22 m above the level of the sea. With our air draft of around 20 m, there is plenty of room to go through, although we decide to motor rather than sail just to have more control. Who knows what wind turbulence there might be between the turbines?

The Beatrice windfarm starting to show up on the radar.

I start to read the brochure on Beatrice I had picked up in Wick. At the moment, it is Scotland’s largest offshore wind farm, and is designed for a lifetime of 25 years. Offshore construction began in April 2017, with the first turbine being installed in July 2018 and the last one May 2019. Over its lifetime it is expected to generate more than £2 billion of value for the UK economy, with about half going to Scotland. I muse on what might happen to these figures if Scotland becomes independent after Brexit.

Sailing through the Beatrice windfarm.

There are little platforms at the base of each turbine. On one, we see two workers on the platform at the base and wave to them. They wave back.

Base of one of the turbines.

Once we are through the windfarm we let out the sails again and continue straight to Whitehills. The wind blows steadily and we scoot along on a close reach.

I start to read my New Scientist magazine which has just arrived on my phone that morning. There is an article by Donald Hoffman on the nature of reality. HIs argument is that what we experience with our senses and what is really out there are not necessarily the same things – that evolution has conditioned us to sense things to ensure our survival and not necessarily the ‘truth’. Our perceptions, therefore, may obscure the reality behind things. It’s an interesting article, but hardly a new idea – Plato way back in Ancient Greece suggested that our perception of reality was like living in a cave with a fire burning in it, with people walking around it casting shadows on the wall. If we can only see the shadows, we can imagine all sorts of wonderful shapes and explanations of what they are, but it doesn’t give us any idea of the reality of the people causing the shadows.

But the argument in the article seems flawed. I can accept that our senses have developed through evolution to select for ‘payoffs’ that ensure our survival. However, Hoffman’s next claim that this prevents us seeing reality as it is, I think doesn’t follow. The only evidence he provides are some computer simulations that show that basing selection on ‘payoffs’ rather than ‘truth’ win out every time. I wouldn’t dispute this, but it doesn’t seem to me to prove that the two are mutually exclusive – or that this prevents us from seeing reality. For sure, we know that our perceptions can sometimes deceive us, but usually this is to be safe rather than sorry – the rustle in the bushes might only be the wind most of the time, but in some cases it could also be a lion, so it is better to have the wrong perception often and run to stay alive, than to have the wrong perception just once and stay and be eaten. However, this doesn’t imply that we can never see reality – we could refine our perception by using another sense, such as sight or smell, and arrive at a conclusion a bit closer to reality.

A survey ship crosses in front of us. Is it real, or is it just my perception? I check the AIS and radar screen – it shows up on there too. I conclude that my perception and reality are in fairly close alignment, and alter course slightly to make sure we avoid it. Which makes a point itself – that we have greatly extended our range of perception beyond our five senses through the instruments that we have developed.

Survey ship crossing in front of us. But is it real?

It starts me thinking about what reality is and whether it even exists. It seems that there are two definitions – reality is what is left after you take humans and their artefacts out of the picture, or it is what the basic building blocks are that make up everything. The first of these doesn’t feel very satisfying to me – humans are real, as are the things they make, so why should these be excluded? The second feels more intuitively right, but even with that it seems there are problems. Quantum physics say that things only become real if there is an observer. So if you take a conscious observer’s brain, you can study its constituent parts all the way down to sub-atomic particles. But at that level these are only probabilistic wave functions until they are observed by something, when the wave function then collapses into a particle. So it’s all a bit circular – matter needs consciousness to exist, but consciousness needs matter to exist. Is there any reality independent of our observations? And if there is, how would we know? Perhaps panpsychism has the answer – the two basic building blocks of the universe are both matter and consciousness? Did Descartes have a point after all with his dualism? I make a note to read up more about it when I get a chance.

Fascinating stuff, but it isn’t getting the sails trimmed. The wind has gone around to the north a little, so I let the mainsheet out a smidgen. Ruby Tuesday surges ahead.

We reach Whitehills marina around 1600. I call ahead to the harbourmaster to check where we should tie up. He tells us that it will be to the pontoon in the outer harbour and that he will meet us. Getting in is quite a challenge – there is a narrow channel between harbour wall on the port side and two markers on the starboard side beyond which there is a rocky reef. Once past those, there is a narrow entrance in the harbour wall itself into which we have turn at a sharp right angle, then we are in the small outer harbour.

Whitehills harbour and marina (from their website).

As we gently negotiate all of this, we spy someone on the corner of the wall taking photos, which we surmise is the harbourmaster himself. He later gives us an SD card with the photos for us to transfer to the computer. Apparently he does this to all arrivals. A nice touch, and we finally get some photos of Ruby Tuesday with us both on it!

Ruby Tuesday entering Whitehills marina.

He introduces himself to us as Bertie. He decides to put us in the part of the harbour where it is the deepest, but to do this we have to turn around in the narrow confines, not as easy as it sounds as the width of the clear space is only a little more than the length of Ruby Tuesday. We tie a line to a rear cleat and the pontoon, then motor forward against it with the rudder hard over. She pivots around the line, just clear of the fishing boat tied up on the other side. We then reverse slowly into our spot on the pontoon. Luckily no drama!

Coming through the narrow entrance.

“Right”, says Bertie, a welcoming smile all over his face. “Let me answer your questions before you ask them. Is there a pub? Yes, just 10 minutes’ walk from here. Is there a restaurant? Yes, that building just up there in front of my office. Is there a fish and chips shop? Yes, just before you get to the pub. Is there a grocery shop? Yes, just opposite the fish and chips shop. You can stay as long as you like. Now, if there are no more questions, we can just do the paperwork.”

The formalities over, we sit and have a cup of tea. I calculate the height of the tides in the harbour by taking the current depth reading, then using the maximum and minimum depths in the tide tables for that day to calculate the range, then to work out how much lower the water will drop to at low tide. Unfortunately, it is right on spring tides and my calculations show that we will have about 5 cm under the keel at low water tonight, but at low water in the morning, Ruby Tuesday will be resting on her keel, 25 cm out of the water! We hum-and-ha about this, but in the end decide that she spent all winter resting on her keel while ashore, so a short time here shouldn’t do any harm. Bertie assures us that the bottom is silt and mud, no rocks, so the keel may well sink into it a bit. In any case, she will still be in some remaining water which should take most of the weight.

Ruby Tuesday sitting on her keel. The line of weeds indicate the normal waterline.

That evening, we have a drink in the Seafield Arms, then eat in the Rockfish fish and chip shop that Bertie recommended. We haven’t eaten much all day so we are ravenous. Luckily the portions are generous and we feel full.

RockFish fish and chip shop (from their website).

As we waddle our way back to the boat we pass some open garage doors on the side of the road. Inside are two shiny beautifully restored cars – a Morris Minor and a BMW Series 6. The owner is standing outside having a cigarette.

“Lovely cars”, I say.

“Thanks”, he replies. “They’ve cost a bit of time and money over the years. But it’s my hobby, so what does it matter?”

“My first car was a Morris Minor”, I say. “Good cars, even though it was a bit underpowered. Drove it until it fell apart. Not surprising, the way it was treated, I suppose!”

We discuss old cars for a bit. The First Mate becomes bored and continues back to the boat.

“I used to drive wedding cars and coaches for a living, you know”, says the garage owner. “I have taken coach parties all over the UK, I have. Always had full coaches too. The most we did on one week once was from here to Thurso and back, then from here to Cornwall a couple of days later.”

The conversation turns to Brexit. Which one doesn’t these days?

“I can’t wait to get out”, he says.

“Why’s that?”, I ask.

“Most of my mates here are fishermen. We have to stop those European boats coming over here and taking all our fish somehow”, he explains. “They are just ruining the industry here, you know. Our boats have to go further and further out, just to catch the same amount.”

I mention that this doesn’t seem to have stopped some fishermen becoming extremely well off.

“Aye, that’s true”, he says. “Some of them have done pretty well for themselves. There’s one chap I know – just retired and has build a house for £4 million, not far from here. Good luck to him. There’s a lot of money where all the fishing is, in places like Peterhead.”

What will happen to fishing after Brexit?

“But what about markets?”, I ask. “Most of the boats we have seen on our voyages all sell their catch  in Europe. It’s almost impossible for us to buy fish off boats directly these days – all the catch is under contract to the Spanish and the like. If we cut off those links, who will they sell to?”

He looks for a moment as though he hasn’t considered that angle before. “Aye, well there is that”, he says. “We’ll be looking to our politicians to develop new markets for us.”

I wonder if this whole thing has been thought through properly. Putting your trust in the current crop of politicians doesn’t sound the wisest business strategy. It can take years to develop new markets. And what happens in the meantime? And all for what purpose anyway?

Later I realise that he is only the third person that we have met on our trip both last year and this year who admits to being in favour of Brexit.

“Of course, yachties are probably a bit better off than average, and have travelled more, so are more likely to want to Remain”, I hear you say. But I remember seeing a pre-referendum poll in 2016 amongst the yachting fraternity in which the split was 48% to 52% Leave to Remain, not that far off the national result.

Poll in YBW forum in June 2016.

In any case, many of the people we have talked to haven’t been yachties. Why are we not meeting any Leavers anywhere? It’s weird.


“Urrrrgggh”, says the First Mate. “I don’t feel very well. Urrrrrrrgggghhhh!”

“Shall we have a bite of breakfast?”, I say hopefully.

“Urrrrrggggghhh”, she says again. “Don’t mention food to me at the moment. Can you bring me one of the buckets?”.

The First Mate feeling a bit sorry for herself.

We had left East Weddel Sound at 0500 that morning to catch the south-flowing tide to take us almost all the way to Wick before it turned northward again. In the Sound it had been sheltered and the water relatively calm, but once we had gone beyond the point of Burray Ness, the full force of the swell that had been building for the last four or five days from the easterly winds had caught us on the beam. Even though the wind had now gone around more to the north-east and wasn’t particularly strong, the swell had persisted and Ruby Tuesday had wallowed each time one of the long waves went underneath us. Even I started feeling a bit queasy.

Wallowing through the swells.

I bring one of the buckets to the ailing First Mate. “Urrrrrrggghhhh”, she says into it. I look the other way.

My hunger eventually gets the better of me, so I put the wheel onto autopilot and go downstairs to get a bowl of muesli, fruit and yoghurt. I bring it back to the cockpit and tuck in. I feel a bit less queasy, at least.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?”, I say. “I can make you some. It may help you. I feel better already.”

“Urrrrgggghhh”, says the First Mate. I take that as a no. Poor old thing – it isn’t much fun being seasick, but there isn’t much I can do.

The wind freshens and we skim along nicely on a broad reach doing about 7 or 8 knots. In the distance we can see the Pentland Skerries and give them a wide berth to avoid the overfalls and eddies that the CCC Sailing Directions warns about. After some time, we alter course to the south west to head directly for Wick.

Our track from Orkney to Wick.

The problem now is that the wind is directly from behind and the genoa flaps uselessly in the shadow of the mainsail. I decide to goosewing, and pole out the genoa to one side and the mainsail to the other to present as much sail area to the wind as possible. I clamber on to the foredeck to rig a preventer line to stop the boom from gybing – swinging uncontrollably from one side of the boat to the other very quickly – when a gust of wind catches the sail and the very thing that I am trying to stop happens – the boom whizzes across, and although it misses me, the mainsheet catches the side of my face and whips my glasses off and grazes the skin, drawing blood.

“Be careful!”, calls the First Mate from her sickbed.

It’s good advice, but looking at her with blurred vision and blood dripping down one side of my face, I wonder if its timing could be improved on. Luckily my glasses are hanging from my neck, albeit sad and bent. Since losing my previous pair of glasses overboard in Foley harbour last year, I have taken to wearing one of those little neck cords attached to my glasses to stop the same thing happening again. At least it has worked this time.

I clamber back into the cockpit as best I can. With the wind now behind us, the wallowing is less, but the pitching from bow to stern is more. We carry on at a reasonable pace until the coastline of mainland Britain comes into view. We are through the infamous Pentland Firth!

Goosewinging our way to Wick.

Then the wind stops altogether. Not a breath. I hope that it might just be a temporary lull, but unfortunately that seems to be it for the foreseeable future. We switch on the engine and motor the last few miles to Wick. As we approach, I realise that the First Mate is still in no state to help and I am going to have to tie up at the marina by myself. Getting in to the marina should be no problem, but docking is much easier with two people – one to keep the boat under control and the other to handle the ropes and tying up. I may have to do both. I radio ahead on the VHF to the pontoon manager to see if there is someone who can assist. In the meantime, I get the fenders tied on and the mooring lines ready.

There is no answer from the pontoon despite my calling several times. Then suddenly there is a voice.

Ruby Tuesday”, the voice says. “This is supply ship Rix Lynx. The marina manager is usually not here on a Sunday. Perhaps I can help?”

I ask him if there are places left for visitors at the pontoon.

“We are actually in the harbour itself, but looking across to the marina I can see some spare spaces”, says Rix Lynx.

“Will there be anyone there to help me dock?”, I ask. “I have a sick person on board and am essentially single-handed.”

“There seem to be some people around. I am sure they would be happy to give you a hand”, says Rix Lynx.

I decide to go for it. The water is much calmer inside the breakwater, and we take it slowly as we turn a sharp right angle into the outer harbour and then a left into the marina. On the way, we pass Rix Lynx, and wave to her. I am not sure if anyone sees us. There is a space next to a boat with a Norwegian flag. More Vikings, I think. But they hear us arriving and come out to help, and soon we are tied up. Back on dry land, the First Mate shows a speedy recovery and is soon in conversation with the Norwegians. They are very friendly, and I wonder if Vikings just have a bad press. It’s been a long day, so we decide to relax in the cockpit in the sunshine and have a glass of wine.

Tied up in Wick marina.

I hope ya don’t mind, I hope ya don’t mind ….”, sings a crewman on the offshore supply ship opposite us, sponging its windows. I briefly wonder what he did with the money that his mum gave him for singing lessons, as it is not clear if even Elton John would recognise the song, but I decide it is the mood behind it that is the most important. He sounds happy. Even the local cormorant seems to like it.

The local cormorant enjoying Elton John.

There are several supply ships tied up around the harbour. It seems that Wick is reinventing itself as the centre for the offshore renewables industry after the catastrophic decline in the fishing industry over the last century or so. Everywhere we look there are gleaming hi-tech ships bristling with all the latest gadgetry to take people and material out to the windfarms. There are still some small fishing boats dotted here and there, but the harbour really belongs to the supply ships and leisure craft such as ourselves. A sign of the times.

High speed supply ship for taking people out to the wind turbines.

That ah put down in words/How wonderful life is while you are in the world”, finishes the crewman sponging the windows, tidying up his buckets and brushes. A foghorn suddenly seems quite tuneful.

Beautiful clean windows.

I walk into town the next morning to the opticians to see if they can straighten my glasses. On the way into town, I see a familiar face. It is Prince Charles. It seems that he has turned up to open the new Beatrice wind turbine array in the sea out to the east of Wick.

Prince Charles.

After shaking the hands of the dignitaries lined up at the door of the Beatrice building, he comes over to have a chinwag with the commoners.

When he gets close, his face lights up with recognition. “Well, well, well. If it’s not the Skipper!”, he says. “I wondered if I might see you here. How’s Ruby Tuesday? I read your blog avidly, you know.”

“We are fine, thanks”, I say. “The First Mate was a bit peaky yesterday when we were crossing the Pentland Firth. But she’s OK now. Off doing some shopping at the moment, I think. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

“Pentland Firth, eh?” says the Prince, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I have heard that it is pretty challenging, isn’t it? Anne’s always going on about doing it in her boat one day, but I don’t think that she has yet. Not my cup of tea, really. Speaking of tea, what about if I come down later to Ruby Tuesday for a cuppa after all this snipping of ribbons, and you can show me around and tell me all about it. I particularly enjoyed the bit where you were talking to the sheep on Scalpay, although I did wonder if you had taken leave of your senses there for a moment. But, well, I often talk to my plants to keep me sane, so I suppose it’s not really all that different, is it?”

“It’ll be a pleasure”, I say. “But we only have Earl Grey. The Darjeeling ran out last week, and the First Mate wasn’t able to find any in Asda yesterday. By the way, I hope Earl won’t be below your rank?”

“Well, yes, it is actually, but don’t worry, I will overlook it this time”, he says with a guffaw. “See you later.”

Prince Charles having a chat.

I am jolted from my Mitty-dream back into the real world by a rather large lady jostling my elbow somewhat intimately. “Well, that was lovely, wasn’t it?”, she says.

I assume she means seeing Charles and not the jostling, so I nod in agreement. “But I’ll have to wash the mugs now”, I say. She looks at me as if I have escaped from somewhere and hurries away. Probably to find some men in white coats.

I find the opticians and they straighten my glasses.

“You look like you have been in the wars”, says the lady. “Ah yes, just those pesky Vikings again”, I joke. She doesn’t know whether to take me seriously or not.

I should have gone to ….

In the afternoon, we explore the town. In fact, Wick is actually two towns – the original town of Wick and the newer Pulteneytown. Wick has been around for a while – since the Iron Age at least – and gets its name from the Norse word for bay, vik, as does the word Viking itself. It became a Royal Burgh in the 16th century. Pulteneytown was built in the 19th century by the British Fisheries Society to house crofters fleeing from the Clearances looking to capitalise on the herring boom.

The Heritage Museum gives a good history of it all – its Johnson Collection is a fascinating archive of photographs taken by three generations of the local photographic business from 1863 to 1975. Like many towns we had visited, the story goes (and the pictures show) that there were so many fishing boats at one stage, it would have been possible to walk across them from one side to the other without getting your feet wet.

Wick in its heyday.

Unfortunately, the herring boom collapsed after WW1, partly due to overfishing, change in tastes, loss of markets during the war, and dereliction of the fishing fleet while the men were away fighting. The industry never really recovered and since then the town has gone into decline. There is a sadness as we explore the streets – many shops and houses and boarded up or unoccupied, the streets are uncrowded, so different from what it would have been like in its heyday.

Main street in Wick.

There are efforts at revival – the harbour is a focus for the wind-farm industry and leisure sailing fraternity, and the town centre has been renovated. However, we read in the paper that one of the main pubs, Weatherspoon’s Alexander Bain, is up for sale, which will be a major blow. Alexander Bain was a local lad and the inventor of the electric clock. Hopefully, the new owners will keep it going, as its good value food and drink provides a much-needed social focus for the town.

Further on, we see one of the residents trying to keep the old traditions alive by catching fish from the bridge over the river. The First Mate tries to advise him that his line is on the wrong side of the parapet. For some reason he is not very responsive.

The Wick style of fishing.

“Perhaps he is embarrassed by being told how to fish by a visitor?”, I say.

Further on, we come across a set of steps leading up to Pulteneytown. The First Mate points out a plaque on the wall saying that these were the steps that provided the inspiration to L.S. Lowry, the well-known painter of industrial landscapes, for one of his paintings. It seems that this particular one was painted in 1937 and had remained hidden for 20 years, but was rediscovered in 2013 in Edinburgh. It sold for nearly £900,000 at auction at the time. Not a bad little earner!

Black Steps in Wick, by L.S. Lowry.
And the real thing!

“Apparently not all of Lowry’s work is known, and there may be several of his paintings still out there”, says the First Mate.

“I’ll make a note to check in our attic when we get home”, I say.


We decide to move on to Kirkwall. Sailing around Orkney is challenging, not least because of the complexity of the tidal flows around the islands. However, by careful timing, they can be made use of to help in making the journey quicker. Armed with the Tidal Atlas of Orkney and Shetland that I had purchased in Stornoway, I spend an evening working out the speed, times and directions of the flows along the clockwise route around Orkney Mainland and reckon that they can carry us all the way to Kirkwall by leaving Stromness on the last of the ebb tide at 0600 the next morning.

Sure enough, bleary-eyed, we are carried out of Hoy Sound by the west flowing current at around 9 knots. We pass the Experimental Wave Zone where there is research going on to generate power from tidal action, and head north. As expected, the tidal flow changes so that we are carried north to Brough Head lighthouse. The wind is from the south-west, directly behind us, so we only have the mainsail out, still making good speed. A pod of dolphins follows us for a short time then disappears. We arrive at Brough Head and turn to starboard, where the flow now takes us eastwards into Eynhallow Sound. From there, it is an exhilarating sail down the Sound at 10 knots dodging all the rocks, skerries and shoals inconveniently put in our way by some malign gamester.

Our track from Stromness to Kirkwall.

We make it through safely and motor the last little bit into Kirkwall marina, where we tie up.

Tied up in Kirkwall Marina.

In the morning, we meet Dr Peter Martin, a former colleague of mine. Peter is now working for the Agronomy Institute at the University of Highlands and Islands in Kirkwall, and is doing research on bere, a traditional type of barley grown in Orkney, Shetland and Scandinavia. We drive out to his experimental plots on the Island of Burray. On the way, he tells me about bere.

Dr Peter Martin, Agronomy Institute, UHI.

Bere was probably introduced from to Orkney in the 8th cent by the Norsemen”, he says. “It is a six-rowed barley, meaning that it has six rows of grains on each head compared to the two rows on most modern barley varieties. Because more grains are crammed on to each head, each grain is smaller than in modern varieties. It has a very short growing season – it is often the last crop to be planted and the first to be harvested – farmers sometimes refer to it as the 90-day crop.”

Peter and his team have been promoting the use of bere in a number of products including whisky and beer. The Bruichladdich distillery on Islay now has a line of whisky based on bere grown on Islay (the two distilleries on Orkney itself weren’t interested!), and there is a beer brewed from bere by the local Swannay brewery in Orkney. Meal is ground at the Barony Mills on the island of Birsay, and is made into bannocks and biscuits. Later, we buy a bere bannock to try it. It is fairly tasteless by itself, but is good with some strong cheese or the smoked mackerel we have in the fridge. We also buy some bottles of Scapa Bere – they are very drinkable with a slightly salty taste.

Beer made from bere.

In the afternoon, it clears up and we decide to explore Kirkwall. The main feature dominating the town is St Magnus’ Cathedral, right in the centre. I had bought a copy of the Orkneyinga Saga while in Stromness which gives a good outline of the history when Orkney was ruled by Norway. St Magnus was one of the Norse Earls of Orkney, but perhaps uncharacteristically for a Norseman of those times, he was pious, gentle and kindly, and was more into singing psalms than waging war. Unfortunately, his co-earl Haakon (also his cousin) was just the opposite. Following a minor tiff between the followers of each one, they agreed to meet on an island in Orkney to sort things out, with each one bringing only two ships. Magnus, of course, kept his side of the bargain, but Haakon turned up with eight ships and captured Magnus. To keep the peace, Magnus offered to go into exile, but the Council of Chiefs decided that one Earl had to die. Haakon was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be him, so he ordered his standard bearer to kill Magnus. However, the standard bearer was so impressed by Magnus’ piety that he refused to do so, and Haakon had to get his cook to do it instead with an axe.

The story then moves to the next generation. Magnus’ nephew Rögnvald was granted his uncle’s part of Orkney by the King of Norway, but was resisted by Haakon’s son and successor, Paul Harkonsson, and the islanders. Rögnvald cunningly decided to win round the islanders by promising to build a magnificent cathedral, then he captured Paul and shipped him off to Caithness where he eventually had him killed. So Rögnvald got the whole of Orkney and the islanders got their cathedral, which was dedicated to Magnus, and everyone was happy. For a fleeting moment, a picture of current British politics enters my mind, but I dismiss it instantly as being an absurd comparison. At least, I think so.

Inside St Magnus Cathedral.

We walk across the road to see the Bishop’s Palace, which was built for the first bishop, William the Old, at around the same time as the Cathedral. Apparently, King Haakon of Norway (not the same Haakon as above) died here on his way back to Norway after being defeated in the Battle of Largs. His remains were buried in the Cathedral temporarily until the weather improved, then were returned to Bergen.

All that remains of the Bishop’s Palace …

Just next to the Earl’s Palace is the Earl’s Palace. There is a sign saying that tickets must be purchased to enter the palace itself, but walking around the grounds is free. Being the tightwads that we are, we decide on the latter and walk on. I suddenly notice that the short stout lady in charge of the little kiosk where the tickets are bought is locking the door and rushing over at top speed to the palace doors.

… and of the Earl’s Palace.

“She’s probably spotted someone who hasn’t paid and is rushing over to catch them”, I say to the First Mate. “I don’t fancy their chances when they get caught. She looks like one of Earl Haakon’s descendants!”

There is no answer. I look around, but there is no sign of the First Mate. The Ticket Lady reappears, followed by a rather crest-fallen First Mate. The thunderous look on the Ticket Lady’s face laves no doubt in my mind that she would like nothing better than having the miscreant by the ear, frog-marching her to the gate, and telling her not to come back. It’s lucky she is only as half as high as the First Mate.

“I just wanted to have a quick look around the door”, says the First Mate in response to my querulous look. “I didn’t think anyone would be watching.”

I consider pretending that she is a mad tourist talking to one of the trees and is nothing to do with me, but relent. She has always had a thing for houses with turrets, after all.

“Just as well she wasn’t the Earl”, I say instead. “I think I would miss you.”

What the Earl’s Palace might have looked like.

The next day we take the bus down to see the Italian Chapel. This was built by Italian prisoners-of-war captured in North Africa in WW2 and brought to Orkney to build the Churchill Barriers to prevent enemy ships from entering Scapa Flow. While they were here, they decided they needed a church so put two Nissan huts end to end, lined the inside with plasterboard, and used various odds and ends for the interior fittings – the baptismal font is made from an old car exhaust, for example. Whether you are religious or not, it is difficult not to be impressed with the ingenuity and the skill involved in the artwork, and not to realise that we have more in common with other Europeans than we have differences.

The Italian Chapel from the front.
Inside the Italian Chapel.

A little bit further on is the Orkney Fossil Centre. Since reading of the geology of Orkney on the way over, I am keen to see some of the Devonian fish fossils that had been found in the old sandstones. A feeling of awe engulfs me as we peer through the glass cases at the beautifully preserved skeletons, now part of the rock, but which were once living creatures in a massive freshwater lake. I find it difficult to really appreciate how long ago they lived – 400 million years is a long time. The Devonian is called the Age of Fishes; even though primitive plants and animals were just starting to colonise the land, it was a huge diversity of fish that dominated the lakes and seas. Among these were the tetrapods – those with four limbs – some of which used these to clamber on to the land and to become the ancestors of all animals with four limbs, including ourselves. Even more awe-inspiring is that, besides limbs, these fish had already evolved many of the other basic structures that we now possess – a primitive backbone, a skull containing a primitive brain, a hinged lower jaw, enamelled teeth, two nose holes, lungs, and blood containing urea. Even the plates making up our skulls are exactly paralleled in some of these Devonian fishes. We are peering down at our own ancestors!

Devonian fossil fish (Gyroptichius agassizi) from Lake Orcadie.
Hugh Miller.

My mind drifts back to Hugh Miller, one of the early discoverers of these Devonian fish fossils, not in Orkney, but from the same Lake Orcadie sediments in Cromarty further south. We had come across him when we had visited Cromarty in our smaller boat a few years previously, and had visited the house that he had lived in. Interestingly, Miller was both a geologist of some note as well as being an evangelical Christian. Through his geological work, however, he began to realise that the Earth was very old – indeed, many millions of years old and not just a few thousand years. Even though it was before Darwin published his Origin of Species, Miller also recognised that some fossils were descendants of other ones, and that somehow they had ‘metamorphosed’ from one to the other, but couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that humans were part of the same process. Or could he? He tragically died on Christmas Eve 1856 by shooting himself after suffering from depression brought about, many believe, by the mental stress in trying to reconcile his biblical beliefs with his scientific discoveries. Why is it often too difficult to change one’s beliefs even when presented with hard evidence to the contrary, I wonder?

Devonian fossil fish from Lake Orcadie.

The next day, we take the bus to Ophir to visit the Round Church, the Earl’s Bu and the Orkneyinga Saga Centre. It drops us off in the village of Ophir, but it is a three-kilometre walk still further from there. Luckily it is a beautiful sunny day and it is a pleasure to amble along the quiet country lane down to the coast. Only one tractor passes us on the way.

We eventually arrive at the Saga Centre. It is a bit smaller than we expected, in fact so small that it doesn’t have any staff in attendance! There is a poster board display and a video that starts when you press a button. The video tells the history of the site in the 12th century. At that time, it was the Earl’s manor house (a bu is the main farm in the area), and the Round Church was built by the same Haakon mentioned above as a penance for having his cousin Earl Magnus killed.

Remains of the Round Church.

As you did if you were any sort of self-respecting Norseman, he had a dedicated drinking hall built next to the church, the foundations of which are still visible today. The story associated with the drinking hall is that some years later, Haakon’s son Paul Harkonsson (now the Earl himself) invited one of his vassals, Svein Asleifarson (who later became known as ‘The Ultimate Viking’ for his bloodthirsty exploits) to his drinking hall for a bit of a Christmas party. Apparently drinking one’s self under the table had a bit of a code – it all had to be fair, and you couldn’t drink less to stay sober than your drinking partners, in case you took advantage of their state and killed them, I suppose. One of Paul’s men, with the intriguing name of Breastrope, suspected Asleifarson of trying to stay sober and challenged him to drink more. Asleifarson vowed to take his revenge on Breastrope for this slight on his prowess, and later, when he had a chance, cracked him over the head, almost killing him but not quite. Breastrope lashed out, but in the confusion killed one of Paul’s kinsmen by mistake before dying himself. Leaving this trail of carnage behind, Asleifarson then managed to escape through a skylight and rode off on his horse and eventually escaped to Tiree. Needless to say, he wasn’t invited to one of Paul’s parties again for a while.

Remains of the Drinking Hall. Bottom left is the entrance where the grisly murder took place.

“Phew, they were a bloodthirsty lot in those days”, says the First Mate. “And it takes a bit of keeping up with who was the son of whom, and which cousin killed which brother, and all the rest of it. My head hurts. Let’s get back to the boat and have a glass of wine.”

“As long as you don’t accuse me of drinking less than you”, I say. “Breastrope’s head also hurt a bit as a result of him saying that.”

When we get back to the Kirkwall marina, we find we are the only UK-registered boat on our pontoon. All the others are Norwegian. I wonder if it is a secret Viking invasion by the descendants of Svein Asleifarson to regain control of Orkney after Brexit and the UK disintegrates. As we walk past each boat, I have a quick check to see if I can spot any battle-axes and helmets with horns, but don’t see any. Perhaps they are hidden under the floorboards. I tell the First Mate to make sure our claymores are easy to reach in the night, and lock the door just to be sure. She looks at me strangely.

A modern-day Norseman?

We leave Kirkwall the next day on the way down to Wick in Caithness, but decide to anchor overnight in East Weddel Sound between Mainland Orkney and Burray to break the passage. Again, we need to calculate the tides correctly to catch the east-flowing tide from Kirkwall to the island of Copinsay then the flow southwards.

Our track from Kirkwall to East Weddel Sound.

We arrive in the Sound in the late afternoon and anchor near one of the rusting blockships that were sunk deliberately to prevent access by German submarines to Scapa Flow during WW2. Just in case there is still wreckage on the seafloor that might trap our anchor, we rig a trip line with a buoy floating on the surface.

Rusting blockship in East Weddel Sound.

I am conscious that it was here that the German U-boat U-47 under Kapitänleutnant Günther Prien had managed to slip through a narrow route between the blockships at high tide just after midnight, and in the glow of the northern lights had torpedoed the Royal Oak, one of the main British battleships in Scapa Flow. He had actually fired three torpedoes at the Royal Oak – the first had hit but had caused little damage and the crew on board had thought it was some internal explosion, the second missed altogether, and it was only the third that struck amidships and did the damage. The ship sank in 13 minutes, with a total of 834 men losing their lives. Amazingly, amid the confusion, the U-47 managed to escape out the same way it had come in. It is not lost on me that our own track would have crossed the track that the U-47 had taken.

Inward and outward routes taken by U-47. We anchored just south of Lamb’s Holm.

Although it was a bit like shutting the stable doors after the horse had gone, Churchill subsequently ordered the construction of concrete barriers across the gaps between many of the islands, which are still there to this day. Although this blocked off sea routes, it transformed society on the islands, linking people together much more closely than before.

Part of the Churchill barrier between Lamb’s Holm and Mainland Orkney.


In the morning, we unload the bikes and cycle up to the Skara Brae site. We stop halfway to admire the view. Compared to the Outer Hebrides, we are surprised at how green and lush the landscape is – fields of ripening barley interspersed with shimmering blue lochs and isolated farmhouses, the aroma of cow manure wherever we go, all give a feeling of plenty, of years of human cultivation. A landscape that may not have changed all that much since Neolithic times.

Orkney landscape.

“Did you see that lamb caught in the fence back there?”, the First Mate says, catching up.

I hadn’t.

“What do you think we ought to do?”, she asks. “Perhaps we should tell the farmer.”

There is no sign of anyone. We knock at the door of the next house. A woman answers. We tell her about the lamb.

“It’s not mine, but I will tell the farmer. He goes past here several times a day”, she says.

Feeling we have done as much as we can, we continue on, down a hill, round a small loch, and eventually reach the Visitor Centre, where we have a bite to eat at the café before starting to explore the excavations.

The old man crawls through the entrance tunnel and emerges into the outside world. Blinking his eyes in the bright sunshine and breathing deeply of the sea air, he sits on the stone slab and looks out over the bay. He is the last one now, the last of what once was a thriving community. All the others have gone, one by one. He remembers the laughter of the children as they played on the beach, the gossip of the women complaining about their menfolk as they did their daily chores, the young men arriving back with their catch of fish. He looks over to where the plots of barley and wheat once grew, plots that he had helped to cultivate, but all overgrown with weeds and bracken now. The cattle, the sheep, the pigs that had provided meat, milk, wool and companionship were no more. He feels sad at the loneliness; the world has moved on, but he has stayed here with only his memories for company.

Artist’s depiction of how Skara Brae might have looked in Neolithic times.

It had all started with the building of the Great Ring over in Brodgar, when the Powerful Ones had come looking for young men to help build it. They had gone, eager to be involved in creating something for the gods, promising to come back, but never doing so. His own two sons had gone, but had found wives in Stanness and settled down there. To be fair, they did come back from time to time, bringing him produce from their farms, telling him stories of their neighbours, the festivals at the Ring, trying to get him to come and live with them. He had been to the winter solstice festival once, and had watched the Holy Ones performing the rituals, the young ones making their vows to each other, but he hadn’t really enjoyed the singing, dancing and sacrifice of the animals. Did the gods really want all that sort of thing?

View out over the Bay of Skaill from Skara Brae.

We are inside a reconstruction of one of the houses of the village. I am trying to imagine what might have been running through the mind of the last inhabitant of the remarkable Neolithic village we are exploring. First constructed around 3100 BC, it was inhabited for 600 years until it was abandoned in 2500 BC. It had grown over that period, with new houses being added over the tops of the old ones, the numbers of inhabitants eventually reaching 100 people. Each house is remarkably similar to each other –  there is a large central room with a hearth at the centre, and beds demarcated by stone slabs to each side of the hearth. Opposite the doorway is a large stone dresser, and in the walls small shelves are set. Some houses even have tiny side rooms with drains which might have been lavatories. It reminds me somehow of the Fred Flintstone comics we had read as children.

Inside a reconstructed Neolithic house.

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate. “How do you think they slept in these beds? Were they were much shorter in those days?”

“Apparently they were pretty much the same size as us”, I say, recalling something I had read. “I guess they must have curled up somehow. There would probably have been grass or seaweed covered with furs to make it softer.”

“Well, I still think I would have problems sleeping”, she says.

Neolithic bedplace.

We follow the path around the tiny village, looking down at each house in turn. The thought crosses my mind as to whether I would be able to communicate with any of the inhabitants of these houses, even if we could speak in the same language. Would we have any common ground in our world views? Crops and livestock are probably much the same now as then, but even those may have been embedded in a spirit world that I don’t have.

Neolithic house seen from the top.

From Skara Brae, we walk up to the nearby Skaill House, a stately home built in 1620 and part of the Breckness Estate. It was one of the previous Lairds living here, William Graham Watt, who had discovered Skara Brae.

Skaill House.

It is interesting to see how the other half lived. The First Mate envies the dinner set, while I am impressed with the library.

Dining room in Skaill House.
The library in Skaill House.

On the cycle ride back, the First Mate notices that the lamb is still stuck in the fence. “Come on, let’s see if we can get it free”, she says.

“Fine with me. Off you go”, I say, seeing the thistles in the field and aware of my bare feet.

“I can’t do it. Please, go over and see if you can get it free. Please, please.”

Past experience has shown that I have no option except to do what I am told. I climb over the fence, nearly getting hooked in the barbed wire. Sure enough, on the other side I put my foot into a thistle. Somehow I didn’t see it. As I try to pull some of the thistles out, I notice that my other foot has just missed some sheep dung. I count to ten and walk along the fence line towards the lamb, but as soon as I get near, it deftly twists its head free and runs off to the rest of the flock. I retrace my steps, avoiding the thistle and dung.

“Well done”, says the First Mate. “My hero”.

The grass is greener …

The next day we cycle out to Stenness where more Neolithic monuments are located. We have had to book to see the Maeshowe chambered cairn as entry is only on a guided tour, with a bus taking is from the Visitor Centre in Stenness. The others on the bus are a large group of Swedish tourists who have just unloaded themselves from another bus. When we get to the cairn, we are escorted by young Italian tour guide who is really an archaeology student but is doing this as a summer job. I notice I am the only native English speaker, and ponder on the slight incongruity of learning British history from an Italian archaeology student. But why not after all? He has obviously read his textbooks, as he does quite a good job.

The Maeshowe chambered cairn, Stenness.

We stand inside the main chamber of the cairn while he tells us about the history of the cairn. The mound was built around 2500 BC, and consists of a main chamber with three little side chambers off the side walls. Entrance is through a small passageway constructed to be directly in line with the setting sun at the winter solstice so that the internal chamber is lit up by the sun’s rays. I remember back to the Barpa Langais chambered cairn on North Uist we had seen and remember that its entrance faced the east and sunrise. Perhaps there were sunrise and sunset sects even in Neolithic times?

Plan view of the Maeshowe burial chamber.

I think about the people who had built it. Why had they done so at this particular time in history? What spiritual significance did it have for them? What sort of rituals did they perform here? Did it somehow provide access into the Otherworld? Over the winter, I had read the book Inside the Neolithic Mind: Consciousness, Cosmos and the Realm of the Gods by David Lewis-Williams and David Pearce. The idea they put forward is that in hunter-gatherer times, people conceived the cosmos as being in three tiers. Shamans were able to enter in to this cosmos through caves and holes in the ground, the lowest tier, and travel between tiers and influence the gods who inhabited them to bring success in hunting. Of course, this gave the shamans enormous power. With the advent of farming, and the cultivation of livestock, animals lost their mystique for the new farmers, and consequently the shamans lost much of their influence. In an attempt to maintain it, they coordinated the construction of giant monuments like Maeshowe as artificial caves acting as portals to the Otherworld. We’ll probably never know for sure if it is correct, but it is as good a theory as any.

The guide tells us that the little side rooms off the main chamber were used to store the bones of people who had died for a time. In some cases, they would take the flesh off first, other cases, the whole body would be placed there. Even when bodies were present, the main chamber would still be entered by the living. I wonder if the cairn somehow provided a link between the people, their ancestors and the land.

He shows us the Norse rune graffiti carved into the walls. The story goes that in the 12th century, a band of Norsemen lost in a snowstorm had broken into the cairn and taken shelter there overnight. While they were there, they had carved various messages in Runic script into the flagstones of the chamber. Once the tomb was open, probably other Norse went in there as well. The Swedish tourists guffaw loudly at the translations of some of the carvings of their Norse ancestors boasting of sexual conquests. Some leave nothing to the imagination.

Norse runes (in Kirkwall Museum).

The bus takes us back to the Visitor Centre and we collect our bikes. We turn left at the crossroads in Stenness and cycle for about a kilometre to the Stones of Stenness, a ring of stones constructed around 3000 BC with a ditch and an earth bank surrounding it. There were originally 12 stones, although now there are only four left. Apparently, in the 19th century the farmer who owned the land got fed up with people coming to see the ring and holding the odd neo-pagan festival within them, so he decided to dynamite them out of existence! Luckily (or unluckily, depending on whether you are an optimist or a pessimist), he managed to destroy only one before the authorities realised what was going on and managed to dissuade him from destroying the others. How could someone actually do that to a piece of priceless heritage, I ask myself. It’s amazing he didn’t get prosecuted.

The Stones of Stenness.

We jump on the bikes again, and carry on up the road between two freshwater lochs, Loch of Stenness and Loch of Harray until we reach the Ring of Brodgar. It is big – there were originally 60 stones in a circle of 104 m in diameter when it was built between 2500-2000 BC – now there are only 27 still remaining. Outside the ring is a circular ditch around 3 m deep and 9 m wide which has been cut into the underlying bedrock – no mean task, when you consider that it would have all been done by hand with wood, bone or stone tools – no metal around at that time. Clearly it was a communal effort, and it demonstrates the power the leaders must have had to be able to command large amounts of labour from all over Orkney to come and contribute. Were they forced or did they come willingly?

The Ring of Brodgar with the Loch of Harray in the background.

The boy watches in fascination as the fires are lit. The flames reach into the sky, beaconing to the gods. As the sun sets behind the Hills of Hoy, the blues and reds of twilight appear, reflected in the waters each side of the Ring. The children bring their pots of grain to the centre of the Ring, the knives flash, blood from the sacrificial sheep and cattle flow; the gods are pleased with the offerings from their people. This year the harvest will be good – they will see to that. The Stones stand tall and dignified on the boundary of the Ring, each one representing an ancestor of the people. They are also pleased that their descendants prosper. Dressed in white to symbolise purity, the young couples approach the Holy Ones gathered around the hearth in the centre of the Ring and make their pledges – their marriages will be happy and productive and more people will be born, continuing the circle of life. As the darkness falls, the music, the singing and the dancing begins – more and more people previously drinking bere ale and talking quietly now clamber across the ditch to join in. The boy feels a surge of pride – these are his people, his ancestors, his land – he belongs here, this is his home, he is not alone.

“We need to get going”, says the First Mate. “We still have to see the Ness of Brodgar. Who was this Brodgar chap, by the way?”

The Ness of Brodgar is a few minutes back the way we came. It is an ongoing archaeological dig, and we join a guided tour group going around the site. We watch fascinated – the dig is a hive of activity wherever we go. Teams of people in lines on their hands and knees scrape the earth forensically and the most minutest of finds is tagged and stored before moving on. Gradually, the walls and floors of various buildings are emerging into the light again after millennia of being hidden under the soil. The quality of the workmanship of the buildings is stunning – the stones fit next to each other perfectly with hardly any gaps, and in places even traces of pigment is still seen. We try and imagine the whole complex in vivid colour rather than the dull grey stone we see now.

Excavations at Ness of Brodgar.

Most of the work is being done by volunteers – archaeology students wanting to gain practical experience, amateur archaeologists, archaeology professors on summer leave, and the like – none are paid except the few professional archaeologists supervising the project. They have very little funding – most is from donations from the public – but there is a real air of camaraderie and enthusiasm that they are doing something worthwhile in bringing the past to life again.

Volunteer archaeologists uncovering clues at Ness of Brodgar.

Afterwards, we meet Anne Mitchell, the Finds Supervisor, who is the sister of a friend of ours back home. She is enthusiastic as she tells us about the site.

Anne Mitchell, Finds Supervisor.

What they are uncovering seems to be some kind of temple complex – people didn’t live in it continuously but only for certain periods. They think that it might have been connected somehow with the Ring of Brodgar – perhaps people came there from afar to attend the ceremonies and this is where they stayed. The stone it was built from may have come from quarries that are now submerged – the water level has risen since then. Strangely, the complex went out of use in 2200 BC, but is seems to have been on purpose – there is evidence that a huge feast was held in which 400 cattle were killed. Was it a sacrifice to avert some perceived threat? A transfer of power to a new set of leaders? Or perhaps a new belief system? We can only speculate.

A Neolithic temple complex comes to light.

While we are talking, a young digger comes up with a small soil-covered shape in her palm and asks Anne how it should be classified. To me it looks like any other piece of soil one might dig up in the garden, but to the trained eye, it obviously has some significance.

“Label it as Organic Miscellaneous”, she says.

The digger returns to her excavations. I wonder if the nondescript piece might contain the clinching evidence that unlocks the secrets of what the site was used for in Neolithic times.

Precise stonework on a newly excavated building.

Back in Stromness, we decide to go to the museum. There is an exhibition on the scuttling of the German Fleet in Scapa Flow at the end of the First World War, and we spend an absorbing couple of hours learning the details. The Fleet was interned in Scapa Flow while Armistice negotiations were going on, but the negotiations were going badly for the Germans. The Admiral in charge of the Fleet, Ludwig van Reuter, suspected that the Allies would take the ships and divide them amongst themselves, so rather than let that happen he decided to pull out the plugs and sink them. Out of a total of 74 ships, 52 were sunk. Although technically they had broken the terms of the Armistice, the self-respect of the German Navy was restored to some extent. The British were also secretly relieved, as it meant that the German ships couldn’t be divided amongst the other Allies so that they would maintain their own naval superiority! Most of the wrecks have now been salvaged; the few remaining are popular dive sites.

Scuttled German battleship in Scapa Flow.

The other exhibition is on a chap called John Rae, a name that had cropped up often as we had explored Stromness. He was a local son, had studied medicine, then joined the Hudson Bay Company in Canada as a surgeon. He became famous for his ability to survive and travel long distances in the wild, living off the land with minimal equipment, and used his skills to discover the last section of the Northwest Passage. He also set off in search of the ill-fated Franklin expedition and learned from the Inuit what had happened to it. Unfortunately he also found that the last survivors of the expedition had resorted to cannibalism to survive, which didn’t endear him to the British establishment, and he never received any recognition for his achievements in comparison to other explorers such as Livingstone. That seems to have been put right now with a statue in the main street of Stromness.

Dr John Rae, Orcadian explorer in Canada.

“I think I have just about had enough history for one day”, says the First Mate, back at the boat. “Let’s have a glass of wine.”

I have to agree. There has been a huge amount to take in. We sit in the cockpit and watch the sun go down over the hill behind Stromness. A retired fisherman comes past and stops for a chat. He detects my New Zealand accent and waxes lyrical.

“I was in the merchant navy when I was younger, you know”, he says. “I travelled the world and New Zealand was one of the places that I stopped off at. Lovely country. In fact, my daughter lives out there now with her husband and family. We visited them at Xmas time.”

Even though he is retired, he hasn’t stopped fishing and is off out now in his wooden boat to try and catch some crabs and lobsters. Most of them go over to Norway, he tells us. Orkney has strong links with Norway, and the islanders sometimes feel they have more in common with the Norwegians than they do with the rest of Britain. Indeed, several of the signs we have seen on Orkney are bilingual – English and Norwegian.

The topic of Brexit comes up.

“Och, it’s a complete mess”, he says. “Don’t like it at all. It’s made the country a laughing stock in the world. So many of our markets are in Europe and that will all stop. The majority of people on Orkney voted to remain. Perhaps some of the fishermen catching white fish voted to Leave, I don’t know. We would be better off working with our neighbours rather than against them. Anyway, I had better go – the tide won’t wait.”

A few minutes later, we hear a boat engine start further down the pontoon and see him heading out of the harbour entrance. He has life sorted, I decide.

The fisherman’s wooden boat.

Cape Wrath and Loch Eriboll

We decide to make a break for Orkney. The weather charts are showing that a high pressure cell is over Ireland and moving gradually northwards over Scotland, and that there will hardly be any wind for several days. At least tomorrow, there is some wind from the north-west and the sea state is slight to moderate, so we decide to go for it. It’s either that, or cooling our heels in Stornoway for maybe another week. Stornoway is a nice place, but we have explored most of it before. Clive, Bardi and Gracie are heading for Lochinver tomorrow, so it is a parting of the ways. We go out for dinner with them and agree to keep in touch.

Planned route across the North Minch to Loch Eriboll.

The CCC Sailing Directions advise us that we need to be at Cape Wrath at the time the tidal stream starts to flow eastwards, which we calculate to be at 1400, so we have to leave Stornoway at 0400 to get there in time. We rig the slip lines the night before, so all we have to do in the half light of dawn is to unplug the shore-power and release the lines. We leave the sleeping town and motor out to the entrance to the harbour and hoist the sails to start our 75 NM north-easterly voyage across the North Minch, part of the ancient seaway that once stretched from Ireland to Scandinavia.

Leaving Stornoway at dawn.

Not long after leaving, we are met by a pod of dolphins who escort us for 10-15 minutes until they peel off in another direction. Puffins, guillemots, kittiwakes and razorbills bob on the water, appearing and disappearing behind the waves. The odd gannet plunges now and then into the depths after a tasty morsel. We are starting to see more and more skuas now – these ‘bonxies’ are the bullies of the sea-bird world and even steal fish from the mouths of other sea-birds. Several times we see smaller birds like kittiwakes ganging up on a skua waiting nearby and chase it off with a lot of squawking on both sides.


Time slows down, punctuated only by the hourly need to fill out the logbook. We lapse into our own worlds. The First Mate goes downstairs to have a nap.

Ogmund Crouchdance stands in the prow of his longship, Rauðr Týsdagr, and signals to the steersman to adjust the heading to starboard a few degrees. He grimaces with pain – if anything, the wound in his arm is getting worse. He’ll need to get it seen to when they get back to Orkneyjar or else he will lose it. They are approaching the Turning Point, when they will have to turn north-east, and he doesn’t want to waste time by rounding it too far out even if it means turning into the wind.

Rauðr Týsdagr is the same boat that one of his ancestors had used to sail to Iona and massacre the monks there 450 years earlier. Well, to be fair, the boat had been rebuilt several times, with new hulls, new masts, new sails, new oars, but there was no doubt it was the same boat –the name hadn’t changed at all, named after the great red-haired god of combat, Tiw.

Rauðr Týsdagr.

It hadn’t been a good week. They were on their way back from Largs, where they had tried to teach the pesky Scots a lesson or two for trying to take ownership of the Southern Isles. They had sailed from Norway a few weeks earlier with the largest fleet ever to leave its shores. If that wasn’t going to instil a bit of respect into that bunch of savages, then nothing would. With the crops planted, Ogmund had been eager to leave Orkdal for the summer and join the venture to help King Haakon. There was also the chance for a bit of raping and pillaging, something he was never averse to.

It had all turned out a bit of a mess really. They had assembled the fleet in the shelter of the Holy Island, but a storm had blown up out of nowhere and dashed several of the longships on the rocks. Luckily Rauðr Týsdagr had escaped the worst, and Ogmund had taken his Norsemen on land and to the top of a small hill where they had the advantage of height over the Scots gathering below. All had been going well, until some of his men had charged off down the hill to attack the Scots. However, this had misled the main group of his comrades into thinking they were fleeing the enemy (as if a Viking would ever do that anyway), and they had ran back to the boats again. There had been a lot of scrappy hand fighting during he had nearly had his arm hacked off by an over-exuberant Scot. But in the end, the Scots had run off and the Norsemen had bundled into their boats and sailed them back out into the Firth. In the morning, there was no sign of the Scots, so they had collected their dead and set sail back to Orkneyjar. Ogmund reckoned his side had won, but he wasn’t quite so sure if the Scots had been taught a lesson or not. It seemed a bit of an anti-climax to bring a huge fleet just to have a small skirmish.

And now they were trying to get back to Orkneyjar. It was all pretty late in the season, and the danger was that the freezing north winds would start and prevent them from making any progress.

The Battle of Largs, 1263.

“You are dreaming again”, says the First Mate, her nap over. “Can’t you ever focus on the present?”

I am about to chain her to the mast for such insubordination, but realise just in time that we are actually in the 21st century and can’t do that sort of thing now. I had been trying to imagine what a Viking commander might have been thinking on his way back to Orkney after the Battle of Largs in October 1263. Despite it being a fairly minor confrontation, with both sides claiming victory, it actually marked the end of Viking rule over the Western Isles and their amalgamation into Scotland. Quite momentous in the long run.

Following the Viking seaway.

We prepare to round Cape Wrath. The wind will be directly behind us, and we decide to keep just the mainsail out and furl the genoa as it will be in the wind shadow. If that is not enough, we can think about goose-winging with the genoa poled out the other side.

Getting ready to change course around Cape Wrath.

Cape Wrath – the very name inspires fear, where the sea-gods show their anger at trespassers into their realm. The most north-westerly point of mainland Britain, it is the place where two tidal streams meet – the one coming around the east of the UK, the other from around the west. The resulting confluence can result in a maelstrom of whirlpools and eddies and dangerously high waves and overfalls if the combination of wind and tide are unfavourable. Ironically, the name Wrath actually doesn’t describe its temperament – it derives from the Old Norse word hvarf, meaning ‘turning point’. It was the point that the Vikings coming from Norway and Orkney would take a left to head off down for some raping and pillaging on the west coast of Britain.

Approaching Cape Wrath.

Most of the rocky peninsula is owned by the Ministry of Defence, who use it as a firing range to allow aircraft to shoot at the cliffs. Before leaving Stornoway, I had called the Range Officer to check if there were any firings scheduled for that day, but was informed by the answering machine that there were no firing scheduled for the whole of July. So that was OK then. At least we wouldn’t have a repeat of last year’s episodes at Lulworth Cove or Milford Haven.

We wonder whether we are crazy – most circumnavigators of Britain take the short-cut through the Caledonian Canal from Fort William through to Inverness, thereby avoiding the Cape. But it is too late now – we are there, and there is no point in turning back. We take a line about three miles out and steer east. The long swells previously coming in on the beam are now from behind, making Ruby Tuesday pitch up and down more as they surge underneath us. In the mist off to starboard, we can see the cliffs of Cape Wrath, waves breaking on the rocks at their base and sending plumes of foam skywards. Seagulls scream demoniacally around us, resentful of our presence. We feel as if we are on the edge of the known world. Beyond here there is nothingness.

Riding the swells as we round Cape Wrath.

But we are safe and make progress, arriving in Loch Eriboll in the late afternoon. Our plan is to anchor in a small inlet called Rispond Bay just inside the entrance, but unfortunately there is another yacht there with the same idea, and together with it and a few fishing boats there isn’t enough room for us. We motor on further down the loch to our second choice, Ard Neackie, a small would-be island joined to the mainland by a shingle spit. We find a spot to anchor on the south side that is quite sheltered from the north-west wind, and sit and sip our wine watching the sun go down behind the mountains at the top of the loch, and wondering aloud what the history is of the four lime kilns over on Ard Neackie. Overall, we feel quite pleased with ourselves – we had just made it around Cape Wrath, the scourge of mariners!

Looking up to the top of Loch Eriboll.
Lime kilns on Ard Neackie.

We leave the next morning around 0900. The morning light catches the cliffs at the entrance to the loch and accentuates the layering of the sediments and the caves undermining their bases.

Rock strata and caves at the entrance to Loch Eriboll.

We set the autopilot and let Ruby Tuesday steer herself, albeit keeping a good watch out for other boats and nasty things in the water. We pass numerous container ships heading in both directions, and amuse ourselves with trying to guess where they might be off to, then check to see who was closest using the AIS, which tells us all sorts of useful information about them. Some of them pass quite close and we can see the huge numbers of containers stacked up on top of each other.

Container ship passing in front of us.

“Do you think our radar would pick up a container floating in the water?”, says the First Mate. “I read somewhere that 10,000 containers fall off ships worldwide every year.”

“I’m not sure”, I answer. “I remember reading that the number that actually float is quite small, and that they sink to the bottom quite quickly.”

“I suppose it depends on what is in them”, she says. “And how water tight they are. ”

“There was an article in one of the sailing magazines once”, I recall. “The theory is that they won’t float just below the surface – they will either float upright in the water where you can see them if they have something buoyant in them like polystyrene packaging, or else they’ll sink straight away.”

I hope that the writer of the article know what they were talking about. But the First Mate has a point, and we add floating containers to the lobster pot buoys that we are continually on the look out for. Hitting a floating container would be a serious recipe for having a bad day. I scan the water in front of us for any hazards. There doesn’t seem to be anything.

The hours pass, the hot sun beating down on us and burning our faces. Eventually, the clouds above Orkney appear above the horizon. We can’t see the land yet, but know that it has to be somewhere. I suddenly think of how the first Maori must have felt as they approached New Zealand – the first thing they saw was the long white cloud above the land, the origin of the name Aotearoa.

I decide to have a quick scan of my “Land of Mountain and Flood” and read up on the geology of Orkney. Apparently its rocks were formed in Devonian times, around 400 million years ago. At that time, it was part of the super-continent of Laurentia south of the equator and probably was about the same latitude and longitude of where the Kalahari Desert is nowadays. There had just been a massive mountain building event called the Caledonian Orogeny that had occurred when three continental plates had collided. At the base of these mountains was a vast basin which filled with fresh water to form Lake Orcadie. Amazingly, this lake lasted for 10 million years or so (although it did dry out from time to time), during which time the mountains were eroded down with much of the sediment ending up at the bottom of the lake. Fish lived in the lake, and when they died fell to the bottom. If the conditions were right, their bodies were preserved in the sediments in the deeper parts of the lake where there was little oxygen.

Eventually, Lake Orcadie filled up with sediment completely, in places 4 km thick, and disappeared. Over millions of years since then, the rock was compressed to form sandstones and mudstones. While this was happening, the continent of Laurentia was moving northwards at about 2 cm per year, splitting as it went to form the Atlantic Ocean, with what had been Lake Orcadie ending up on the eastern side of the split. I find all that just mind-boggling. Two centimetres a year doesn’t sound much, but over 400 million years that comes to around 8000 km, which is about right, I suppose.

Because the sandstone was bedded down in layers, it can be split easily along these layers to form nice flat ‘flagstones’ which can be used for all sorts of things, particularly building.

“Look”, shouts the First Mate suddenly. “I can see Orkney.”

Approaching the cliffs of Hoy.

I put down the book. Sure enough, land has appeared on the horizon. Through the binoculars we can make out the cliffs of Hoy, one of the islands of Orkney. The hills on Hoy are surprisingly steep, which comes as a surprise – I had always thought of Orkney as being flat and fairly featureless, but these are anything but. In the soft light of the afternoon sun, the cliffs look like a multi-layered rainbow cake. As we get closer, we see skuas, guillemots, gulls and kittiwakes wheeling and gliding on the up-currents. On the top, there are four walkers silhouetted against the sky.

The sandstone cliffs of Hoy.

Soon we can see the Old Man of Hoy, a giant sandstone sea-stack on a lava base just off the coast, pointing like a finger to the sky. I read later that it is a very recent feature – only 250 years ago it was a headland, and between then and now it has been eroded into the stack we see today. Not long ago, it even had two ‘legs’ with a hole between, but one of them has now been eroded away and it is only a matter of time before the remaining one does too and the whole stack comes crashing down. Already cracks are starting to appear.

The Old Man of Hoy.

We arrive at Hoy Sound, the western entrance to Scapa Flow, through which we need to pass to reach Stromness, our destination. Here we need to get the tides right, as the flow through can be as much as 8 knots in each direction, and it would be impossible to make any progress, and indeed could be quite dangerous, if the flow was in the wrong direction. As it is, we are about mid-tide of the easterly flow, so it should carry us through without any problems. If we had got the timings wrong, we would have had to wait somewhere safe until it changed again.

We gather more and more speed as the current grabs hold of us. We are in its control, there is nothing that we can do now. It reminds me of going through the Strangford Narrows in Northern Ireland last year, but this time we reach 12.6 knots compared to the 11.4 knots then. That’s fast!

Rushing through Hoy Sound at 12.6 knots!

For ten or fifteen minutes, we ride the current like a bucking bronco; eddies and whirlpools appear and disappear as the water competes for space in the narrow sound. I begin to worry that we might get swept past the entrance to Stromness harbour at that speed. We crab as best we can across the fast-flowing stream, past the beacon marking the shoal coming out from the Skerry of Ness, and eventually manage to make it to some calmer water. The harbour awaits. We have made it!

Tied up for the night in Stromness marina.

Scalpay and Stornaway

We leave Lochmaddy harbour and continue northwards. The wind is coming from the north-east, so we have to sail as close-hauled as we can. We get to Rodel, with its 16th century Church of St Clements and Roineabhal, the anorthosite mountain, towering behind, and need to take a tack to pull away from the shore. We had visited Rodel in 2015 in our small boat and moored in the pool that can only be entered and exited at high tide. However, we had heard that the hotel at Rodel has now closed, that the three visitors moorings there are not maintained, and that there is ground tackle that has been left, making it difficult to anchor. It was good that we saw it when it was still a delightful place to stay.

Church of St Clements with Roineabhal, the anorthosite mountain behind. (Taken in 2015.)

As we prepare to tack again, the wind shifts around to the east more and we continue on a close reach parallel to the shore.

The mountains of Harris appear as we approach Scalpay.

As we approach Scalpay, we radio ahead to see if we can buy fuel from the fuel berth before we tie up. We are told that ‘Captain Bob’ will be waiting at the Fisherman’s Pier for us. Sure enough, as we get closer, we see a gentleman with a luxuriant white beard at the fuel pump. He helps us to tie up to the pier and we fill up.

Filling up with fuel at Scalpay Fisherman’s Wharf. (Not Captain Bob!).

Clive and Bardi are already there before us. Clive has gone off shopping, and Gracie, their dog, is waiting plaintively on the foredeck for his return. She isn’t too happy when he is away. When he gets back, we invite them over for a drink.

Gracie pining.

The next day, it is foggy, and we decide to stay one more day. Just next to the harbour, there is a small restaurant called The Bistro. Unprepossessing as it looks from the outside, it has quite an enviable reputation internationally, so we ring them to see if we can reserve a table for dinner. Unfortunately, they are completely booked out for the evening, but at least lunch is possible. We go for that. The coronation chicken with fresh home-baked bread is excellent – their reputation is well-deserved.

The Bistro, Scalpay Harbour.

“Come on”, says the First Mate after lunch. “Let’s go for a walk to work that off. There’s a good one in this little book I picked up in the Tourist Office. The Scalpay Heritage Trail. It goes out to the lighthouse.”

It is misty, but we set off hoping it will clear. At least it isn’t raining. The path starts at a group of three houses just off the road to Tarbert, where we pass through a gate and take the gravelled track to the left up to a small loch. From there we follow the shoreline around to the left. It is boggy and from time to time we need to cross streams swollen with the recent rains. We stop and admire the reeds growing in the water at the side of the loch.

Loch an Duin, Scalpay Heritage Trail.

Soon we are out of sight of the houses and feel the full desolation of the landscape. The clouds hang heavy and ponderous. The ancient rocks loom over the water and vegetation, ignoring us as we clamber over them like flies. The dark greens of the heather and the russets and beiges of the grasses give the impression of an old sepia photograph, emphasising the timelessness of the scene. Not a sign of another human anywhere. We could be the only people on earth. Or even on an earth before people existed.

Scalpay Heritage Trail.

We come to a flock of sheep grazing on the slopes.

Sheep at Loch an Duin, Scalpay Heritage Trail.

“I hear you are getting a new Prime Minister soon”, says one. I think that it is just my luck to find a talking sheep, and one that follows politics at that.

“Yes”, I say wearily. “And it is not that the whole country wants him either – only the party membership of 160,000 are allowed to vote for him. Whoever it is, both candidates have pledged to take the country out of the European Union by the end of October. Disaster.”

“Ah well, you have us to partly blame for that”, says the sheep, with a smile.

“You?”, I say.

“Well, the flock, I mean”, she continues. “We figured out that it is only EU subsidies that keep sheep farming going in this part of the world, so that our young ones are born and bred only to be taken away to be slaughtered just for you lot to be able to have a nice Sunday lunch.”

“Oh yes, we know all about that,”, she says, seeing the look of incredulity on my face. “Anyway, we managed to convince our farmer to vote for Brexit so that those damned subsidies would stop, he wouldn’t be able to continue farming, and us sheep would be free to roam this land as we wish.”

“But how did you manage to convince the farmer to vote against the very thing that is keeping his business sustainable?”, I ask.

“Ah, that was our master stroke”, answers the sheep. “We managed to convince him that all the paperwork he had to do with the EU was dragging him down, and that he would be better off free from such encumbrances. It worked a treat, I have to say. Off he went down to the polling station and voted to Leave.”

“And what does he think now, three years later?”, I ask.

“Well, I think it has dawned on him slowly that we managed to put one across him”, she continues. “He doesn’t know if the UK government will continue to subside him for much longer, and more to the point, how he will be able to compete against all the cheap imports of meat from countries that don’t have such stringent regulations. So he thinks he will probably go out of business. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to the flock now. Good luck with Boris or what’s-his-name!”

She runs off down the hillside, leaving me to marvel at the cunningness of their plan. It might even work. And I had always thought that sheep weren’t very bright.

We eventually reach the cloud layer and the visibility drops to a few metres. It is difficult to see the next waymark and we lose the path several times. The mist feels clammy and penetrating, and to top it all, it starts to rain. Before long we feel wet, cold and miserable.

Lost in the mist.

“I don’t like this too much”, says the First Mate. “We can’t see anything and my feet are freezing.”

We trudge on further. I am glad that the walk was the First Mate’s idea as it means that I don’t get the blame. After what seems like ages, the lighthouse emerges from the gloom and we see the road leading to it. There is a van parked in a small layby. At least we are now back with other humans.

The Eilean Glas lighthouse appears out of the fog.

“Let’s get on to the road,” says the First Mate. “It will be easier to walk on.”

We take a short cut across some boggy area to reach it and sink to our knees in water.

“Why on earth did you choose this way?”, says the First Mate.

“You wanted to get to the road”, I say.

“I didn’t mean to get my feet completely wet”, she complains.

As it is so miserable, we decide not to walk down to the lighthouse itself, but follow the road back towards the village. Eventually the rain stops. On the way, a mobile fish van passes us bringing fish to the remoter reaches of Scalpay. My first thought is that bringing fish to a fishing community is a bit like carrying coals to Newcastle, but I quickly realise that there are other occupations on the island besides fishing. Midge-disposal, for one …

The Scalpay midge disposal company.

We leave Scalpay the next day, heading for Stornoway. Two cormorants on sentry duty mournfully watch us go. The fog is low, and we can’t see much of the land we are passing, but at least at sea level we can see enough to avoid other boats. We motor out to the Eilean Glas lighthouse that we were aiming at on our walk yesterday, switch off the engine, pull the sails out, and turn north.

Cormorants watching us leave.

We are pleasantly surprised at the amount of bird life on this part of the coast. Lots of guillemots, razorbills, puffins, gannets, and of course, the ubiquitous seagulls. We even see a minke whale at one point.

Puffins bob on the water.
A gannet takes to the air.

As we approach Stornoway, we see a fisheries patrol vessel appearing out of the mist heading in the opposite direction. We relax; the only fish we have on board are the special offer ones that the First Mate had bought in the Coop in Lochmaddy and are now secure in their packaging in the freezer compartment. They’ll never think of looking in there if they board us.

Fisheries patrol vessel.

We have been to Stornoway before, so we don’t intend to stay long. Just enough to have a look at what’s new in the town and do a few essential jobs.

Washing day!

We pop into the exhibition on the 100th anniversary of Iolaire disaster in the Town Hall put on by the Stornoway Historical Society. When we were here last, in 2015, we had stopped at the Iolaire monument on the outskirts of Stornoway, a memorial to the men from Lewis who had drowned on returning home in 1919 after having survived the trenches of the First World War. They were within sight of Stornoway when the ship, the Iolaire (G: Sea Eagle), had struck a group of rocks called the ‘Beasts of Holm’ and sank. One man had managed to get a line across from the stricken ship to the shore, and had saved many of the men, but in all 205 drowned in view of the lights of home. The cruel tragedy is burned deep into the psyche of the Lewis people, as most families on the island lost at least one man in the disaster.

The Iolaire.

I shudder. We had passed the Beasts of Holm on the way in to the marina yesterday. It is a vivid reminder of the risks involving in going to sea, and a warning to take care on our own voyages ahead.