Orkney

There is an old adage that an allotment holder ‘shan’t go on holiday in summer’ but I broke the rule, slipped the chain and stole away for a week on Orkney, leaving the weeds to grow and my son in charge with the warning that if he over-watered or under-watered anything in the greenhouses or forgot to clean out the ducks and chickens there would be hell to pay when I returned.

And what happened? I fell in love; totally beguiled by a group of tiny islands sprinkled off the coast of Scotland like a fist full of stones dropped into the sea by a bored giant. They lie where the Atlantic meets the North Sea and they are steeped in mist and rain and legends and of course magic, like any island.

The love affair began very early on the first morning as the sky lightened and day broke across the fields. I awoke to silence; no Gatwick flight path, no distant hum of traffic, just a huge deep silence, the sort that makes you catch your breath and listen, the silence of curlews calling to each other across the field behind the house.

I padded outside, wrapped my fleece around myself and looked out across Scapa Flow, the light shinning on the water, the island of Flotta, the flare from the oil terminal just visible, the horizon and this huge sky; a glass-sharp pale blue blurred at the edges with gathering cloud and I knew I had fallen hook, line and sinker for this place.

So it went on. We got to know each other better, Orkney and I, as I explored the mainland, visited Kirkwall and its Viking Cathedral, stood solemnly inside the beautiful tiny chapel created by Italian prisoners of war, strolled along the fishing harbour at Stromness in the quietness of a Sunday morning, took the ferry to Hoy, visited the obligatory distillery and strode across craggy cliffs that fell into clear green water. There were empty straight roads through gentle green farmland, rain soaked moorland, sea lochs and stretches of pale yellow sand dunes.

Like the silence, a deep sense of the past runs through everything on Orkney and it hooks you like a drug. The history of these islands is woven into the landscape. You can touch it. The men, women and children who lived here have left a footprint behind, which irresistibly you have to follow.

The Mesolithic hunters and gatherers who settled the island cleared all the trees and they have not been replaced. What little remains of these wanderers who lived close to the sea has disappeared as sea levels have risen.

Their Neolithic successors, however, were farmers and before Stonehenge was built, before the Pyramids were raised they settled here and have left behind a treasure box for archaeologists and people like me who are fascinated by our very early ancestors.

The names of the Neolithic sites on Orkney carry a magic of their own that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up as I read about them before we came. There are the standing stones at Stenness (possibly the oldest henge site in Britain), the Ring of Brodgar with its impressive circle of stones, Skara Brae, a settlement that dates back to 3200BC which was lost until a storm in 1850 washed away the sand dunes covering it. Eight dwellings survive, linked by a maze of low covered passages. Each dwelling has a heath, stone bed, and a stone storage area. The people who lived here, lived well with a healthy diet of meat, seafood, cereals and vegetables and died (albeit younger) with good teeth! Food for thought for us.

Then there is Maeshowe, a chambered cairn set on a windswept hill, with a narrow entrance that was carefully positioned so that the sun’s rays at the winter solstice shone down the passageway to fall on those waiting inside to celebrate the turning of the year.

There are other cairns, like the Tomb of Eagles, where eagle’s claws were discovered alongside human remains, and then there are burnt mounds which appear to be ritual communal cooking sites.

And we walked like pilgrims amongst all this. I stood in the lee of one of the stones in the Brodgar circle, sheltering from the wind looking out across a sea loch, closed my eyes, felt time shift and imagined I stood amongst those who dragged these amazing stones into place.

We dropped in and walked around the ongoing excavations at the Ness of Brodgor where archaeologists believe they are uncovering an area that was used as a religious meeting place some 3,000 years BC.  The work is painstaking and the discoveries that are being made are rewriting what we know about early man. I parted with a donation for the opportunity to put a pin in the map of the dig in the hope that something will be found there as the work continues and they will email me with any information. From stone age to computer age.

We didn't even touch the Pict and Viking remains or anything that has come after. A reason to return.

 

I fell in love with the wild side as well. We took a walk on the third day along sandstone cliffs and stumbled into birdwatcher’s heaven. There was the shriek of sleek Arctic Terns as they dive bombed us as we set off along their cliff top. There were Fulmars nesting on the crags, their fluffy grey chicks tucked on precarious ledges above the pounding sea below. Black and white Arctic Skuas wheeled around between rock and sea. A family of Cormorants rounded a headland making for safe waters. Then, just as we were about to turn back we spotted a group of grey seals, lounging on an outcrop of rocks, flopping into the water, heads bobbing just above the waves.

When I thought things couldn’t get any better, driving back I spotted a short eared owl perched on a fence beside the road.

Our walks took us through wild flower meadows alive with insects. I discovered a tiny white flower called Grass-of-Parnassus, growing alongside Birds Foot Trefoil, Lady’s Bedstraw and Ragged Robin, which I have never seen anywhere else. The moors were covered with Bilberry, fluffy tuffs of Cotton Grass and Meadowsweet. Everywhere there was colour.

The best bits?  The purple jellyfish that floated in on the tide around our feet, and the hare bounding along in front of the car on the track leading down to our cottage. It must be thirty years since I have seen a hare and the sight made the holiday for me.

Last Sunday I took a familiar walk along the South Downs Way up to Truleigh Hill close to where I live. To get to the footpath we cross the River Adur and then cross a main road before we can follow the track up. The sky was clear and blue, a combine, dust rising from its tracks, was at work, there was a buzzard circling above, perfect, but as we stood waiting to cross the road watching the stream of traffic go past, trapped in its noise, I realised I had left a little piece of my soul on Orkney.