It’s a while since last I wrote, so here goes for another letter.

This is the month of May when the weather should be looking and feeling like summer.

Instead, on the 17th of the month, large flakes of snow came swirling, heavily, albeit briefly, out of the north and whitened the ground for a time. Imagine that! Almost unbelievable, you might think at this time of year.

What is also as unbelievable (to some of us at least) is that five islanders, of whom I am the only one living on the island, who went to school together (1945-1952) can now say that we have all become OAPs – the two ladies of our school class have, of course, been in that category since they turned 60.

Anyhow, when we and our contemporaries were younger and heard of this person and that person reaching pension age, we generally thought: “Weel, the’ir juist gottin tae be aald fok.”

On the other hand, at least the bluebells are in bloom and the old fashioned lily (narcissus) has appeared lately.

I look forward every year to their arrival, and always have a few in the house. The scent of these flowers pervades the room, and their elegant form is a pleasure to the eye.

As to being OAPs, I’m always reminded, as I’ve mentioned before, of the old Chinese poet, 2000 years ago, who wrote a poem on being 60.

He said that he was far from old age and being decrepit, and that between 60 and 70 he could still seek the rivers and hills. Let us hope firstly, that the weather improves and that secondly, OAPs can be like the Chinese poet – even beyond the 70 mark.

A few days ago, when we were enjoying a brief spell of fine weather, the moon could be seen during the day in the east. She appeared like a ghost in the blue sky. It seems very strange to actually see the moon when the sun is shining, but there she was.

Two days ago she was full, and at night looked magnificent, but last night she swam in a watery sky and tonight her silvery light is hidden behind a canopy of cloud. The wind is a cold southeasterly, and grey, sullen mist that came down in the mirking has turned into rain and I can hear the pitter patter on the roof. In fact it’s not at all pleasant and the mournful sound of the foghorn comes and goes.

The only consolation is the calling of the birds: In particular the whistling of the ‘whap’ but I can also hear the ‘sheldars’ in the background and the easterly wind carries the tang and sound of the sea

Speaking about birds – when I was out in the fields recently doing a bit of rolling, I saw three young lapwings or, as we say, ‘tee-wups’. They were running as fast as their legs could carry them, first one way then another.

All the while their parents flew above, sometimes landing, but decidedly guiding their family from the air away from mortals such as myself.

And then in the barn, for days, I had been aware of a little wren flying out through the open door as I went through.

On closer investigation I discovered a nest, most beautifully made, cup-shaped with the smallest entrance hole. At night I had a better look with a flashlight – away flew Jenny Wren, but I knew she would be back. On tiptoe, I could see four tiny, whitish coloured eggs, and the inside of the nest, which had been woven of hay, was lined neatly with white feathers.

Her nest had been made in the coils of an old sisal creel rope from the 60s.

For some 40 years or so the old rope had hung untouched. Once it had helped to catch a lobster or two, now it was being put to use to bring a family of wrens into the world to entertain us with their musical song.

This is another day and, after a night of heavy rain – 11.9mm, John Cutt tells me – the wind has swept strongly into the southwest. The sun has been bright all day and the west sea is fairly dancing.

As the evening began to close-in, the wind moderated a little, but into the north it seems to be heading. Grey and pink-tinged cloud began to fill the sky and away on the horizon the yellow and orange of a mostly hidden sunset appeared above the cold, steel blue of the sea. If this weather continues, silage, hay and grass will certainly not be very abundant this season.

Island news I’ll cover briefly as well as I can remember – my diary is a help. After the school’s open day at Easter, the North Ronaldsay Trust held a spring fayre when many and varied items were for sale, with numerous attractive and valuable prizes kindly donated for the raffle.

Two members of Friends of the North Ronaldsay Trust travelled from the Mainland to help. A sum in excess of £400 was raised.

Otherwise, the community association ran a series of evening classes, in yoga and computing, ending in March, and a whist drive raised around £70 for the association; while, at the bird observatory, a most enjoyable informal get-together took place, when a number of very competent musicians from the Mainland performed over a weekend stay.

On the two evenings a good company of islanders and visitors enjoyed the music and song.

Two talks at the community centre took place relatively recently and were well attended. First was John Mowat who gave an illustrated lecture on the Faroe islands – updating a previous one (Aberdeen University sponsored lectures), and a little later Jenny Taylor (Orkney Woodland Development Project) gave useful and expert advice on treeplanting – a difficult business requiring knowledge on soil suitability, initial protection, and the most likely type of tree to survive Orkney’s exposed geographical situation.

Island work such as native sheep punding, ploughing, artificial fertilizer sowing, rolling etc has more or less followed the usual season’s pattern. Barley has now, I believe, all been sown. Sadly perhaps, after, I suppose, hundreds of years, not a peat has been turned at Antabreck.

No oats sown for the first time in my memory at this house – the hairst time will never be the same.

Well folks, this is not going to be too long a letter. For the moment I think I’ll go to bed before the ‘heuld o’ the night’ which is fast approaching – I’m going though, to read a bit more of Walter Traill Dennison’s book, The Orcadian Sketch-Book (published in 1880), a copy of which I have on loan.

While on a visit recently I came across this book and in it I saw Denninson’s classic story, The Heuld-Horn Rumpis – a tale which I have been long wanting to read. It is written (as all the stories in the book are) in the dialect of the writer’s native isle of Sanday.

Dennison says: “The author’s principal object has been to preserve the dialect of his native islands . . .”

The heuld is explained as midnight, and the heuld horn was a kindly old custom of Norse origin where sometime after the guests had retired to bed, the lady of the house would make a round of the bedrooms offering every guest a drink of warm spirituous liquor.

This was, Dennison says, the “heuld-drink” which was presented in a small horn vessel called the “heuld horn”.

I can tell you that, in this particular story, the heuld horn offered to the guests and the copious refreshment before certainly led to a proper ‘rumpis’ – at one point in the narrative a minister, who had sensibly retired to bed was offered the “heuld-drink” by the formidable lady of the house.

Being a widow twice over, she had other designs on her guest who was fortunate to escape through the window but with only part of his bed-gown remaining.

Another day and the wind is in the north and forecast to veer into the northeast with more rain on the way.

The morning brought ‘flams o’ weet,’ but as I draw this letter to a close, the sun has just appeared, veiled behind thin cloud. Nevertheless, the air has warmed a little.

I’ve just had a phone call to tell me that there is a three-masted sailing ship passing to the north. She is a fine sight as she sails swiftly east with the flood and a following wind. Her white sails (some furled) stand out against a dull sky of pale blue and passing, purple tinted cloud. Her hull is painted red.

I imagine she is about halfway between the island and the Fair Isle which I can just see behind the ship – today there is a bit of haze in the distance giving the isles a pale blue, faraway appearance.

This is indeed a sight from the past and conjures up memories of the great days of sail one reads about; flying down the Roaring Forties or scudding along with the trade winds or fighting a perilous passage round Cape Horn.

A verse from John Masefield’s poem Sea-Fever should round off this letter nicely.

I must go down to the sea again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

An art school life study, 'an essential alphabet of three dimensional form.'

Last year, I wrote a letter which was intended as a reply to several folk who had asked questions about an exhibition of my work held in the Pier Arts Centre, Stromness. Questions about my art and about island life.

Sometimes a considered response, written at leisure, is the best way to answer such queries.

Here is my letter. Perhaps, it may be of interest to today’s young art student or to others who wonder.

After art school days at Grays in Aberdeen I came back to North Ronaldsay – that was in 1962.

My parents were still in their prime and I had brothers and sisters who shared the work.

Since the island population was around 160, there were folk who could help and, conversely, there was time to help.

In many ways the island was still very much alive; it was an island where its folk had grown up together and lived together for most of their lives.

They also shared a common history stretching back through the generations. It was an island very different from today; agriculture has changed dramatically as has almost every aspect of life, but perhaps most serious of all, the population has fallen to around 60.

In those far off days I had the time to produce the artwork that I wanted. I could travel to further my artistic research and development and I could enjoy island life.

There was the fishing, the communal work involved with the tangles, native sheep and the hairst work, contact with the older generation with their knowledge and experience and so on.

Time seemed to be there for the taking. But time steals away the years; folk age, as earlier freedoms, once taken for granted, become less and less, other commitments appear and the years slip away all the more speedily.

Then, one day, before we are fully aware of what is happening, the reality of the passing years becomes apparent.

If I recall my art school days and make at least one comparison with today’s teaching, I think there is now more emphasis put on written work – at least that is my impression.

Too much theory can detract, I believe, from actually getting down to developing the art of sculpture, painting, or whatever discipline one specialises in (if one really wants to become a practising, creative artist).

Imagine, for example, learning how to be a farmer or a fisherman from a book! I’m not saying that the theory of art, with its historical background etc, should not be the subject of detailed study with a degree qualification at the end of the day; but there is a big difference between the purpose of this knowledge and the knowledge of a creative artist.

I always felt every year was important and that even four were too short. Two were a general course – anatomy, history of art and architecture, drawing, design, painting, sculpture, metalwork, jewellery, ceramics etc. Then, for two years, one specialised in one of the three main subjects – painting, design or sculpture.

It is at this stage that a fifth year would be so useful and, having had that advantage, I am convinced of it.

The studios, plus equipment and materials, all supplied virtually free, were a great thing to have during those early informative years.

An Egyptian sculpture - powerful and monumental, and showing the simplification of form.

It was an unrivalled opportunity to develop artistic abilities from day to day – something that one loses initially when the art school days are over.

In the sculpture department, where I finally settled, we learned to model in clay, cast in plaster-of-paris (portraits, lifesize pieces etc) and we did basic carving, mostly using sandstone or serpentine.

Also used, was a soft building material called siporex – enabling students to get the experience of carving quickly.

Letter cutting was taught, working in slate, marble or granite. Leo Clegg, head of the sculpture department at that time, said that a sculptor should be able to draw, model, carve, cast, cut letters etc – all the skills a sculptor should have.

In carving granite, marble, wood or whatever, the process is slow. As it happens, I prefer modelling/building up.

However, working in clay means one has to cast the final piece, a tedious process of making plaster moulds and creating a plaster (or other mediums) replica with all that entails – casting, laminating, joining, chipping out, finishing, colouring, polishing etc.

On the other hand, modelling directly in plaster (as I did for my recent exhibition) is much faster and one has the satisfaction of seeing a piece of work evolving quickly.

I think when modelling in clay one has more control – it’s slower but arguably gives a more considered creation.

If a portrait or a figurative piece (or an abstract sculpture for that matter) is not going well, then one can simply slice away the clay and begin again – not so easy for either set plaster and even more difficult with setting/set cement.

When working in plaster or cement all the additional procedures are eliminated, though one is restricted by a medium that sets quickly – 20 minutes or so for plaster.

And, if modelling in cement, cement does not tolerate interference – apart from anything else it could weaken the structure.

I should say that plaster-of-paris, by comparison, is easily worked with surf-forms or the like, even when hard and properly cured, but the disadvantage with a plaster piece is that it is fragile and so one is then looking at another cast with the replica in cement, bronze, or cold cast resin bronze, to name three possibilities.

As a sculptor, I believe the most difficult challenge is modelling, or carving a lifesize study of the human figure.

If one looks at an ear, eye, hand or foot, let alone the body, we are confronted with all sorts of shapes, changing angles, subtle planes and proportions.

Once life studies are mastered, then a sculptor (or painter) is well on the away. From that basis – just like learning to read and write – an artist can develop his or her ideas. The very same principle applies to all work which I believe is an art of one kind or another: building with stone; the carpenter or the knitter; the person who ploughs the fields or the fisherman and so on.

Clay study of a lifeboatman

Each learns the basic skills and every person will have a different talent with a different approach and degree of accomplishment all their own.

Let me now mention my painting. I have always aimed at producing a picture that captures, in a way that most folk will understand, the atmosphere, colour and, if I may use the word, the essence of North Ronaldsay or of the Orcadian landscape.

Maybe as a sculptor, with my interest in three-dimensional form, I might dwell a little longer on eye-catching shapes where rock and stone feature.

I do not attempt to be entirely realistic, since a camera can manage that. Instead I paint quickly, mostly always on location in a free impressionistic style, concentrating on the overall interest of the scene, leaving out unnecessary detail.

A painting, if not completely finished, must convince me that it will be a success – the colour and composition has to be good.

Further development and finishing touches may be necessary and that will mostly be done later at home before the oil paint begins to harden. Watercolour, by comparison, is a more instant medium and has generally to be finished in one go.

Mostly, my art is a question of getting down to work. The difficulty sometimes is making that start.

When one does (taking painting as an example) there will be frustrating failures.

And even when one has got under way, not every day goes successfully. Mentally it is often hard to force oneself back to work after days of failures and particularly if there are deadlines to meet or other distracting work to do.

What else is there? Yes, my so-called abstract sculpture.

Some folk say: “No I don’t understand it.”

It’s very simple. Suppose someone, who was greatly taken with North Ronaldsay, wanted a painting to remind them of the island. That is easy. Paint a picture.

Suppose they asked for a sculpture. Well, I could model a portrait of someone or maybe a figure – a farmer, peat-carrier, fisherman etc. But what about something other than a human representation?

Something which reminds them of the sea, a bird in flight, such as the forever gliding fulmar, or the graceful tern; sea shells and rock formations; the streamlined dogfish or the wonderfully engineered pincers of the sea-urchin; or curious-shaped seaweed, stone and broken shells that one finds every other fishing day in the lobster creel or along the shore.

It’s possible to look at those many objects and create a piece of work which could be based on one, or which could combine two or three or more.

Would that not remind a person of a day fishing or a walk on the beach? That is what I sometimes do. And when I do, I remember the complicated human body – that essential alphabet of three-dimensional form and understanding.

I remember Egyptian sculpture with its monumental, simplified forms. I even remember days at sea — the artistry, if you like, of balancing in a small open boat against the moving waves with every fleeting view a work of art.

For, against each heaving mass of water, the boat and fisherman counter poise and shift to meet the rise and fall, imperceptibly following the rhythms of sea and sky.

And what about the rhythms of North Ronaldsay itself? I hadn’t thought about it like this before, but I was just thinking about what I have been saying – about the artistry in our day to day activities.

Perhaps, one could compare the island to a work of art. The island has sometimes been described as a jewel set in azure seas for example. How could the island be, so to speak, a sort of living work of art?

That would be interesting. Well, it would have to look good from all perspectives.

If there were bad areas, changes would be required, as in my piece of sculpture that was not coming along well.

To wipe everything away, as I sometimes do when a painting is not going satisfactorily, is perhaps too drastic – though often I find the best solution is a new beginning.

One of Ian's abstract sculptures

This piece of island art would have to be balanced – just like the fisherman and his boat at sea.

Not only that but it would have to meet the challenge of adverse weather as well. Could the island be looked at as it was in the past, when, arguably, as I said earlier, it was alive and island life could be enjoyed?

I believe it could. It would require a few touches of vibrant colour, such as young families.

More people would be around to help, just as we did in our early days. They would, most importantly, have to respect and carry on the best of the old traditions and customs, which cover almost every aspect of island life, and, at the same time, develop new opportunities.

Then, possibly, a frame could be placed round the picture, and North Ronaldsay could be displayed for all to see.

I am including four photographs of pieces of sculpture as an explanation of the above text. One is an art school life-study – that essential alphabet of three-dimensional form.

Another is of an Egyptian sculpture – powerful and monumental, and showing the simplification of form.

A third is my clay study for a lifeboat-man – showing something of that Egyptian concept.

There, for example, the folds of the clothing are reduced to uncomplicated forms, leaving the essential figure strong and complete.

The fourth shows one of my abstract sculptures based on natural forms but using the knowledge gained and developed from those examples.

“Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree and a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that’
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that!”

Suppose, for a moment, that you were asked to propose the Immortal Memory. And suppose that you agreed to carry out the request jointly (you and your partner), and just think that the audience had been able to listen in on your developing ideas.

Well, that is exactly how the North Ronaldsay Community Association’s guest speakers, John and Naismi Flett from Kirkwall, presented this year’s Immortal Memory.

There they were sitting at a table (as if at home) discussing ways about how best to put together their speech; wondering what the North Ronaldsay folk would make of it all. From time to time, to emphasise a point or illustrate the humanity or the satirical and perceptive genius of the bard, they would recite a special poem or quote a verse or two: Holy Willie’s Prayer, John Anderson, Mary Morrison, The Twa Herds, My Spouse Nancy and so on.

I can tell you now that John and Naismi, as you might expect, gave the most wonderful tribute to Burns – one which, I’m sure, will be long remembered.

Upwards of 70 folk attended the Burns Supper held on Saturday, January 19, in the new community centre.

A number of visitors from outside the island were present this year as it happened, including the newly appointed development officer for North Ronaldsay and Sanday, Rose Seagrief.

A number of North Ronaldsay folk also came out for the event. This meant moving from a smaller venue into the main hall. The night before the event a few of us rolled up our sleeves, got down to work, and decorated the large hall.

Up went three nine feet or so wide curtains of red, blue, and green, covering the stark white walls and reducing the hall in size by a quarter or so. On to the draped curtains we hung tartan rugs, lengths of tartan material, hessian and scrim with neep baskets and various assorted riddles – all implements such as Burns would have used.

Across a false ceiling, which we brought down to about the curtain height by stretching fine netting across the hall, we scattered many red roses made from crepe paper. All of that in candle and lamplight created an atmosphere very suitable and cosy for the night’s proceedings.

To begin the evening, Peter Donnelly, North Ronaldsay Community Association president, welcomed everybody. He acknowledged the efforts of many willing helpers (without whose work no successful event could ever happen) and introduced the association’s guests. Two speakers have already been mentioned but there were other quests: Innes Wylie (pipes) and Grace Wylie, of Dearness, Howie Firth, Fiona Driver (fiddle) and her partner Keith Rendall, of Rendall.

This year, two pipers wearing kilts piped in the haggis – Innes Wylie and our local piper Sinclair Scott (both members of the Stromness British Legion Pipe Band). They made a couple of rounds of the hall for good measure. Between the two marched the chief cook, Winnie Scott.

Howie addressed the haggis with much verve, to be followed by the Selkirk grace recited by John Cutt. The pipers then marched out playing Highland Laddie.

Cider accompanied the supper, with ample drams being served later in readiness for the main toast of the evening.

We then enjoyed John and Naismi’s Immortal Memory, which, as I explained, was so wonderfully and so very grandly performed. They had extra lights for their readings but otherwise they sat or stood up in candle and lamplight with Burns’ portrait looking on in the background.

After the Immortal Memory, Sidney Ogilivie proposed the Toast to the Lasses and his wife Anne replied. They performed this part of the programme very nicely indeed with both their speeches delivered in rhyme, basing their discourse on For a’ that and a’ that (with apologies to Burns).

Howie Firth, who last year recited Tam o’ Shanter, followed with a short tribute to Burns and a near contemporary, Slovenian poet, France Preseren. (In Slovenia, on January 25, there had been a celebration of the two poets’ lives.)

Howie began by reminding us of the tsunami disaster and of the Holocaust, this year being the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. He went on to talk about the similarities of the two poets, quoting some verses to illustrate, in particular, the two men’s belief in the brotherhood of man.

Sidney, by special request, then sang Kellyburn Braes, a 14-verse poem by Burns (slightly changed by Sidney to suit the tune). It is always enjoyable to listen to the song.

This was followed by the fiddler, Fiona Driver, who has been a guest performer at a previous Burns Supper. Once again we listened to her fine fiddle playing. She began with two slow airs by Neil Gow, followed by strathspeys and reels by Gow and others of the period. How very fitting it is to listen to music such as Burns would have known and in the same lighting as would have been used in those days of over 200 years ago.

John Cutt continued by reciting, in his inimitable style and in the North Ronaldsay dialect, a short story, Things we said in Aalden Days, written by Allan Taylor (Kirkwall).

Slight adjustments had been made to suit the local situation as the reader explained. The reading caused much amusement and I’ve no doubt that Burns would have thoroughly approved of the keeping alive of the local dialect.

To conclude the programme, Howie proposed a toast to North Ronaldsay. At the first official Burns Supper held in the island in 1933 such a toast was made. It seems appropriate to continue with this tradition and Howie, as he did last year, delivered a short speech full of interest when he talked about several people from the past: Sir Walter Scott, the lighthouse-builder, Robert Stevenson, Rev George Low, Colonel Thomas Traill and Earl Rognvald of Orkney.

Howie imagined that they would have readily raised a glass to join in with the toast to North Ronaldsay.

Soon the dance got under way. Sometimes folk were in a “discoorsie” mood, other times in a dancing mode.

Innes Wylie played accordion, as did Ann Tulloch. From time to time Fiona Driver accompanied on fiddle, as did Jim Sinclair (Shapinsay) on guitar, Kathleen Scott and Victor Reid (Kirkwall) tapped out the rhythm and I tinkled a key or two in between times.

Sinclair played a fast eightsome reel which had us in a whirl. Great was the mood of the night.

During the tea break, with homebakes, currant bun and Westray shortbread being served, the raffle in aid of the tsunami disaster was drawn, with Ian Deyell and Peter Donnelly officiating. Many were the generous prizes donated and very magnificent was the amount raised (including donations) – £510.70. The door takings were also added to the fundraising efforts, making a total of £893.20. That sum, plus other monies from the community council gave, a grand total of £1,493.20 for the appeal. Collection boxes from around the island have yet to be opened.

Fiona Driver played a selection of toe-tapping tunes in her seemingly effortless style (accompanied by Jim Sinclair on guitar) before the last two dances were announced.

By around three in the morning the singing of Auld Lang Syne brought our celebrations for Scotland’s national poet to a close.

It also brought to a close what is now our tenth celebration of Burns (after a lapse of some years). It was, in fact, the former director of education, Jim Anderson, who provided the inspiration for this revival. He had been our Harvest Home speaker in 1995 and reminded us that 1996 was the 200th anniversary of the poet’s death and so he became our first speaker in our revival of the commemoration – a revival which has brought much enjoyment.

Last night, the stars were brilliantly clear, with Orion for a time dominating the eastern sky. Earlier, the sunset, mostly hidden behind black, purple clouds, left a line of orange close to the horizon. And above the dark clouds, in between the main canopy which extended in all directions, the background sky was a beautiful pale, luminous green. All day the West Sea was thundering away.

North Ronaldsay's winter is possibly three-quarters gone, judging by the weather on Candlemas Day.

Tonight, February 3, at the mirking, I heard a blackbird trying out a few notes. Is this a good or bad sign so early in the year, I wonder? Either way it’s grand to hear the blackbird begin to sing once again.

The oystercatchers are also calling.

But what about Candlemas day, February 2?

“If Candlemas day dawns bright and fair, half the winter’s to come or mair” – is that how the rhyme goes?

Well, it was a fair morning followed by a misty “weet,” so maybe a quarter of the winter is still to come.

In Holland House’s gardens, and in other shelters here and there, the snowdrops are hanging their little heads. They are the first sign of the coming spring and, if one takes a look under their peedie petals, delicate colours of green and orange surprise and please the eye.

One month is past, another is begun,
Since merry bells rung out the dying year,
And buds of rarest green began to peer,
As if impatient for a warmer sun;
And though the distant hills are bleak and dun,
The virgin snowdrop like a lambent fire,
Pierces the cold earth with its green-streaked spire
And in dark woods, the wandering little one
May find a primrose.

Hartley Coleridge

Yesterday was Christmas Day, and having done very little today I thought I would begin to write up our Yule events and one or two earlier ones.

In November, at one of the Aberdeen University lectures, we had a well-attended talk on aviation (illustrated with slides) given by a retired airline pilot, Captain Bill Innes.

Of much interest were his photographs of different types of aeroplanes, many of which he had flown.

The photographs showed machines flown during his national service days in the RAF, up until piloting the big transatlantic BEA passenger airliners.

Of interest too, were a few historic photographs taken in the 30s, which he had included, of Captain Fresson’s planes in North Ronaldsay. One lady in the audience, Janet Tulloch, Scottigar, had flown as a passenger with Fresson.

More recently, the North Ronaldsay Lifeboat Guild held their annual (and enjoyable) fundraising event.

As is always the case, the island responded very generously when over £825 was spent. Raffles, local goods, Christmas cards, calendars and so on, provided the attraction.

RNLI collection boxes brought that sum to almost £900. Although this amount is not entirely all clear profit for the institution, a considerable sum is, and I think it is commendable that a small island can muster such effort and support.

Later, a whist drive raised over £100 to help with the bairns’ Christmas Eve party. Though some children were away from the island this year, others from the Mainland were present.

All the usual entertainment, including Santa’s visit, took place in a hall glittering with Christmas decorations.

The school meals Christmas dinner for the island was well attended, with the school children giving a short musical performance.

By way of a change this year, Patricia Wilson conducted, and played the music for a service of Christmas Carols held in the New Church a few days later.

Her pupils read appropriate Bible readings from the pulpit, between the singing of many of the old familiar carols. Soft drinks and warm Christmas pies were served later to over 30 residents, making a most pleasant end to the occasion.

In speaking of the island’s lifeboat guild’s fundraising evening, I’m reminded of the Longhope lifeboat disaster in 1969. I suppose many will remember the day, and I’m sure the tragedy is still thought about by Orcadians especially at such events.

Well, I was going to say that in 1969, I travelled up north to Shetland to spend a couple of weeks making drawings, mainly of rock formations.

While there, I spent some time in Unst, also I visited the Hillswick area, Sumburgh and Bressay.

Unst was reached by sailing on the old Earl of Zetland which gave a wonderful sense of the islands and those northern waters. I especially remember calling in past Whalsay – a place full of activity, for those were the days when the fishing in Shetland was going very well.

Steaming up to Unst past the islands in one of those old coal-powered ships reminded me of many a similar trip taken in another Earl, the Earl Sigurd, when, in the 50s and later, we made the sea-trip from Kirkwall to North Ronaldsay. Unst was in a way the North Ronaldsay of Shetland.

November was the month I travelled to Shetland, and although the weather was reasonable to begin with, snow fell a week or so into my visit and it became very cold.

Nevertheless, I had to soldier on, clad in a suit of black oilskins, with gloves to keep myself reasonably warm for drawing.

One day while walking on a slope, I slipped. Dressed in oilskins I suddenly found myself quite out of control, careering like a toboggan. Fortunately, I came to a stop, as I was not that far from a cliff face which dropped vertically some distance down to the sea. The experience left me considerably shaken, and from then on I stayed well away from any cliff areas or steep, questionable slopes. One day in Lerwick, when it was snowing, I spent a day making studies of various natural objects in the museum.

There were cases of all sorts of fascinating shells, interestingly-shaped archaeological objects, models of beautiful old Shetland boats such as the foureens and sixereens and so on.

During my travels I carried a 35mm Russian camera, a Zenet, taking photographs wherever I went. I must have a look at those slides sometime and see if they are still showable.

They were viewed in North Ronaldsay one night over 35 years ago before a dance in the Memorial Hall. Ronnie Swanney, from Trebb, might well have been playing his accordion that evening. When he was really in form, his music swept folk along and if everybody was not up dancing, then their feet would have been tapping out the rhythm.

As I write, I’m beginning to think that I may have mentioned something of my Shetland visit in a previous letter. Anyway, I was going to say that when I went across to the island of Bressay from Lerwick – a short ferry trip – I actually attended the Bressay harvest thanksgiving service.

It was conducted by James Lennie Matches (who came from Stronsay originally). He had married a first cousin of my late father – Emma Tulloch, from Upper Linnay.

I think I stayed two weekends with them and what laughs we had going over old times in North Ronaldsay. Matches had a great sense of fun and had preached here for a time in the 20s.

A couple of fun weekends were spent with James and Emma Matches during Ian's 1969 visit to Shetland.

He also had entertaining stories to tell about his experiences in Shetland, as he had been a preacher in Burra Isle, Uyeasound, Yell, Unst, and Whiteness, before ending his preaching days in Bressay.

Emma was a nurse and she was just about to retire from working in Montfield Hospital. Every day she had to travel from Bressay by ferry to work. Today, I hear that there is either a bridge or an underground tunnel planned. Imagine that!

In the 80s I used to listen to Rhoda Bulter’s programmes on Radio Shetland. Thinking of those programmes (the playing of old 78s) reminds me of trimming creels or corking ropes in the early summer shortly before the fishing season began, for often I would have Radio Shetland switched on where I worked in the open air.

And remembering those days it would be grand, on a summer’s day to sail once more round to the North side, there to set a creel or two in the old familiar sets. Perhaps in the Swallow Rock Ley, the Sholtsquoy Ley or the Blue Pow Ley, maybe one at the Kirn o’ Rue or two or three in the Caty-Holes at the back o’ the Green Skerry. Those names are interesting.

The Swallow, for instance, was a trawler wrecked on the west side (Toungie) of Seal Skerry in 1905.

It must have been fishermen of Sholtisquoy and Rue who exploited the house-name creel sets and the Blue Pow (pool) Ley on the east end of the skerry is self-explanatory.

The Kirn was a round shaped rock, like the old-fashioned kirn, but why the Caty-Holes? Today the population of those special fine-weather sets will no doubt be like that of North Ronaldsay – somewhat depleted, since the continued exploitation of island waters by other than local boats has taken its toll. But then isn’t that the story of fishing everywhere?

Rhoda, of course, was a great advocate of Shetland culture and tradition. Dialect in particular was, I think, one of Rhoda’s passions.

It’s interesting, for instance, to find one or two (now rarely heard) words of Norse origin which we still remember in North Ronaldsay that can be found in Jacob Jakobsen’s Dictionary of the Norn language in Shetland – some 10,000 words (mostly unknown to me personally) and first published in English in 1928.

I say this because those words were not recorded in Hugh Marwick’s Orkney Norn (c. 3,300 words, published in 1929).

Marwick’s book, by contrast, does contain a number that we still use. Two generations from now I doubt whether many of the old Orkney words of Norse origin will be remembered.

One hundred years ago and less, many of the old words were in everyday use as they related directly to what has now become outdated farming and fishing methods, household chores – long out of fashion implements and utensils, states of the weather or the sea, and so on.

How many young Orcadians, for instance, know the word Teebro? As they say, unless a language is used, it will die. The Orcadian dialect itself is in danger and differences in pronunciation, which varied from island to island, parish to parish, are fast fading away.

One of these words, for example, is oot-rugg. Rugg in Jakobsen’s dictionary means strong tide or wind. In fact locally, our interpretation would be a strong out-going undercurrent – a danger experienced when coming ashore by boat with a land sea running and especially dangerous for someone to be caught up in.

Another similar word we might use (though not Norse) would be oonder-tow (Scots oonder – under, tow – to pull). Marwick mentions ‘rugg’ but not in connection with tides. There is another word mentioned by Jakobsen which has the same meaning: baksuk (backwash of broken shore-waves – bak back, suk sook) but etymology is another subject all together.

So there we are for this part of the letter. Anyhow, Shetland remains a place of nostalgia for me, not only from my visit of so many years ago now, but also through connections of friends and relatives who still live there. It is a place to which I should pay a long overdue return visit.

Well, Hogmanay has been and gone with the old year passing into history and between one thing and another, a sad history.

Folk had made their way here and there as they usually do bringing in the New Year. And today, New Year’s Day, 17 stalwarts set forth to the old standing stone.

Heavy westerly seas pounded the rocky shoreline, throwing up white spray against grey skies, and against dark, windy clouds an Eightsome reel circle was danced briefly to accordion music. One enthusiastic dancer began in a real business fashion for, in a twirling of arms, off came his coat and jersey, and on this winter day, in shirt-sleeves, one arm for the swing, the other pointed to the sky in Highland fling style, the short dance began.

Such is the fun of the occasion, which ended with a round or two of the Famous Grouse.

Later, at Neven, in front of a blazing fire, tea, cakes and drams were served. A special toast was proposed: Doom and gloom to be banished, no talk of being old and decrepit, but always to have a positive outlook, and that 2005 would be a special year for everybody.

Then five peedie folk presented a little sketch for the ‘stan stane’ dancers called The Explorers in the Jungle.

New Year celebrations continued here and there through the ‘heuld’ and into the ‘wee sma oors’, and no doubt they will continue for a night or two yet to come. That toast, by the way, is not a bad one at all.

As I finish, I was just noticing my late father’s fiddle box – it’s in the same room as my computer. It reminds me of a very different New Year’s night of long ago when the population of the island would have been over 200. If only the old fiddle, I thought, could conjure up the dance music and bring the night back for an hour or two.

The ‘aald hut’ was full of folk on that occasion. Pipe and cigarette smoke floated above the company that seemed to sway this way and that. Voices and music, and dancing feet filled the building with a sound we’ll never hear again.

And in my mind’s eye I can remember certain faces as clear as yesterday. This one night in particular (for not always was there a New Year’s dance) must have been in the early 50s.

My father would certainly have had his fiddle and there would have been an accordion – maybe there was a number of instruments, I can’t quite remember, but the music would have had the dancers flying. Tonight, the fiddle in its box is silent but yet the memories remain to pleasantly haunt the mind from time to time.

On my living room table there are two particular reminders of jobs to be done. One is a little book in which I made a few notes about the school’s open day, held just before what used to be called the tattie holidays.

The other is a lovely display of red carnations created by D. & H. Glue for the recent harvest home. I have taken the liberty of keeping one to remind me of a grand occasion.

Before I begin, I must tell you that I am still sleeping in one of our attics. I moved there to allow for extra accommodation at the time of the island wedding reviewed in my last letter.

It’s especially enjoyable, to fall asleep with the stars shining through the room’s skylight; or when the moon is in the west and she illuminates my room with a silvery light.

If the weather’s fine and my little window is partly opened, another pleasure is the sound of the sea, and the occasional cry of a curlew or lapwing. Even the wind, when it gets the chance, plays around my face and gives one the vivid feeling of actually being outside lying underneath starry skies.

In my last letter I mentioned the beginning of the harvest work. After the shearing and stooking up of my crop of oats there were windy days, damp and rainy days when, from time to time, I had to set up, all over again, the stooks that were badly battered.

On September 27, a good day came and we built three stacks and a ‘diss’ — a word from the Old Norse which means a small stack.

During the following two days, a jolly team of workers took up my neighbour’s tatties — many hands made light work as the last fruits of the season were gathered.

I’m back now to the tattie holidays and the school’s open day.

Patricia Thomson and support teacher Sheila Grieve were there to help and talk about the school’s activities and so on.

The four pupils, Heather and Gavin Woodbridge, Duncan and Cameron Gray, had been involved in many studies over a period of two terms that had taken them here and there in Orkney.

Castles, brochs, 17th and 19th century houses were visited, studied, photographed and written about, using digital cameras and computers — places such as the Bishop’s Palace, Kirkwall, Earl’s Palace, Birsay, Noltland Castle, Westray, Cubbie Roo’s Castle in Wyre. Then the more recent and grander houses were seen, Skaill House and Balfour Castle for example.

They also had a look at early prehistoric settlements when they went to see the Broch of Gurness, Evie, and the Broch of Burrowston in Shapinsay.

The pupils had mostly prepared and set up their own wall displays and were ready to talk about their work as the visitors walked around. Heather was dressed as a Victorian lady whilst the boys were dressed as knights.

Costumes had been designed and expertly made by classroom assistant, Edith Craigie.

In addition to their school project work, the pupils had also experienced activities such as archery, canoeing, map-reading etc at the Birsay outdoor centre.

After presentations of swimming and good conduct certificates, tea and homebakes were served, to end a most enjoyable afternoon.

When some of us older folks were partaking of all sorts of homebakes and other tit-bits that afternoon, we reminisced about earlier school days.

We tried to work out where the movable partition that divided the present new classroom into the ‘peedie end’ and the ‘muckle end’ used to be — peedie for the younger scholars and muckle for the older — but couldn’t quite.

We remembered the two old coal fires that didn’t heat up the rooms particularly well during winters which were much colder than we experience today.

As for visits to the Orkney Mainland, that never happened, apart from the one yearly island trip-day to Kirkwall, during the summer holidays. Sometimes we had picnics at our own broch at Burrian, but that was more or less the extent of our archaeological excursions. What I will say though is, that it’s a big step from the old-fashioned slate and slate pencils (that I just remember using occasionally) to the computer technology of today’s comfortably-heated classroom.

Mary Leonard has recently written a fine account of our harvest home in Orkney Today but I will add a little extra just to complete the picture.

On October 29, a night which, in the old days, would have been considered very appropriate as the moon was full, the old Memorial Hall was brought to life once more.

About 80 folk, including many friends and relations coming from the Orkney Mainland, three from London and one from the USA, sat down to a royal feast of native mutton, roast beef, gammon, clapshot and cider. Cheesecake with cream was the second course, with tea and homebakes to follow.

Before the supper, the association’s president, Peter Donnelly, made the welcoming speech in which he talked a little about island life and told a funny story or two.

Guest speaker Andy Cant addresses the 80 guests at North Ronaldsay harvest home. (Picture: Jean Tulloch)

The association’s guests this year were: Andy Cant, our speaker, and his wife, Alice; Marlene Thomson, manageress, Birsay Farmers, her husband Gordon; Neil Foubister, manager, Frozen Food, his wife Susan; members of the group Hullion, Ingirid Jolly (Billy was unable to come), Owen Tierney, Micky Austin, and his wife Liz — Andy is of course the other member of the group.

The North Ronaldsay Heritage Trust, one of whose main duties is to look after the Memorial Hall, also had guests this year for the first time.

They were Mike Pascoe, his son Daniel, and his wife Shelagh. Mention was made of Mike Pascoe’s sterling efforts in the heritage trust’s fundraising activities for new windows for the old hall.

Mike and some of his diving colleagues, who, in the mid-70s, had dived on the wreck of an old East Indiaman lost in 1740, gave very generously as they remembered lightsome days when they had billeted in the old hall. Five new windows are now installed — two to go.

Incidentally, the old hall has been recognised as a war memorial by Friends of War Memorials, an organisation based in London.

Patricia Thomson followed those acknowledgements by saying the grace, and after supper, Andy Cant rose to make his speech.

He opened with the dramatic statement: “The World has gone Mad.”

He went on to enumerate examples of this madness from Iraq to the unbelievable (I think) passport system required for farm animals along with all the other ever increasingly restrictive farming controls now being administered across the board.

But North Ronaldsay residents were not let off entirely scot-free when he managed a few apt references. He also told a number of amusing stories connected with his veterinary activities.

Peter Donnelly (right) and other guests - including three from London and one from the USA at the Harvest Home.

One related how, in one of the North Isles, where often in the isles a car is hired for visits and when occasionally there are problems with temperamental vehicles, he faced a minor problem.

On this occasion, the car was pre-booked but, on arrival at the airstrip, his contact was nowhere to be seen. Undaunted, Andy picked a likely looking car parked at the airstrip that performed beautifully all day.

Some time later, (having never received an account) he discovered from his island contact that he had in fact quite forgotten to arrange for any car. Andy never heard whether the owner had been any the wiser.

After closing remarks to an entertaining speech, the speaker, glass in hand, asked everyone to be upstanding and to toast the harvest home.

Once the tables etc had been cleared, the dance got under way with the local band and Hullion providing the music.

A combination of accordions, guitars, banjo and fiddle ensured lightsome footwork.

During a break, Ingirid Jolly sang a Shetland song about fishing, with the title of Rowan Foula Doon, and John Cutt recited a poem written by his late uncle, William Swanney, Viggie, commemorating the exploits of Captain E. E. Fresson, OBE. The poem was entitled, Exploits of Captain Fresson to North Ronaldsay.

As John explained, 70 years ago, on May 29, 1934, Britain’s first domestic air service was inaugurated when Captain Fresson flew to North Ronaldsay with passengers — the war years put an end to that service in the islands.

Then there was a very lively Eightsome Reel with Sinclair playing the pipes. Five sets swung round the bouncing dance floor with many a ‘Heuch’. On went the music and dance until a break for tea — more mutton, sandwiches and homebakes made the rounds.

Ian Deyell and Peter Donnelly organised the raffle when many great prizes were won — a food hamper, binoculars, an original watercolour, bottles of whisky, wine and brandy and numerous other items.

The raffle, arranged for the benefit of the Memorial Hall, raised a magnificent sum of £362.

More dancing followed until about three in the morning when the last dance was announced. After the singing of Auld Lang Syne, and for another hour or so, folk enjoyed cups of hot soup, more mutton and anything else they fancied.

And so the 15th harvest home to be held in the Memorial Hall since our return to the traditional venue came to a close.

As I turned the key in the lock, I wondered if the ghosts of the old hall of 84 years gone, came back once more to relive the great days of North Ronaldsay and to dance another reel to the music of fiddles and melodeons.

Well, folks, I’m at the end of my letter and I’ve been looking for a suitable poem or some lines to close with.

After much searching, I found a verse which suits in many ways. I found it in The Orkney Book published in the early 1900s. The poem was called Orkney and the author was John Malcolm.

Oh! At such soul-inspiring strain
The wondrous links of memory’s chain,
Though scattered far, unite again,
And Time and Distance strive in vain.
Again Youth’s fairy visions pass
In morning glow oe’r Memory’s glass,
At every magic melting fall
They come like echoes to their call,
And with the dreams of vanished years
Steal forth again our smiles and tears.

Kelvin and Rachelle Scott, who were married on North Ronaldsay. Kelvin's father, David, was born and brought up on the island.

Somebody told me the other day that they had not seen a Letter from North Ronaldsay since April last.

It’s true – I’ve just had a look at my file of letters. So spring and summer have sped away and now we are well into autumn.

The fuchsia trees are past their best with scatterings of scarlet flowers lying rather sadly on the ground. But still the honeysuckle scents the air and the montbretia’s flame-coloured flowers brighten up a garden here and there.

Well, folks, here goes for another letter. I’m sitting at my computer and beginning to apply my mind to the task before me.

I see in my last letter I was making excuses about the Seven cares of the Mountain (all the undone jobs one has upon one’s shoulders).

There are still a goodly number undone but one day, early in the summer, I set about tackling one that had been on my mind for some time – an exhibition of new work in the Pier Arts Centre in Stromness.

Yes, I managed it but not without some ‘apps and doons’. I shall not commit myself again – if I can avoid it – to work to a deadline and at the same time try to be a crofter.

I say ‘try’ because I don’t regard myself as a serious crofter/farmer nor, incidentally, do I refer to myself as a real fisherman.

I mention this since in reviews of my exhibition I am referred to as an artist-cum-farmer fisherman.

In both the latter occupations I worked or still work in one at least, under the guidance of professionals.

By the way, I did say to one interviewer that two hours was about the time it took me to paint a seascape.

Let me qualify that by saying that it has taken me a lifetime to arrive at this capability, and that mostly I have to review my work afterwards and make the necessary changes I often must do.

Anyway, I was going to say that one day, in the middle of trying to paint and being involved in haymaking, my baler broke down.

A day or so later, a bearing went on my drum mower. Into the house I wearily stepped, thoroughly disheartened – so much so that, to begin with, it was my intention to cancel my exhibition.

They say that every cloud has a silver lining. It’s true, for the very next day, up came my neighbour from next door ready to work or help in any way he could, and then another day he and a friend set about repairing my baler. Spanners, hammers and other tools rattled and flew in the sun and before one could say “Jack Robinson” my old baler was ready for action.

Let me now tell you about another island wedding (there was one last year). This time it was David and Kathleen Scott’s son, Kelvin, who married Rachelle Jacobs from Wisconsin (all live in the States).

This was a wedding planned from afar.

Thirty-five American friends and relatives came to the island with every step of the way here and back organised in great detail by Kelvin’s parents, David (born and brought up on the island) and Kathleen from Indiana.

Both have mentioned how the wedding would not have been possible without massive community support from the island and from many of the American guests — decorating, church improvements, lending equipment from within and outside the island, pitching tents etc.

But talk about “apps and doons”.

Planes in New York were delayed by a storm; another broke down in Alaska; luggage went missing. Then, in Orkney, there was the fog, with all sorts of complications.

Boats had to be hired to bring folk to the island. Loganair made great efforts to fit in additional flights. There were false alarms, bad forecasts, threatened cancellations – all sorts of problems.

But, in the end, everybody, I believe, who intended to be at the wedding made it to the island — except the hairdresser. There lies another tale; one of the guests, Glasmeris Mateo, stood in as the hairdresser at the very last minute and did a wonderful job.

But talk about the song from My Fair Lady, Get me to the Church in Time. During a very, very lengthy bride’s prerogative, everybody enjoyed wonderful prelude music, when Rognvald Scott from London (piano) and Jeff Yang from Chicago (violin) – a professional musician – entertained everybody.

The wedding ceremony was conducted by the Rev John MacNab, Sanday, with John Cutt, Gerbo, reading the well-known passage from Ecclesiastes – “To everything there is a season”.

Bridesmaid was Kelvin’s sister, Wendelin, with the best man, his brother Jeremy. Flowergirls were Anna, Mary and Jenna Scott. Pageboys were Duncan, Cameron and Ronan Gray.

Ushers were Albert and John Scott, James Cowe and Aaron Rhodes, from Santa Fe (in Highland dress).

During the signing of the register, the well-known Orkney fiddler, Tommy Mainland, played a selection of traditional music. All of this took place in the New Church, beautifully decorated with flower arrangements by Ola Gorie (Stenness) and Bertha Mainland (Dounby), aided by Arnold Tait and Tommy Mainland.

After the customary photo taking, Sinclair Scott piped many of the company in a ‘wedding walk’ from the New Church to the venue for the reception.

This was held in a specially-decorated New Community Centre, lit up by candle flame and sparkling fairy lights, with Ola and Bertha’s flower displays making a perfect scene.

There, a great evening began to unfold after a splendid wedding feast arranged by Chris Thomas, from Stromness, and his intrepid team of caterers (they had travelled the long sea road to the island).

Fine speeches with toasts, etc, followed. The Grand March began the dance, when the groom, in Highland dress, and his beautiful bride, resplendent in an ivory satin dress, spangled with pearls, led the company of just over 180.

And so to dancing, music and song with the Birsay Boys providing the music. A bride’s cog, made by Jean Tulloch (an expert in such brews) who, along with her assistant, ran the bar, made many rounds. Great was the fun, and great was this evening that finally came to a close around 4am.

Outside, the early morning was calm, and into the still darkish sky a fireworks display cascaded in sometimes rainbow colours to crown an unforgettable island occasion.

The rest of the summer’s work got done as it always does, silage, hay, punding clipping sheep and plastic wrapped barley. And, again with the gods on my side, I managed with much help, only yesterday, to shear a very late sown crop of oats.

Clickity-clack went the old binder and up went the stooks, just as easy as we had managed the shearing. If the weather is good, it won’t be long before I shall have a stack or two to remind us of the old days.

Perhaps, they will be built by the light of the harvest moon, due shortly. That would be very grand indeed.

Next, once the tatties are up, we will have to be thinking of the Harvest Home when all the year’s bounties will be remembered. Then, also to be remembered, will be Armistice Day when some of us will stand round the island’s war memorial once more.

You know, for many years Armistice Day was organised by the church, which provided a wreath. Then, for a spell, there was no minister or only infrequent visits.

Somehow, the actual ceremony at the memorial lapsed. But then, two new islanders with wartime connections placed those small wooden crosses with an attached poppy at the monument. Since that time, we conduct a traditional service there on Remembrance Sunday.

It is not that we have forgotten, or ever did forget, those who died in the wars — when a country does, then its soul is in danger.

No, I was brought up with the history and emotional involvement (my late father had a cousin who was killed in action in 1918).

I, also, like many other islanders, knew men who had been veterans of the First World War or we knew of its victims.

In fact, two of those veterans, John Tulloch, Upper Linnay, (whose brother referred to above had been killed) and Peter Swanney, North Gravity, had been involved with the erection of the memorial and had built the fine back wall.

Both were masons. One, John, had served at sea, and Peter in the trenches in France. Both those men towards the end of their lives spoke to me about their wartime experiences.

Peter remembered, he said, seeing comrades blown to bits. I’ll further tell you that both those men, one with only a week or two to live, and the other an old man in his 90s, had tears in their eyes when they spoke with me. Yes, they absolutely did and I only wish they could come back this very day.

I’m hoping that we all remember the wartime sacrifices made for our country and that we remember the men of North Ronaldsay whose names are carved in granite.

Some of them died violently in the battlefields of France, others were blown up at sea by mines and yet others died as a result of the war. Let us remember those young men from both world wars, and let us always respect our War Memorial with its sanctity and very special place on this island of ours.

Well, folks, that’s it more or less for a time. I don’t have to write about the North Ronaldsay Trust’s great weekend we had lately when the 150th anniversary of the lighting of the New Lighthouse was celebrated.

Both Margaret Carr (The Orcadian) and Mary Leonard (Orkney Today) have very adequately covered the weekend events.

But, I must mention, firstly, the group, Hullian who gave a wonderful concert on the Saturday night and went on to provide the dance music for a most successful evening’s entertainment.

And the following day there was the Kirkwall City Pipe Band, whose presence here really made the event at the New Lighthouse so very memorable and special. Their piping, drumming, and turn out was magnificent. As the Earl Thorfinn left in the late afternoon, the pipe band stood playing on the upper deck of the ferry. It was a wonderful sight and an especially moving experience.

The music of the pipes travelled over the water and continued to sound for a while but ever fainter as the Thorfinn gained on her seaward journey back to the Orkney Mainland.

Let me finish with a poem I have used before. It’s my favourite. Having reached the age of 64, I understand every sentence of it. Incidentally, John Robertson, the poet, was the grandfather of Captain Duncan J. T. Robertson, laird of this island for over 50 years.

Recently, Duncan, now into his 80s, met with those who took on the responsibility of maintaining the old Memorial Hall.

I could see that he believes, as do we, who are getting on in years believe, in the line of the poem you are about to read: “Still in (our) hearts the winds of youth are singing”.

Let us remember that there are many whose hearts never had the chance to hear for very long the song of the winds of youth.

Sons of the Isles

There is a spell woven by restless seas,
A secret charm that haunts our Island air,
Holding our hearts and following everywhere
The wandering children of the Orcades;
And still when sleep the prisoned spirit frees,
What dim, void wastes, what strange, dark seas we dare,
Till, where the dear green Isles shine low and fair,
We moor in dreams beside familiar quays.
Sons of the Isles! though ye may roam afar,
Still on your lips the salt sea-spray is stinging,
Still in your hearts the winds of youth are singing;
Though in heavens grown familiar to your eyes
The Southern Cross is gleaming, for old skies
Your hearts are fain, and for the Northern Star.

Duncan John Robertson (1860 – 1941)

Well, I’ve been thinking about writing one of my letters for some time. January and Burns’ suppers seem very far away.

Honestly, the days seem to fly, they really do, and I have very little to show for almost five months of wintertime – long nights and plenty of time to do many things one would have thought but no, not an extra job have I done.

In fact it almost seems as if winter has never been and now we are having April showers and the daffodils are brightening the roadways and gardens. The black-headed gulls have been back for a few weeks.

This is around the time of year when great clouds of those smart birds would have been following the plough.

Today, there is not a ploughed field to be seen and I doubt if we will see many this season. Yes, we are living in changed times.

Earlier in the year, as part of the Aberdeen University sponsored lectures in Orkney, Jim Troup (retired history teacher from Stromness Academy), visited the island and gave a fascinating talk entitled Pioneer problems: Traills and Moodies in the Canadian wilderness.

Slides were shown as part of the talk and there were booklets and other informative material on view.

A good turnout enjoyed the evening, with tea and biscuits available after a discussion period.

I’m thinking as I write. What else has been happening?

One very successful event took place not long ago when the North Ronaldsay Trust and Friends held a bring and buy sale, raising a magnificent figure of £800 (reviewed in The Orcadian, April 1).

There has also been some sheep dyke building, followed by the native sheep gathering arranged to bring in-by the ewes for lambing, and, at the end of the winter school term, we enjoyed the usual school open day.

On view was work by the pupils. Since Christmas they had been busy studying the vital element of water as their special project for the term.

The four pupils, Heather Woodbridge, Duncan Gray, Cameron Gray and Gavin Woodbridge, had looked at its many aspects, carrying out experiments and studies under such headings as: analysis, flotation, cleaning, distribution, etc. with maps, graphs and text on view substantiating their work.

They also took photographs of the local water pumping station, wells, reservoir, loch, old-fashioned iron hand pumps and so on.

In addition, Africa’s serious problems with water shortage were investigated. Each pupil had worked out how water is used, often wasted, and how wastage could be avoided.

I was just thinking that, had those four pupils been brought up some 40 years and more ago they would have understood how important water was and how not to waste it.

In those days, every gallon had to be brought into the house by hand from wells for washing, cooking, cleaning, and laboriously feeding to animals in byres during the long winter months.

Washing day was a big occasion requiring considerable quantities of water, when often a large out-house iron boiler, fired by coal, would come into use. Then there were the hand-turned mangles for removing as much water as possible from blankets, sheets and personal clothing – but I digress.

Another interesting study connected with the project was how the French Impressionist painters had painted water; how they captured light, colour and movement using a completely new technique removed entirely from the more traditional style of painting.

Even a musical composition, with water as the inspiration, was performed by the four pupils.

It was based on a poem written by Heather who also composed the short piece. Percussion instruments were used for its interpretation. That was entertaining.

Finally, the pupils were presented with good performance certificates by the teacher, Patricia Thomson, with each individual receiving a present in recognition of their efforts.

Support teacher, Shelagh Grieve, came out especially for this pleasant occasion that ended with tea and homebakes. Displays of daffodils decorated the classroom.

As I said earlier, the winter has simply flown and nothing much extra have I managed to do, though I know very well that there are many things I should be doing.

I think I am like the man on the Great Blasket islands, away back in the 1920s, whose story I told in one of my previous letters – it’s worth re-telling. It was called A Man with the Seven Cares of the Mountain on his Shoulders. The islander in the story had so many jobs to do (as he said to a neighbour on the road one fine day) that he couldn’t make up his mind which should be tackled first and decided to take another day off.

The advice was to go straight back home and finish one and next day it would not be there to face him.

I shall have to follow Tomás O’Crohan’s advice – he was the friend with the positive answer to the problem. At nights now, when in bed, I am re-reading Tomás O’ Crohan’s, Island Cross Talk – Pages from a Blasket Island Diary – there you will find the ‘seven cares’ story.

Earlier in the winter, every night for a time, I travelled (in my imagination) down the West Coast of Scotland, as I read Seton Gordon’s, Highways & Byways in the West Highlands.

I really looked forward to reading the next chapter or two as I went to bed. And then, more recently, I read his Days with the Golden Eagle.

This is the book I mentioned that was reprinted very recently. Tam McPhail (Stromness Books and Prints), was able to get it for me. It is described as a classic. I do think it is, and I have much enjoyed reading the book.

Seton’s descriptive writing – when he describes nature – the mountain scenery lakes and rivers etc, is a real pleasure – so much so that I have, from time to time, re-read a number of those particularly beautifully written chapters.

The trouble, though, with late night reading is the inevitable late morning that usually follows.

In the dark of winter I suppose one can get away with it but now that the daylight is long enough for any manner or amount of work such luxuries should be set aside – but will that happen, no!

Last year I wrote about a sudden whim I had one warm evening in summer when I visited a small natural swimming pool down among the rocks and where I had a quick plunge.

As I came home the moon was rising and the summer night was wonderful. The first croft I passed was the empty house of Nether Linnay. I was just thinking about that house the other morning.

I see it every day as I cast an eye north. It now reminds me of Jimmy Thomson, who was born there in 1932, and who lived there during his very early years before following a career in the south.

Those who read obituaries would have seen that he died recently. Jimmy really loved North Ronaldsay, and what fun he could be, and though retired and living on the Orkney Mainland, his presence and help with the island’s main entertainment events, and many other things, will be very greatly missed.

When someone dies suddenly and unexpectedly it is difficult sometimes to believe that such a person will never be seen again.

As I continued my walk home that moonlit night last year, I mentioned another lightsome house for me, and for many others, as I passed by.

It was the neat little house of Burray. Sadly, just the other week that cheery home has also become empty.

There Mary Tulloch (née Seatter), in her 90th year lived, and if ever there was one to brush aside the Seven Cares of The Mountain then it was surely Mary – she was a fighter to the very last.

She was up with the lark – as they say – attending to her chores all her long days, and as long as she was able.

Flittering away time, as I seem to be doing in my advancing years, certainly was something of which she certainly never did approve of.

One evening I was there along with others paying my last respects in the old fashioned way.

As I walked home, the night was most beautiful and the sound of spring was all around; birds were calling here and there in the stillness of the air.

It was the night of the full moon and in the eastern sky she was a wonderful sight to behold. As I came abreast of Ancum loch, with the moon’s reflections, it seemed like a moving band of silver, and no less impressive was the flickering bright ribbon of the East sea.

Well, I was thinking of Mary and past times and of how those good days are now left to memory.

Tomás O’Crohan, near the end of his life, writes in his book, The Island Man: “the like of us will never be here again”.

It’s very true and when islanders such as Mary and Jimmy, and the many others that have passed away over the years, take their leave, I always think that the North Ronaldsay of old dies a little.

Tam o’Shanter's mare Meg having her tail caught by a witch. Howie Firth gave a perfect rendition of the poem during the North Ronaldsay Burns Night celebration.

This is a letter I began to write on ‘Aald Neuar-e’en’.

I thought at the time that it would not be amiss to cast one’s mind back to Yule, before January finally flies away, and remember a time of year that, in the old days, was greatly looked forward to — the days when the real home-brewed-ale was the mainstay of those old fashioned times.

So here I am writing this introductory paragraph between the end-of-the-year celebrations and my account of the island’s Burns’ Supper.

January 13 should be the last night of the New Year visits and time to bring the ‘Yulin’ (making ones visiting rounds and generally being on holiday) to an end.

I managed all my familiar visits apart from one house. Unfortunately, when I went there (less than half an hour ago), I discovered that the ‘fock wur no in aboot’.

So back home I came ‘wae me whusky bottle’ and me good luck New Year gifts. I thought, never mind, have a go instead at the beginnings of a new ‘letter’ as a build-up to my coverage of the forthcoming Burns’ Supper.

In my last letter – my Yule letter as I like to call it – I was day dreaming about the ghosts of the Linklestoon men coming back to Antabreck to relive one of their great Hogmanay nights.

I had in fact written the letter the day before Hogmanay and imagined this pleasant visitation of the spirits of the past.

The day had been the most beautiful winter’s day that you could imagine. There was a scattering of snow lightly covering the island. The sea was a dark ultramarine and, in the east, the Fair Isle was decorated, here and there, with snow, but clear cut like a diamond against the darkening sea.

I had, some would say, wasted most of this beautiful, windless day composing my last letter to The Orcadian.

Having got the main of the writing to my satisfaction, I went off on foot to see the last of the setting sun and to watch the transition from its afterglow to the light of the rising moon.

On my way, with the frosty road crinkling and crackling under my feet, I met a couple of young folk – here for the end of the year celebrations – and we had a grand ‘crack’ for a bit. I continued my walk, firstly to the graveyard, then into the dark interior of the adjacent Old Kirk.

It belongs to an American who bought it from another. The first, planned, we heard, to make it into a jewellery factory, the second, into a dwelling house. Can you believe it? Both had to give up their ambitious plans – this was when they discovered, too late, that the building was listed.

Well, buyer number two is waiting for a re-cap of his money before relinquishing the building. Sadly, meantime, the building is deteriorating day by day.

What is to become of all the empty churches throughout the land? And what has become of the sort of folk that used to attend them?

From the Old Kirk I meandered further south, travelling now by the light of the rising moon.

I was intent on reconnoitring the old Standing Stone so as to judge whither a few enthusiasts might manage the relatively recently revived, yearly visit and informal dance round the stone on New Year’s day – just for the fun of it all you understand.

Last year, as a result of an earlier occurrence, ‘some flegged baest pat an end tae wur silly chaipers’ (often animals are in the area but normally eye the proceedings with studied curiosity).

Anyhow, not to be beat, we revived another old custom and danced in the courtyard of the New Lighthouse instead.

My decision was that I thought the New Year’s day visitation very possible. While at the ‘Stan Stane’ and looking through the two-inch or so diameter, eye level, hole in the stone, I could see Venus to the south-west, and in a more southerly direction, I could also frame the moon nicely.

This, I thought, an unusual view of the two heavenly bodies. I continued my walk on to the nearby Gretchen Loch. Up flew a flock of Greylag geese with a great honking, but invisible in the evening sky. Venus threw a pale sheen across the icy loch waters.

Ah, but came Hogmanay. A ferocious day ensued, getting worse by the hour until, by six or seven at night a terrific gale of wind whistled and buffeted the island.

Then heavy rain lashed down and blew up into unlikely bits of many a house, byre and shed. No moonlight – as I had imagined the ghostly Hogmanay company might have enjoyed.

It was a struggle to walk to my next-door neighbour’s house to take in the New Year. But, eventually, by three or so in the morning, a goodly little company had built up from other travels to enjoy fine hospitality and some early New Year fun.

Sad to say, on New Year’s Day not a soul was at the Standing Stone. The fault, it seems, lies at Antabreck’s door – phones rang, folk spied, made ready, wondered. Never a sign, never an answer!

It was a bit like the old Broadway song Mr Scott regrets he is unable to dine today.

No, I was not under-the-weather – a minor migraine had laid me a ‘peedie bitty low’, and with my magic migraine tablet I dosed away the possibility of a visit to the ‘aald Stan Stane’.

Had we ventured to the monument at the usual time we would have been, ‘maistly a lock o’ puir aald drookled cats’.

Yes the rain began to ‘tuim’ again and so slipped away New Year’s Day but, nevertheless, folk here and there enjoyed, in one way or another, the first day of 2004.

This is the 25th of January. Last night, and well into the morning we celebrated the birth of Robert Burns in style. So here I am, on his actual birthday sitting down to give an account of our little Burns’ Supper.

Peter Donnelly, president of the Association, welcomed a company of well over 50 folk.

He thanked everyone who had made the evening possible and introduced the association’s guests. They were: Robert and Gladys Leslie, Mike and Hazel Parkins, Tommy and Bertha Mainland, Howie Firth – all participants in the Burns programme.

Also invited was Colin Tulloch (who had been most helpful in connection with the North Ronaldsay Trust) his partner, Leona Benston and their son, Findlay.

To the skirl of the pipes, played by Mike Parkins, resplendent in his Kirkwall City Pipe Band uniform, the haggis was brought in by the cook, Winnie Scott, and deposited at the head table.

The piper’s dram was quaffed in one go followed by another tune on the pipes, and then Howie, already in good form, swept into The Address to the Haggis.

Jimmie Thomson recited the Selkirk Grace before the supper of haggis and clapshot, along with cider, was served and enjoyed.

Drams were served for the main toast of the evening and the two speakers jointly proposing the Immortal Memory were introduced.

This year the speakers were: Bobby Leslie and his wife Gladys. Bobby has worked at the Orkney Library for 43 years and has held the post of Chief Librarian for 12 years.

Bobby, in his tribute to Burns, concentrated on the poet’s agricultural background, speculating on how this aspect of his life had affected his work as a poet.

He argued that the often hard, and physically demanding farming activity had contributed significantly to his development as a poet of depth and understanding.

He understood the nature of the land and the people who lived in that environment. Interestingly, as he completed his address, he wondered, for example, if Burns had lived in North Ronaldsay, in what way that life might have influenced his work.

Gladys, by contrast, speculated on the poet’s love of women and the manner in which this had affected his poetry, and of his involvement with Jean Armour and Highland Mary (Mary Campbell) – two of a number of women mentioned.

How this part of his life had resulted in sadness as well as joy and how those differing relationships had been the inspiration for some of his most beautiful poems.

Gladys, I thought, paid a very moving tribute to Burns. Both Bobby and Gladys quoted from Burns and both acknowledged the universal greatness of the poet and the man. Glasses of whisky and sherry sparkled briefly in candle and lamplight as Gladys proposed the toast to the Immortal Memory.

Then Sidney Ogilvie sang Ae Fond Kiss followed by a fine recitation of To a Louse.

Howie Firth followed this performance by proposing the Toast to the Lasses. He did so by telling a few appropriate stories which caused great amusement. Bertha Mainland replied – not without some humour – mentioning the many achievements, inventions and often, she thought, superior abilities of the fairer sex.

Next in the programme was a selection of fiddle music beautifully executed by Tommy Mainland. He played a number of Burns songs, but also two moving laments written by Neil Gow (who had known and worked with Burns) and ending with one of this famous Scottish composer’s more lively compositions.

The fiddle music was followed by a recitation and a reading. Hazel Parkins recited one of her poems from a book of verse published in October 2003 called, In Remembrance of Burns, whilst John Cutt read a short piece written in Orcadian dialect by Allan Taylor (published in The Orcadian) extolling the old fashioned Orcadian supper (a substantial meal taken late at night). John read the piece with vigour in the North Ronaldsay dialect.

Howie Firth then rose to deliver Tam o’ Shanter. Howie has perfected his rendition of this wonderful, imaginative poem by Burns; it is always a special pleasure to listen to, and watch Howie’s antics as he almost lives and acts the various characters and scenes that this poem describes so magnificently. With another ‘peedie’ dram ready to complete the little Burns programme, Howie proposed a closing toast – this time briefly, but eloquently, to the island of North Ronaldsay.

Dancing soon got underway with our two guest musicians, Tommy and Mike contributing significantly to the dance music.

A raffle brought in a very fine collection for the association’s funds. Tea, Westray current bun and shortbread was enjoyed before the dance once more got underway.

So swiftly did the evening pass, and with such enjoyment, that our planned communal singing of Burns songs never materialised – it can be said though, that those of us who had decorated the little room the evening before, bravely sang the five or six songs chosen, to accordion accompaniment.

But, as in Tam o’ Shanter: “The minutes wing’d their way wi pleasure”, and as the moving hands of the morning clock sped onwards and approached three, it was time for Auld Lang Syne, that most universal of songs, collected and completed by Burns and about which he said: “Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment.”

Chorus
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet.
For auld lang syne.

Here we are at almost the end of another year with Hogmanay and the New Year only a few hours away. By the time this letter appears in print it will be 2004. So I send my good wishes for the New Year.

Well, since last I wrote, North Ronaldsay has been enjoying the usual Christmas celebrations. On the evening of 17th December a Carol Service was held in the Community Centre when a few of the old familiar carols were sung. The North Ronaldsay Primary School’s pupils participated, with scripture readings and singing under the direction of head teacher, Patricia Thomson. She also conducted the short service and accompanied the singing on keyboard. Tea and Christmas pies followed. Incidentally, the school pupils had earlier been in Kirkwall to see the Pantomime ‘Babes in the Wood’, performed in the Arts Theatre.

The following day, the yearly Christmas dinner (provided by School meals) was enjoyed by a large turnout, which included many visitors to the island. Winnie Scott, school cook, supervised the elaborate proceedings. Afterwards, folk made their way into the school classroom, which had been transformed into almost a little theatre with seats arranged in front of a curtained-off stage. There, hidden behind a puppet booth, the four school pupils, Heather and Gavin Woodbridge, Duncan and Cameron Gray, operated puppets (which they had made) in a presentation of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Dialogue and singing had been pre-recorded thus allowing the puppet operators free reign. The presentation was greatly enjoyed. Later, the pupils received certificates based on their good efforts, and good behaviour throughout the term, and they also received gifts in acknowledgement of their achievements.

Christmas Eve saw the traditional children’s party. This year there were many children present due to the numerous visitors on the island. All enjoyed the fun which was followed by a splendid assortment of sandwiches, homebakes etc. Santa was as mysterious as ever with Winnie Scott as his faithful attendant.

Next on the menu – so to speak – of Christmas celebrations was a locally produced Pantomime, which was followed by a dance. This end-of-the-year get together took place on Saturday 27th. with well over 60 folk present. Peter Donnelly, the Association’s President, welcomed everybody and introduced Sydney Oglivie who briefly explained the background to the play and the dedicated efforts of all who were involved. Sydney was the inspiration and producer of Snow White and the two Dwarfs. Actors were: Sydney Oglivie (Dwarf), Anne Oglivie (The Butler), Norman Bayley (Dwarf), Winnie Scott (King), Joni Craigie (Nuff the Good Fairy), Paul Brown (Stepmother), Lucia Shaw (Huntsman and Prince Hero) and Isobel Muir (Mirror). Carole Bayley acted as narrator and Edith Craigie was the behind-the-scenes assistant. The production was great fun with audience participation adding to the enjoyment.

A good little dance soon got underway made all the more lively with the presence and energy of quite a few younger folk – both islanders home on holiday and visitors. The many additional folk on the island for Christmas all participated very well, making the dance a success – though often the dancers had to simply fly. There was a short break for refreshment after which the dancing went on until about two in the morning.

A famous visitor to North Ronaldsay – but what was Michael Powell doing on the island? He is pictured (left) with author Seton Gordon and the island’s medic Dr W. Dawson.

Recently, I have been reading a book by a well known Scottish writer of the past, Seton Gordon, and illustrated by Sir D. W. Cameron R.A. The book, one of many travel books he wrote about Scotland, is called ‘Highways and Byeways in the West Highlands’ The book was published in 1935. It is an account of the author’s trip down the West Coast beginning at Cape Wrath and finishing with a look at Loch Lomond. The text is beautifully written and includes historical background, legends and snippets of other travellers’ tales, such as Boswell and Scott.

One of the islands described is Jura, a place I visited some years ago now. I was sketching there for a week or more and lodged about halfway up the island, with a gamekeeper and his wife and family. Well, that was interesting. I was able to see inside one of the lodges in Lord Astor’s estate where very rich sportsmen spend hundreds of pounds – even thousands – each for the sport of shooting deer. Very grand were the set tables with silver cutlery, crystal etc. Then there were the poisonous adders (I only saw one); the annoying little ticks that sucked blood and itched like the very ‘diel’ (a dab of methylated spirits made them ‘let go’); the biting midges; the goats and deer. And there were all sorts of beautiful insects such as the colourful fritillary butterfly, stunning, delicate blue-winged dragon flies, brilliant green beetles, bright green frogs and burnished, copper coloured flies. More frightening, but harmless apparently, was a huge dragonfly with a large body and a wing span of at least, I’m sure, three inches that came whirring like a helicopter round my head.

One day I climbed one of the Pap’s of Jura – of which there are three. The three mountains – for such they are described – vary in height from about 2,300 ft to 2,600 ft. Unfortunately, a dense mist came down which ruined the otherwise magnificent view I would have had of the surrounding mountains, islands and the mainland of Scotland. On too many nights I was obliged to visit the main pub at the south of the island – not to have done so would have been bad form. My host, with whom I lodged so comfortably, simply loved a visit to the pub. I do not think I have seen whisky consumed by all and sundry with such ease and in such quantities. I was forced to play a careful balancing act practising diplomatic generosity as a play-off against suffering ‘mortal illness’ the next morning. I survived, and managed to fill a sketch book or two, eat venison, collect a few antlers as souvenirs, and see the house in the distance (up north) where George Orwell wrote his classic, ‘Nineteen Eighty Four’ All in all, I really enjoyed my Jura visit.

By the way, Seaton Gordon visited North Ronaldsay in 1951 along with the famous film producer Michael Powell. In any case he presented the then Doctor on the island, Dr. W. Dawson, and his wife, with the book I’ve just been reading, in acknowledgement of their kindness and hospitality during their two day stay.

Whether Michael Powell was looking at North Ronaldsay as a possible site for a film we do not know. In 1937 he had made the film, ‘The Edge of the World’ on the island of Foula – the story of the evacuation of St Kilda. Anyhow, I have this book on loan from Mary Shearer (nee’ Dawson), Dr. and Mrs Dawson’s daughter, and must return it along with some excellent photographs taken during their visit – probably photographed by Powell.

One was of the fine seaman, Johnny o’ North Ness, whose life-saving exploits I wrote about in my account of the loss of the Norwegian MV Mim in 1939. His photograph appeared along with the article, which was published in The Orcadian about a year ago

Another day will be Hogmanay and I see the moon is gaining extra light every night – just the sort of moon phase that the old Linklestoon (my toonship) men would have liked. It would have made their Hogmanay and New Year visits relatively easy as they travelled on foot from house to house. Never does this time of year come round but I recall those past days.

Maybe, just maybe, on the ‘heuld’ o’ the Hogmanay night, when I’m settled comfortably in bed, I shall hear a ghostly ‘chapping’ at Antabreck’s door and into the house will stride the Linkletstoon men again to relive those great days of yore. I will hear once more the familiar voices of past generations.

On the table, I know, will be a large ashet filled with the mutton of our native sheep and ‘jugs’ of home-brewed ale; the old ‘modern mistress’ fire will be crackling and burning brightly; and moving round the company will be my parents busily filling up the ale cans or serving this and that.

As the ghostly company warm up to the occasion a song or two will be sung. For sure my father will be singing ‘A Capital Ship for an Ocean Trip’ with the favourite line ‘I’m off to my love with a boxing glove ten thousand miles away’ and Arnold o’ Greenspot will be having a go at his very own song about the Angels way up yonder – I never heard him sing anything else.

There will be more singers from time to time or all together – Johnny o’ Purtabreck (senior), Johnny o’ Barrenha, Johnny o’ Waterhouse and others – all will add to the entertainment singing such songs as, ‘Tipperary’, ‘The Rigs o Barley’ – Corn rigs, an barley rigs, or ‘Bonny Galloway’. Then, after much persuasion, Willie o’ Waterhouse (senior) will sing, wonderfully well, the old Scots song, ‘The Braes o’ Balquhidder’.

“Will you go, lassie go.
To the braes o’ Balquhidder?
Where the blae-berries grow.
Mang the bonny bloomin’ heather”.

His face will be all a-glow with the night’s celebrations – Antabreck being the last of the ten or so houses visited – and there will be a twinkle in his eye as he sings that song and more.

And if, in this world of make-belief, I dare venture through to the festive room to take my place among the company, every step I take along our connecting passageway will shed away the years until over 40 have flashed past.

But as I open the ‘but’ door, in an instant – as fast as one could ever blink an eye-lid – all the company will disappear and the room will be empty and dark save for the light of the moon which will be creeping in through the corner of the west window, and, like the words of the song, about the great sailing ship far away on an ocean trip, those days will be ‘ten thousand miles away’.

Keep Right on to the End of the Road

Ev’ry road thro’ life is a long, long road,
Fill’d with joys and sorrows too,
As you journey on how your heart will yearn
For the things most dear to you.

With wealth and love ’tis so,
But onward we must go.
With a big stout heart to a long steep hill,
We may get there with a smile,
With a good kind thought and an end in view,
We may cut short many a mile.
So let courage ev’ry day
Be your guiding star alway.

This is St Andrew’s night (November 30). I had forgotten about the anniversary until I heard one or two Scottish songs being sung on the radio. One was of Sir Harry Lauder (1870 – 1950), singing rather inspiringly, Keep Right on to the End of the Road – a song, I understand, written sometime after his only son was killed in action in 1916 during World War 1. Well, I suppose most folk would not have paid too much attention to this recording, and I imagine that very few of the younger generation will even have heard of Harry Lauder.

Ian Scott’s evocative painting of the
North Ronaldsay War Memorial by moonlight

Still, the words of the song, though sounding a little sentimental to modern ears, are not entirely inappropriate today. I shall finish my letter with the chorus which is sung after each verse. Before we know where we are, Christmas will be upon us, so I thought I should bring our latest activities up to date – hence this in-between letter.

I hear that a ‘sketch’ (the title of which remains, so far, “hush, hush”) is being practised for the association’s end-of-the-year dance. That should be fun. By the way, yes, Jeremy Godwin (in a letter to The Orcadian), is correct with his date for the wreck of the Svecia (mentioned in my Harvest Home letter) – it was 1740, not as I mistakenly said, 1741.

At the time of Remembrance each year in November, I frequently find myself looking through poetry or writings about the First World War.

One of the books that I have been dipping into again is Lyn Macdonald’s To the Last Man – I think I have mentioned the book previously. It deals with the last great German offensive in 1918, and often makes disturbing reading, made all the more powerful by the inclusion of accounts and recollections of some of the participants themselves.

One account, for instance, described how a German soldier, overrunning a British position, finds and plans to retrieve a pair of good leather boots. On closer inspection he finds the severed feet of the former owner still in the boots.

A week after Remembrance Sunday a good turnout of folk gathered at the North Ronaldsay War Memorial. John Tulloch, Senness, laid the wreath. Sinclair Scott played The Flowers of the Forest. The two minutes silence followed, after which John Cutt, Gerbo, recited the familiar verse of Binyon’s poem, For the Fallen.

Patricia Thomson read a prayer and John Cutt completed the ceremony by reciting the words of In Memoriam, a poem written by his late uncle, William Swanney, Viggie.

More recently, the North Ronaldsay Ladies Lifeboat Guild held their annual fundraising event. As usual, a good attendance of folk supported and enjoyed the evening, which included many raffle items etc.

Guild president, Isobel Muir, opened the proceedings. The draw for the various donated prizes took place after tea, sandwiches and home bakes. Total monies spent, including donations, amounted to a really splendid sum of £766.

Another event, organised as part of Aberdeen University’s key learning opportunities, took place on November 25 in the new centre, when Norman Newton gave an illustrated talk entitled Muckle Flugga to the Mull of Kintyre. I missed this event which, by all accounts, was most interesting. A good turnout later enjoyed tea, homebakes etc.

Patricia Thomson, head teacher, hosts the lectures as part of the OIC education committee’s extra mural activities.

And still in the new centre, a few days later, the association ran their yearly whist drive in order to raise funds for the children’s Christmas Eve party. Very generous donations amounted to £150. Other than those events there have been various meetings: association, housing, creating a web site for North Ronaldsay, and shortly there will be the AGM of the North Ronaldsay Trust.

Around the Harvest Home time and later, there have been spectacular sightings of the Northern Lights – or the Merry Dancers as we call them. Such sights in the night sky always convey a feeling of mystery and wonder despite the scientific explanations.

It’s sometimes the magnitude of the display as it sweeps across the sky that can be so impressive, and the landscape is lit up in a way quite different from the effect of moonlight. One has to be outside for a time as everything changes from minute to minute, and the most wonderful and sometimes stunning effects can easily remain unseen.

One of these recent sightings was not to be missed: I was lucky enough to be out watching on this occasion. In the west, the shimmering lights were of a beautiful red hue and from that direction they seemed to sometimes fly across the heavens in brilliant colours of white and green; the southern sky was quite taken over by the ghostly dancers – for ghostly they seem.

When the Merry Dancers are predominately in the southern sky, it is said to be sign of impending bad weather. As I was watching this great spectacle of changing colour and form, stretching as it did from west to east, there seemed to be a sudden intensifying of white light in the very centre of the sky. It radiated in waves of brightness that rippled across the stars with such speed that it quite mesmerised the senses.

Last night was such a night of relentless, heavy rain that it made a ‘buthy’ glad to be under a roof and lying comfortable and warm in bed. (Imagine being in the First World War trenches at this time of year and in such conditions.)

Yet, today has been relatively mild with sunshine bravely cheering up the landscape. And the sunset, as November draws to a close, was worth seeing – brilliantly yellow and gold with purple and violet cloud stretching across the evening sky.

As the ‘mirking’ or twilight crept over the island a growing crescent moon began to brighten ever so slowly, and the sea, which has been very nearly ‘aff o’ the ‘boddam’ at times this last few days, is settling down nicely.

I’ve just been out to view the night before finishing this letter. The sky is absolutely clear and the glittering stars make a fine sight.

In the northeast the Plough is standing on its stilts and a little to the west of south, the constellation of Orion twinkles far away.

Keep right on to the end of the road,
Keep right on to the end.
Tho’ the way be long, let your heart be strong,
Keep right on round the bend.
Tho’ your tired and weary still journey on,
Till you come to your happy abode,
Where all you love, you’ve been dreaming of
Will be there at the end of the road.