This is a ‘peedie’ letter from North Ronaldsay just to let you know that we are still to the fore – I have a longer one up my sleeve ready to present one of these days: it was written much earlier in the summer.

Not so long ago, the ‘merry dancers’ lit up the northern sky for a night or two, and earlier in the week – this is Friday September 13 – an orange coloured, crescent moon shone just above the horizon for a short time. On September 21 she will be full, and a day or two later it will be the autumnal equinox. That is the time of the Harvest Moon.

I should think that in Orkney, there will not be many ‘hairst’ fields with the old fashioned sheaves, stooks and stacks to be seen.

In North Ronaldsay we are down to just one field of oats. Forty years ago, give or take a few either way, at this time of year there would have been many fields of stooks on the island, and folk would be beginning the real ‘hairst’ work. It seems to me that there is a great miss of those days, and although the work was not always that easy, it was lightsome and the sense of achievement was very much a feature of our island existence.

The part that I really enjoyed was when folk got together to help – that was fun, as was the celebrations afterwards.

Recently, at a good turnout in the community centre, Dr June Morris gave a fascinating talk on the North Ronaldsay native sheep, which included diagrams and photographs. This was a preview of her presentation at the Orkney Science Festival. A lively and lengthy question and answer session followed before tea and biscuits were served. And still on the subject of the native sheep, over the last two days a few ‘punds’ have been organised when some good animals were selected for sale. This communal ‘punding’ and the necessary repair of the sheep dyke, from time to time, is very interesting to think about. It is an activity, and indeed a commitment, which goes back many years into the past, and I suppose, even with our much reduced work force, some form of communal management procedures will continue for as long as the sheep remain.

Well that’s about it. The weather is still fine and exceptionally mild with the last couple of days being fairly misty. There is a grand scent from the honeysuckle and the fuchia trees are still festooned with scarlet bells. Another flower in bloom at this time of year is the colourful montbretia. Here and there in fields, or along the road sides, there are displays of the tall sow thistles. They look rather dignified, I always think, with their long stalks and bold yellow faces, I can almost imagine them saying, “Why are you looking at us? Hurry along, don’t dilly-dally”. However, time shortly to stop this as I see it is almost one o’ clock in the morning.

Before I do finish though, as I listen to the foghorn, it occurs to me on one hand, that advanced technology ended the profession of lighthouse keeper: automation replaced the men and their families thereby reducing the island population. Yet, on the other hand, this very same advance in technology (computers etc.), with additional assistance and a more flexible employers’ attitude, could make it possible for young folk to work from North Ronaldsay.

Captain Robbie Sutherland from Stromness, mentioned this idea at one of our Harvest Homes. With a more frequent plane service, there is no reason why workers could not spend at least some of the week operating from the island. Is there really a need to be at one’s ‘desk’ at nine every morning? Provided extra houses were available and with a sort of multi-purpose building as a base, a number of young folk would still be part of the North Ronaldsay community. In terms of population and age, that would make the greatest difference to the island.

It’s now well after one and this will not do at all! I wonder if it will be a brighter day tomorrow? For the present, I know that it is still misty, as every minute that comes and goes I can hear the foghorn sounding mournfully in the damp darkness of the night.

Postscript

Since I wrote the above letter, time has passed. This is now September 28 and the weather is still reasonably fine. The field of oats I mentioned was built into stacks on fresh ‘hairst’ day, and tattie work has commenced with at least one croft having completed their gathering. Both jobs were easily accomplished for, as it happened and as they say, ‘many hands make light work’.

But autumn is definitely in the air, and today, when I was out and about, two great ‘V’ formations of wild geese flew over the island, calling loudly. I tried to roughly count their number and I should think there would have been at least two or three hundred, and their ‘honking’ could be heard even when they had become a thin, dark line in the southern sky.

When I began this letter, the moon was in its first quarter; now she is in her last, and tonight she is still shining with sufficient brightness to cast a silvery sheen on the eastern sea.

Well, there we are, but for the moment it will be goodbye to September and goodbye to the old ‘hairst moon’.

In one of Robert Burns’s letters written to a Mrs Dunlop on New Year’s Day, 1789, Burns speculates on matters spiritual: “We know nothing or next to nothing of the substance or structure of our souls”, and he says later that he is a sincere believer in the Bible. He goes on to talk about his favourite flowers in spring, and the sounds of nature, and wonders why those sights and sounds elevate the soul, and why, as he says, “Minds of a different cast” may not be equally impressed with such pleasurable things.

Well, I agree that we can never know exactly what the soul is, and each individual has different degrees of appreciation, their own favourite flowers, colours, etc. I’m not sure that the feelings we might have about nature have anything to do with spiritual matters, but there are wonderful visual effects to be seen in the universe that greatly impress the mind. Somehow they capture certain feelings that are difficult to explain; sometimes simple, little things like the daisy, quite apart from the great vistas of sea and sky that do make one stop and consider. Just think about the dark expanse of the heavens on a winter’s night when the stars are ablaze, or when the ‘merry dancers’ sweep across the sky.

So, like Burns, and everybody else, I too have some favourite sights, and sounds, or colours for that matter. One colour, for instance, that never ceases to give me a special pleasure, is the pinkish red that tips the white petals of the daisy – Burns, too talks about the “crimson-tipped” daisy as being one of his favourite flowers. Why I particularly like this colour I do not know. Perhaps it has something to do with its purity. It has a freshness and cleanness that is particularly pleasing to the eye. Maybe it links up with some pleasant, forgotten memory from the past.

Then, there is that wonderful pale, powder blue colour of the starling’s egg that just pleases me greatly. Would one call it a calm colour or a peaceful colour? Does it maybe extend away back to one of those beautiful windless days of summers long ago? Certainly, in that respect, colours can create a link with memorable events. For example, I remember one day at the fishing some years ago when the sea was like silk and it was this same blue colour. So smooth and flat was the sea that the ripple of the ‘praam’ stretched undisturbed in two long lines far behind the moving boat. I remember it was in the evening, and earlier in the day there had been the ‘punding’ of the native sheep for clipping.

The third colour is the yellow of the birdsfoot trefoil – or as it is more commonly known – ‘cocks and hens’. It is a colour of such intensity and brilliance that one simply cannot but stop and enjoy it. On a shallow and mossy part of the roadside as one travels to the West Beach, at this time of year (early June), there is a display of this flower. When we were young we used to like to imagine that the fairies would play there in the moonlight or secretly in the warmth of a summer’s day when dull mortals were elsewhere.

With regard to the sounds of nature, Burns singles out two birds which he never hears without, as he says, ‘an elevation of the soul’. They were the curlew and the grey plover. If I were to choose the cry or song of only three birds which are special favourites they would be the curlew, blackbird and the lapwing. Mostly they have some connection with days of long ago, quite apart from the continuing pleasure of hearing them sing or call. For instance, the blackbird’s song takes me back to childhood times and makes me think of summer nights and the setting sun. For, at the age of five or six when it was bedtime around eight in the evening, often a blackbird would be singing outside the bedroom window. Everybody will agree his song is a delight to the ear. There he perches, frequently on a chimney, dressed in black with his yellowish beak, singing away, and just when one is beginning to enjoy the performance, away he flies skimming the roofs and dykes.

And then there is the call of the curlew as he pipes away. Sometimes a long single or double note, sometimes a series of warbling, bubbling notes. You will hear the call through the season, in the early morning, day or night, and without this rather dignified, carefully alert bird North Ronaldsay would lose a little of its magic.

The curlew also reminds me of Iceland which I visited about this time of year in 1970. When I was in the north of that spectacular country, all of a sudden the wind came blowing from the North Pole. It was very cold and some snow fell. Yet, the next day the wind changed direction and blew from the south and it became very warm. The change was so sudden, and I recall especially the vivid emerald green of a grassy field nearby, where a curlew was calling. No doubt the bird was as pleased as I was at the change of weather. One day it was summer, then winter, and then next day back to summer.

But possibly the saddest, and the most nostalgic, is the cry of the lapwing or the ‘teewup’ as we say locally. The cry of this attractive bird with its little head plume takes me back to early schooldays and reminds me of a piece of land shining with marsh marigolds at this time of year. ‘Teeweep, Teeweep’, goes the call as the spring and summer pass. Sometimes a flock of lapwings goes ‘wup, wup, wupping’ away, but it is the solitary individual that I think of mostly and associate with memories of the passing years. When walking past a field, in the summer twilight or a winter’s night, up will fly this bird of the plover family with a surprised cry. The thought of its lonely unseen presence in some dark field is a little sad. Maybe the moon is up casting the lapwing’s little shadow across the damp ground, or maybe just the cold starlight flickers upon the bird’s iridescent plumage as I pass by. But I always think – though I cannot explain the feeling – that its cry, as it fades away in the night, seems to remind me of old times, and folk that have long since gone.

Well, those are my three favourite colours and the bird sounds that I especially like to hear. But there are others: the sharp penetrating voice of the little wren with its musical singing; the skylark with its song of the sky; the sound of that gentle bird, the kittiwake, in the summer time, when clouds of them would fly up crying from Seal Skerry, Summer Ayre, or the Green Skerry; the whirring of the snipe, or the loud calling of the black-headed gull as great numbers of this smart looking bird would follow the plough on a spring day. By the way, the little wren never, as far as I remember, used to nest on the island though now they do so in fairly large numbers, and their singing is a familiar part of our lives. But the sound of the kittiwake’s call takes me back to early days at the lobster fishing where, in Garso Wick, on the north side of the island, on a summer’s day when we were hauling creels, the sight and sound of hundreds of wheeling birds will not be forgotten. And the black-headed gull will remind me of spring and the smell of the petrol-paraffin tractor’s exhaust on a windy day; the sight of tractors ploughing or harrowing here and there and the general busyness of the island at that time of year. I’m thinking of course of 40 to 50 or more years ago. Almost all those ploughmen that I remember now lie west of Holland where cold granite head stones mark their final resting-places.

Here I am sitting outside, for the fun of it, finishing this letter. It’s a splendid, windy, sunny, and inspiring sort of day and as fresh as fresh can be. Our large fuchsia tree is beginning to display its crimson and purple flowers, and little sparrows are flitting here and there among the branches, chirping and chattering as they always do. I can hear an oystercatcher or ‘sheldar’ far away, and a single tern has just flown past uttering an angry ‘skraek’ – despite the graceful elegance of this bird it’s my opinion that they are rather impudent and short of temper.

Before me, in our rather tousled, somewhat neglected, garden, there is a profusion of sweet rocket which is a delight to the senses. A few years ago, I remember an invasion of red admiral butterflies that were greatly taken with this flower. They are such spectacular creatures. So far this year I have seen one or two and also the odd painted lady – do you not think they are rather aptly named? Well, that’s about it. The skylarks are singing and the ‘Wast Sea’ is sounding bravely in the background and I’ve just heard the curlew, or the ‘whaap’ (as we know them), calling somewhere in the distance. I must say I do like that bird.

Well, this is a Sunday. It’s a day I like to have to myself – in as much as that desire is possible – and I try to put the thought of ‘one hundred and one’ jobs, which are waiting to be done, into the background. You know, that as the folk on the island become fewer and fewer, and as we get a little older, it’s becoming clear that majority of those jobs will simply never get done. The very thought of them is enough to haunt, and trouble the mind – at least with me that is the case. Interestingly, only today I heard that North Ronaldsay could do with at least one incoming family who could take on some of the extra chores. Such a thought had also occurred to me and I’m sure they would find numerous requests for help that would keep them in work. Mind you, they would have to be quite versatile – almost jacks of all trades.

In the old days, and not even that long ago, each house had a fairly large family living together. One has just to look at the six censuses (beginning 1841) that have recently been published. For example, families of six, eight, 12 or more sharing a home was not at all unusual. In fact at one particular house on the island it was said that 21 folk lived together for a time. In each home there were folk to look after the older or younger members of the household, folk to share the work of the croft, to help neighbours, and to organise this and that. It’s difficult to imagine an island with a population of three or four hundred or more, as it would have been in those days.

But back to the present. The spring and early summer work is over: a little ploughing, sowing, rolling of land for silage and hay – a process which helps to avoid damage to machinery, spreading artificial fertiliser and so on. And on matters more social, as part of their term’s project studies, the North Ronaldsay school pupils have been in Rousay for a few days looking at the fish-farm, seashore, archaeological sites, etc. Here on the island, on Saturday June 1, celebrations for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee were combined with communal work which provided a constructive focus for the day.

Of course communal activity is an integral part of North Ronaldsay’s history. Such work has always been very much related to, and is still practised with the management of the native sheep. In the spring the five ‘toonships’ would be busy maintaining their allocated portions of the twelve to thirteen mile long sheep dyke. That work has lapsed today with the much-reduced work force but nevertheless areas requiring immediate attention are repaired – it has to be, otherwise the island would be over-run with sheep. Then the various chores connected with sheep management would follow: bringing in ewes from the foreshore for lambing, the punding (gatherings) of sheep for clipping, removable, etc.

A few years ago, readers may remember my account of the rebuilding of the sheep dyke when large areas were devastated by storms. At that time islanders turned out to work day after day. And so it goes. In the old days folk who were roofing parts of their steading with heavy flagstone usually had a team of helpers – in fact many homes were built that way. The two Kirks, dating back to about the mid 19th century, would have been erected mainly by communal labour. And when Captain Fresson was pioneering the first air service to the northern isles in the 1930s the whole island turned out to clear the proposed runway. So, when the time, opportunity and circumstances all connect, much can be achieved. Differences are put aside and aims are accomplished.

This little account brings me back to the island’s celebrations for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and goes some way to explain the background to the work undertaken on June 1. At a recent meeting of the North Ronaldsay Community Association, the committee decided to combine the repair of the Session House roof of the New Kirk with their various celebration activities. This was one of the aims of the North Ronaldsay Trust, who now own the building and who hold it in trust for the island. So on Saturday, June 1 at 10am work began.

One team set about removing the welsh slates, others conveyed them to another group who busied themselves chipping away the cement/lime adhesions and the broken rusted nails. Yet others weighed, graded and put those slates saved into appropriate piles. Throughout the day refreshments provided by the Association were served. Then back to operations until everything was ready for ‘sarking’. Hammers tapped away on the roof as boards were nailed to the couples. On the ground others finished their tasks and tided away this and that. By about 6.30pm the sarking was complete and one side had been felted. A total of 38 folk, which included former islanders back home for the celebrations, and a few visitors, had helped in one way or another to accomplish quite a surprising feat of work.

A few years ago a similar effort was made when the storm damaged roof of the Memorial Hall was repaired. Both are special buildings which hold a great part of the islands history in their very fabric. Within the walls of both, the lives of many islanders have been influenced and shaped in one way or another: Sunday school days, marriages and all the other activities that were once prevalent in the life of the Kirk, concerts, weddings, dances, children’s ‘treats’, and the many memorable events that took place in the Community hall.

North Ronaldsay’s most senior man, John Tulloch, Sennes, lights the huge bonfire as part of the island’s celebrations to mark the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. (Picture: Kevin Woodbridge)

But to return to the Golden Jubilee celebrations, the next venue very soon after the Session House repairs was the bonfire site at Dennis Ness. Patricia Thomson organised various fun events for children and adults – egg and spoon race, three-legged race, sack race etc. The island’s most senior man, John Tulloch, Sennes, was invited to light the huge bonfire. The blaze was spectacular, and it burned away long after the last game had been played and the last spectator had left.

A little later, folk collected at the New Community Centre, which had been decorated with yards of brightly coloured bunting, flags, and bunches of red, white, and blue balloons. In addition the school pupils had made suitable decorations including large gold painted figures of 1952-2002 to signify the Jubilee. After a time folk arrived at the Centre, and shortly they began to partake of a magnificent and beautifully presented buffet mostly prepared by Anne Ogilvie. Shortly afterwards, Peter Donnelly, president of the NRCA, welcomed everybody and began the proceedings. He thanked his committee and all helpers who had been involved in any way with the day’s events. Peter then presented John Tulloch, Sennes, with the specially minted, and boxed, silver five-pound coin. The school pupils and other young folk also received this commemorative Jubilee momento. Peter and Ian Deyell followed the presentations with the raffle, which comprised a bottle of Highland Park whisky, kindly donated by Bruce’s Stores, and a commemorative £5 coin and a box of chocolates donated by the NRCA. Tea and homebakes were served and for a very pleasant little spell folk simply sat around and talked. Eventually, in the very colourful surroundings, the dance got under way to the litesome music of accordions and by one thirty in the morning, some fifteen and a half non-stop working hours after the first welsh slate had been removed from the roof of the Session House, a memorable day indeed came to an end.

Well, that’s the island news, or as much as I can remember at the moment, but today, especially, I’m thinking of less joyful events. Not so long ago the island attended the funeral of a new islander, Vera Osmonde, who died on the first of April aged 78. And yesterday, Monday 3rd my brother Walter, aged 54, passed away. Only on Saturday he had sat in a car watching the repair work at the New Kirk.

So here I am sitting at our front window finishing this letter early in the morning and looking out across green fields to the east sea. So far, it is a beautiful day. High cloud is moving slowly in the south-easterly breeze and the sea is sparkling in the bright morning sun. The sound of summer is all around. A little wren is singing from a hidden stance nearby, and my favourite songster, the elegant blackbird is whistling as only he can whistle. In the air there is the smell and sound of the restless sea. It’s almost always to be heard, and many a memory it can bring back to those of us who live on this island of North Ronaldsay. Its dominating presence is with us through every day of our existence, the days of our youth and adulthood, days of fun and days of sorrow. But this day, despite the music of the island that comes stealing in through a half open door, there is sadness in the air.

Waves of the receding tide,
That return again to shore-
The sense of your noise ever
Is that day does not last.

Micheál O Guiheen (1904-1974)

Jeremy Godwin’s letter to The Orcadian, dated January 24, in which he refers to my Yule letter from North Ronaldsay, set me thinking. He talks about the “true feel of island life” which he believes I manage to convey in my letters. He hopes, too, that I am “not yet wearing out at 61” and thinks that, “turning night into day can be one of the signs”. My readers may remember that in my ‘Yule’ letter I mentioned that it was 3am as I was finishing off writing”. The above verse from a poem by Micheál O Guiheen, and one or two other pieces which I will quote, show that I am, of course, aware that time marches on. As another writer from the Great Blasket Island says when referring to how youth passes:

“Isn’t Youth fine! – but alas! She cannot be held always! She slips away as the water slips away from the sand of the shore. A person falls into old age unknown to himself. I think there are no two jewels more valuable than Youth and Health.”

From: An Old Woman’s Reflections, Peig Sayers. (1873-1958)

Anyhow, what the heck, I ask, is wrong with sitting up well past the ‘heuld’ of the night writing until 3am, or later as it has been sometimes. That’s when I’m in full flight with my ‘Letters’ which are mostly about the ‘entertainment’ side of island life. I’m beginning to think, though, that possibly Jeremy Godwin is not so far wrong after all. You know, when a person is young there seems time for everything, and even a bit later in life, time is still to be borrowed. But Wow! (as Burns says in Tam o’ Shanter) the day comes when one’s elders and their contemporaries are gone, and we have become that generation, upon whom we depended for advice, information and support.

It’s true, though, that this business of advancing years does come to mind from time to time. On Linkletstoon, there lived a man who refused to accept, or even think, that he was old and maybe that is really the best way to go through life. But isn’t it rather an interesting subject altogether with so many variables? I remember asking once, in one of my letters, what if we never looked old? And you know there are those who age but slowly, and still look, and are, quite ‘swak’ in their twilight years, not only that but they talk and think like younger folk. All of this got me reading again some of the work of the Great Blasket Island writers who were writing down recollections of their lives around the mid 1930s and earlier. Writers such as Thomás O Crohan, Peig Sayers, Micheál O Guiheen and Maurice O’Sullivan, all of whom had been born around the turn of the century, and as long ago as 1873 in the case of Peig Sayers. I have mentioned before the wonderful series of books that were written: Twenty Years A-Growing, Island Cross Talk, A Pity Youth Does Not Last, An Old Woman’s Reflections etc. I was looking particularly at what some of them say about the life in the Great Blasket Island (three miles out into the stormy Atlantic to the west of county Kerry), and of how youth passes so quickly.

Peig Sayers, says in her book, An Old Woman’s Reflections:

“Very often I’d throw myself back on the green heather, resting. It wasn’t for bone-laziness I’d do it, but for the beauty of the hills and the rumble of the waves that would be grieving down from me, in dark caves where the seals of the sea lived . . .”

I remember once doing something quite similar when, one fine summer’s day some years ago, I lay down in our meadow area and fell asleep for spell. When I awoke, I felt for a moment like Rip Van Winkle. All the while in the background the sound of tractors hammering away at some land work came haunting the peace of the day. How often in our lifetime have we done such things? Maybe when we were young we frequently might have – but not often since I suspect. To be seen behaving in such a way would be looked upon as “bone-laziness” by some, but as Peig Sayers says above it wasn’t. Only the other day when I had gone for a walk along the rocky shore to the west, while I was waiting for the strength of ebb to run off a heavy west sea, so as the OIC’s ferry could dock, I stretched out for a short spell on a sheltered flat rock. Round the corner of my rocky abode the wind came whistling and moaning, while above me some curious gulls, crying sharply, banked and balanced briefly in the turbulent air. All the while the heavy west sea thundered not far from where I lay with white froth like snow flying here and there.

Micheál O Guiheen in his book, A Pity Youth Does Not Last, writes:

“A person’s life races on in the exact same way that a wind lifts the mist from the shoulder of a mountain . . . We are greatly mistaken that we do not make use of the loan of this life for the short time we are there, despite the best we can do”.

“Well, well”, as my Faroese friend would say. Now, let me think about Jeremy Godwin’s belief that I convey the “true feel of island life” in my letters from North Ronaldsay. Yes, I have described our enjoyable, social life in some detail over the years. I’ve also, more briefly, mentioned other things that happen from time to time, work on the land and sea, a bit of history, and a little about tradition. But it would be very misleading to believe that everything always flows as smoothly as the sea on a summer’s day.

“‘It’s hard to be growing old,’ said Peig when I (W. R. Rodgers) said good-bye to her in Dingle, ‘but’, she added with a grin, ‘I’ll be talking after my death, my good gentleman.’ So she will, for as the proverb says:

‘A tune is more lasting than the song of the birds, and a word more lasting than the wealth of the world’.”

Peig Sayers - 1873-1958 - as she appears on the cover of her book, An Old Woman’s Reflections, The Life of a Blasket Island Storyteller.

Here I am then, reading the words of Peig Sayers written around 50 years ago, and I’m wondering who might bother to cast an eye over my North Ronaldsay chronicles as far into the future. Perhaps by then the island could be like the Great Blasket Island, (evacuated in 1953), “abandoned to sheep, seagulls and silence”. If change for the better doesn’t come soon it probably will. It seems, therefore, that I should say that life on North Ronaldsay, like the sea, has its share of smooth and stormy times, just like, I’m sure, many other small communities have. I suppose too, that over the years, such communities can have various individuals who, like the secondary tides (tides which run up on the main tides of Flood and Ebb), become very wild and tricky when the wind blows in their face. Sometimes, maybe, among other ambitions, those tides fancy being in command, others busily keep the wind blowing. They turn and twist, rise up in menacing postures, and can be very troublesome, but it is possible to pick a way through them just as the versatile North Ronaldsay praam does many a time. If that is not an option then one has to be judicious and wait a little. Eventually they fade away and become absorbed into the main flow. But even on a fine day one has to be vigilant for, although everything appears smooth and normal, the tide is still there moving as fast and as purposefully as ever. And sometimes when boats built elsewhere attempt to work in waters of a different complexity, such as North Ronaldsay experience, they can find it difficult – particularly if they are not prepared to understand the complicated tidal currents – or at least listen to those that do. Those boats come and go. Some lose interest and leave, or simply remove themselves from the lifestyle of the tumbling tides, but many of those who stay do contribute constructively to community life which, in many isolated communities, becomes more and more vulnerable as the number of working boats becomes less. Those are the ones, as Sheila Gear, from Foula (mentioned below) who says: “came and stayed because they had a real affection for the place”. In addition she thinks that: “an island needs its own islanders . . . it’s his home and he has a strong attachment to it”.

Recently, I read about a small village community in New England in the USA. There a bitter dispute raged about making a hard-topping over a piece of an old hill-road, which bordered the village green and had existed for generations. Eventually the time came for a public meeting to decide on a course of action. Opinions and hard held views were exchanged with unabated fury. The writer of this account (who also held passionate views on the subject) learned one thing that day, and that, as she said, was the fairness and finality of a democratic vote which resolved the matter. This account reminded me of similar occurrences in North Ronaldsay’s past when the population was well over 100, and democracy played its part. One involved a dispute about the use of certain island monies for financing a particular road. A fairly stormy debate took place in the Memorial Hall when those against the motion won the day, but as time went by, circumstances changed altogether and the road was built. And once, in the 1960s, when the island was working hundreds of tons of tangles, island workers threatened strike action for more pay during shipping operations, I remember a formidable delegation striding boldly down to the pier to demand satisfaction from an Alginate Industries manager. On another occasion when agreement couldn’t be reached about a right of way, the Land Court decisively settled the argument. Over the years there have been disputes about this and that, and differences of opinion. They come and go, some are resolved, some are not, and occasionally, despite a public vote, repercussions and ill feeling can last for a long time.

A problem can arise, however, when the population of any small community falls too far. One often hears and reads about this sort of scenario, and it’s easy to imagine various consequences. Issues and disputes tend to become exaggerated, and in addition, the so-called democratic vote may easily no longer operate as it should. Some folk simply do not vote at all – they are not interested, or abstain. Others will not vote as they think, because of one influence or another, or more seriously, because they might be beholden to the promoter of a particular concept or idea within the community. Such a vote, or abstention, could then adversely affect the lives and future of the people living in the locality. To use my analogy about the sea – perhaps there are too few boats of the calibre of the NR praam left to deal with the troublesome tides.

The challenge, as the American writer, May Sarton, from New England says, “is the ruling of a small community with wisdom and justice”. She also mentions the great importance of their Moderator – a man of principle, skill, and independent vision who presided at meetings. Yes, that’s what small communities with problems might consider. It would require someone who could see through the sometimes ingrained prejudice and even self-interest which can exist and does – even in the great corridors of power. Could such a person be found? But, if so, would he or she be acceptable to a community or regarded instead as a meddler, and a danger to those who have their own agendas? In any case such an arbitrator maybe could provide the vital solution to seemingly intractable problems.

The re-reading of Peig Sayers’s book and others has given me much pleasure and often amusement. Peig’s stories, proverbs, insight and knowledge of life in the Great Blasket Island are very special. Here is one of the other proverbs she quotes: “It’s for ever said that the three things that run swiftest are a stream of water, a stream of fire, and a stream of falsehood”, and describing an incident in island life, she adds, “and a lot of falsehood was being mixed with the whisper-lisper that was going on”. There’s no doubt that we all are perhaps a little bit guilty, and even enjoy a spot of the whisper-lispers, but certainly Peig did not approve of such behaviour.

Well, Jeremy Godwin, I hope this letter says enough – but I think you know it all. Once, I remember, you wrote a letter of support in The Orcadian when I was being less than diplomatic about our little ups and downs and had been criticised for it. I hope this letter, which is the view of one individual, avoids offence this time, but there is more to life in North Ronaldsay than Harvest Homes, decorations, candles and oil-lamps, and those of us of an older generation who were born and bred here know it.

There are ambitious plans for the future of the island presently being pursued with dedication and effort by numerous folk: young and old, islanders and new islanders, and folk from outwith the community. And assistance is being sought from various outside bodies. But in addition I still believe, much can be learned from those Great Blasket Island writers and their like in such communities. For instance, another islander, Sheila Gear, a Foula inhabitant, writing in the 1980s in her book Foula Island West of the Sun, makes some interesting observations in her last chapter about Foula’s future: “The care for an island must come from within . . . the young people, both living on and having left the island, are the ones who should be asked what they want for the future of their island . . . the so-called isolation is not the problem – rather it is the lack of housing and employment”. Sheila Gear believes that “an island, or any community, is viable because it itself believes it is”.

The Great Blasket Island’s poets and writers understood what their island life meant. They had, after all, lived there for generations and knew their history and folklore. Theirs was a continual struggle for survival in the face of poverty but always, “the hardship is countered by the strength of the community spirit”. And those who saw the inevitable end of life on the Great Blasket wrote with sadness at the passing of their community. That end came, as Tim Enright, the translator of A Pity Youth Does Not Last, said, when the islanders could no longer compete with the “giants of capital”.

The following quotation from Peig Sayers probably sums up one of the great aims of any community. One which, I think, along with a rich culture, respected and fiercely held, sustained a remarkable group of people for hundreds of years:

“But I have this much to say, that I had good neighbours. We helped each other and lived in the shelter of each other. Everything that was coming dark upon us, we could disclose it to each other, and that would give us consolation of mind. Friendship was the fastest root in our heart…”

It’s good to remind ourselves of those qualities to which we islanders are no strangers, and which, when folk were, arguably, more dependant on each other, also sustained the long established community of North Ronaldsay.

Before I finish, I’m remembering Alfie Swanney, North Gravity. We attended his funeral on the island recently. Alfie used to keep everybody on their toes with his quick wit and levelling remarks. His building work is to be seen round the island. Once when I was gingerly trying to paint one of Antabreck’s chimney blocks (I have no great head for heights) Alfie, who was at the house on some errand and in his seventies at the time, hopped swiftly up on to the roof, and from there to the chimney head where he calmly walked around its edge. With the passing of our older generations, who knew what island life was all about, North Ronaldsay dies a little. The Blasket islanders knew it and I often think when I’m daydreaming that I, like Maurice O’Sullivan and Micheál O Guiheen, if given the choice between the old world and the new, would choose the old. But, seriously, the great challenge is how do we bring the island forward functioning into the new millennium, and yet still retain the best of the old values. If this is possible then North Ronaldsay, along with its history, will continue far into the future.

I close with two verses from Micheál O Guiheen’s poem, ‘The Great Blasket’

Often when night’s coming I am found
Where the sea-gull sinks in settled sleep;
The black clouds mass above me
The evening star, polished, shines bright.

True, last night I sat down
A full, fitting company beside me;
Our talk was the traits of our forebears,
Praising their deeds on the Great Blasket.

This letter, which I am beginning to write on Saturday, January 26, is to be one of contrasts I think. Yesterday was, of course, Robert Burns’ birthday, and the great difference, weather-wise, between yesterday and today sets me thinking about change and comparisons.

This is the time of year when Robert Burns comes to mind and yesterday’s weather certainly could not have been more appropriate for celebrating his birthday. The frozen ground and sprinklings of snow were fairly in keeping with his descriptions of January.

When Januar’ wind was blawing cauld,
As to the north I took my way.

Or;.

Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane
Was five- and- twenty days begun,
‘Twas then a blast o’ Jan’war’ win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.

Hansel, by the way, means a gift to express good wishes at the beginning of a New Year. Today, with the frost completely gone, sheets of water lie here and there across the island after a night of incessant rain and strong south-easterly winds. In the morning, a sudden ominous calmness had replaced the upheaval of the night, and across the east end of the island a misty spray bore inland, rising from a heavy sea. Even the sun gave noticeable warmth to one’s face – in fact everything had changed dramatically.

Well, here I am at Burns again. Yes, once more, in a small adjoining room in the New Centre, we managed to have a little get-together in memory of the poet. Despite unpleasant weather, colds and other ups and downs, everybody who was able to attend agreed, that we had done justice to a man whose life is celebrated the world over. Yet, curiously, despite this recognition, there are those who will continue to dismiss the man and his work.

O ye, wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your Neebour’s fauts and folly!
‘Address to the Unco Guid’
Burns.

So, on Burns’ Night, with tartan rugs, illustrations from his poems, red roses, candles and lamps, and a few folk from across the Firth to add to our number, the ‘e’enin’ got underway. Peter Donnelly, the NRCA president, welcomed the company and acknowledged the work of all those who had made the evening possible. Guests this year were the speaker Archie Bevan, accompanied by his wife Elizabeth, and musicians, Susan and Chris Webb. The haggis, carried by Winnie Scott, our hard working cook, was piped in by Chris Webb. Martin Gray, with his eye on the ‘Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race’ followed with a spirited address. Jimmie Thomson recited ‘The Selkirk Grace’ before Winnie’s splendid supper was consumed:

Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Burns.

Cider was the accompanying drink, with John Barleycorn for the toasts.

Archie Bevan from Stromness, who gave The Immortal Memory at this year's North Ronaldsay Burns Supper.

Archie Bevan then rose to give The Immortal Memory. For many years Archie had been head of the English department at the Stromness Academy and had also served as depute rector. Recently, his work for the St Magnus Festival, of which he was a founder member, was recognised with an MBE. He gave a fine tribute to Robert Burns, touching on many aspects of the poet’s work frequently using quotations from his poetry. He stated his great contribution to Scotland’s heritage as a collector of songs: a labour of years for which he neither asked for nor received any remuneration; his understanding of human nature; his fearless exposure of hypocrisy; his preparedness to admit to his faults and to bear responsibility where necessary. He mentioned Burns’ life of unremitting toil, which probably was the cause of the debilitating illness over the last years of his short life. Archie referred to the Bard’s recognition in countries all over the world which, even over the two hundred years that have passed since his death, was still as strong as ever. He also remarked that four of Orkney’s writers and poets, George Mackay Brown, Robert Rendall, Edwin Muir and Eric Linklater, all had paid tribute to Robert Burns’ genius. The speaker concluded his address by asking the company to toast the Immortal Memory.

Sydney Ogilvie proposed an original, ‘Toast to the Lasses’ in verse with his wife Anne replying in similar vein. This was followed by Susan Webb on fiddle when she played a selection of music from Scotland, Ireland, and Shetland, finishing with some familiar Burns tunes. Susan plays with the Orkney Reel and Strathspey Society, and also teaches young people attending the Orkney Traditional Music Project to play the fiddle.

I followed the fiddle music by reading an account, originally printed in The Orcadian (2/2/1933), of North Ronaldsay’s first ever Burns Supper. It makes an interesting comparison with our own efforts, and with some of the differences between the island of almost 70 years ago and today. I will shortly return to this article which had been researched and sent to me by Beatrice Thomson who lives in Finstown, (formerly Neven, North Ronaldsay)

Susan Webb once more took up her fiddle to accompany the communal singing of three of Burns’ songs. Although we sang without practice we nevertheless had some fun with our efforts. Isobel followed with an eloquent reading of part of one of Burns’ letters to a friend, Captain Francis Grose, in which he relates three witch stories about the Kirk o’ Alloway. Isobel read the particular story which mainly inspired ‘Tam o’ Shanter’. Archie Bevan then went on to give a fine rendition of this well-known poem.

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; … …
She prophesied that late or soon.
Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon;
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Burns.

We then enjoyed a solo sung by Sydney Ogilvie called, ‘John Barleycorn’. Three more Burns songs followed with the final song, ‘The Star o’ Robbie Burns’. I took advantage of a short interlude to unveil one of my larger seascapes, which I gifted to the NRCA. The painting was in acknowledgement of my own presentations, received at the end of the year event, which I had felt were much too generous. Peter Donnelly accepted the oil painting on behalf of the association and the island, expressing admiration and thanks.

Very shortly, the ‘peedie’ dance got under way and we jigged, waltzed and swirled to the best of our ability. One Eightsome Reel was managed with two sets on the floor; for a time Susan Webb playing her fiddle, fairly made us dance like fiends with her fast reel times.

The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
Burns.

Then the accordions took over to give us a little respite and finish the dance a little more sedately. Chris Webb had a go on his small pipes for the second last dance, and finally our own two very faithful players, who have provided music for many years, ended the evening with a waltz and ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Hip, hip, hurrahs resounded through the room to complete our Burns night.

I said I would come back to the account of North Ronaldsay’s first Burns Supper and make some comparisons. The 1933 Burns’ Supper, held on January 27, was conceived and managed by Mr and Mrs Flett – “aided by an able and willing committee, (The Memorial Hall Committee) chosen from the youth and beauty of the island”. Mr Robert Flett was the head teacher at the school from 1933-1940 and the event was held in the school rather than the Memorial Hall. This was because of the availability of a large coal-fired boiler in which three haggis were cooked. Mary Tulloch, Burray (a member of the committee and one of the haggis makers) tells me that they were made from the island’s own ground oat-meal, grated fat, onion, seasoning, and the chopped up heart, liver, and the kidneys of our native sheep.

In order to give sufficient space in the school, a movable partition that used to divide the Little End (primary) from the Big-End (senior) was folded back. Trestle tables, along with forms for seating, dishes etc. had to be carried up by hand from the Memorial Hall

The school was described as being, “transformed into a veritable pleasure palace. The tables were artistically set with all the delicacies appropriate to the occasion, and even the time honoured haggis proved a tempting dish – certainly a master hand had been at its preparation . . . An eloquent address on Burns was given by Mr Robert Flett, and Mr James Swanney, Trebb, occupied the chair as no other could. His humorous comments, no less than his well chosen ‘Selections from Burns’ brought the house down with laughter”.

Accompaniment for the singing – eight solos, two duets and one quartet was provided by: Miss Benna Sandison, assistant teacher, lodging at Cruesbreck, Miss Margaret Tulloch, Kirbest, and Miss Bethia Tulloch, Cruesbreck. In contrast to our own efforts, those songs would have been well practised in advance. The performers all those years ago were:- Mrs Sutherland, Lighthouse, Mrs Flett, Schoolhouse, Mrs May Cutt, Gerbo, Mr Sydney Scott, North Manse, Miss Benna Sandison, Cruesbreck, Mr Robert Thomson, Sr., Millhouse/Peckhole, Miss Margaret Tulloch, Kirbest, Mr Robert Flett, Schoolhouse, and Miss Bethia Tulloch, Cruesbreck. Musicians for the dance, which carried on until 2am, were Mr Sydney Scott, Mr Robert Thomson Sr., Mr Robert Flett, (all on Fiddles) and Mr John Swanney (Trebb) Melodeon. MCs – Mr Robert Flett and Mr Sydney Scott.

Toasts etc.: ‘Is there for honest poverty’, (recitation) Mr James Swanney, Trebb; Toast, ‘The King’, Mr James Swanney, Trebb; ‘Address to Burns’, Mr Robert Flett; Toast, ‘The Lasses’, Mr Sydney Scott, North Manse; ‘Reply’, Dr Garvie; Toast, ‘The Chairman’, Mr R. Flett; ‘Reply’, Mr James Swanney, Trebb; Toast, ‘Kindred gatherings’, Mr Roy Scott, Antabreck; Toast, ‘The Island’, (those two latter toasts we resurrected at our function) Mr R. Flett; ‘Reply’, Mr John Scott, Sr., North Manse.

Of the ten familiar songs sung in 1933 such as; ‘Ye Banks and Braes’, ‘A Highland Lad’, and ‘Afton Water’, we had in fact chosen six that were the same. The population in 1933 was around 283 whereas today the population is barely over 60. The attendance at that first Burns Supper was, I’m told, between 90 and 100. Our event had about 40, but eight came from the Mainland. Looking at these figures it is surprising that less than 100 were at the function, but in those days the children were not allowed at Burns Suppers (at least not this first one), and older members of the population tended to stay at home. This was maybe because they were getting on in years, or had to look after the young children or be with those who were too old and frail. Another consideration was, that people would not have had motor conveyance and roads would have been very much rougher than today’s modern surfaces.

In the 1933 The Orcadian account it also lists the committee. They were: Miss Mabel Thomson, Howatoft, Miss Mary Seatter, Howar, Miss Betsy Thomson, Millhouse/Peckhole, Miss Mabel Thomson, Cursiter, Mr William Swanney, Cott, Mr John Swanney, Trebb, Mr Allan Tulloch, Upper Linnay, Mr Tom Thomson, Howatoft, and Mr John Tulloch, Ancum. Of all those committee members, and all others already named – who were involved with that Burns Supper, only two are alive today. One lives far across the seas in Sydney, Australia. She is Mrs Mabel Hay (nee Thomson, Cursiter). The other is Mrs Mary Tulloch (nee Seatter, Howar), living here in North Ronaldsay.

They, along with the few members of the general audience still alive, wherever they may be, will surely recall memories of great days in North Ronaldsay almost 70 years ago.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot?
And auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my Jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Yesterday, January 1, 2002, to the music of a fiddle played by Kelvin Scott, over 30 revellers danced round the old Standing Stone. Shortly before, with a bottle of the Famous Grouse whisky, we had toasted in the New Year, and watched the winter sun set behind the hills of Eday.

North Ronaldsay under snow, December 2001. (Picture: David Scott)

Can anybody think of a grander way to bring in the New Year than by wishing one another good luck, success; and watch the setting sun together, remembering for a moment those folk who, many thousands of years before, had erected the stone. As we left the scene, followed by a group of young cattle who had eyed our performance with considerable curiosity, sweeping clouds in the south west glowed in spectacular colours of orange and red.

At Neven, shortly afterwards, we ‘discoorsed’, ate cake, and sang songs to the accompaniment of fiddle, accordion and mouth organ. Liz Forgan and Rex Cowan, our hosts, proposed another two entertaining toasts. So, you see that even that old Standing Stone can bring folks together in harmony and enjoyment. Do you know I think we could do with some more stones dotted here and there round the island and elsewhere.

Well, I’ve made an early start to my end of the year letter. Outside the wind is blowing very freshly from the south, and the moon, just beginning to wane a little and encircled in rainbow colours, is riding high in a cloudy sky. I think that for tonight I will close down my writing machine and aim at an earlier start tomorrow.

Today, when I came in from my outside chores, I heard a curlew cry. The sky was beautiful as the sun began to rise. Clouds, coloured orange and pink, changed into gold and yellow as the sun climbed clear of the horizon and gained height above a ruffled sea. Yes, it is a fine ‘drouthy’ type of day, and a welcome change from snow and ice and the very wet conditions of recent weeks. It would be grand to have a few days of such uplifting weather. We could arrive more easily at some New Year resolutions I think, and march forward with renewed determination.

How quickly Christmas comes and goes and the New Year celebrations likewise. In the old days there would still be some good bottles of North Ronaldsay ale in most houses to welcome New Year visitors. Shortly, I shall have to be stepping forth in order to get my own visits completed before Old New Year’s Day on January 13. Remembering old customs for a moment, it’s pleasant to think that the folk in Foula still actually have a special celebration for January 13 – one which goes back far into their history. And talking about that very isolated island I have just got a book called The Isle of Foula by Ian B. Stoughton Holbourn, first published in 1938. Professor Ian Holbourn bought the island about 100 years ago. When he died in 1935, he left vast amounts of unpublished writing on a very wide range of subjects. After his death, his wife, Marion, put together the book using her husband’s notes on Foula more or less as he had written them. On certain clear days this Ultima Thule, which lies some fifty or so miles distant to the north, can be seen from North Ronaldsay. Not many years ago a few islanders from here visited the island by plane. Maybe we could arrange such a visit again to see how such an isolated community manages its affairs, and how life has changed since the 1930s.

Going back just a step or two into last year to remember community events. A whist drive raised over £100 for the children’s Christmas Eve party. On December 19, the pupils of the North Ronaldsay School presented a fine programme of carol singing and readings. And then, at the grandly festive Christmas dinner, cooked by Winnie Scott, head of the school kitchen, folk were entertained once again by the children. Much work had gone into a production of a short sketch entitled ‘Mr Howard Carter’s Discovery’. Mr Carter was a British archaeologist who discovered the tomb of the Pharaoh Tutankhamun. This very professional production involved all the pupils – Joni Craigie, Richenda and Thomas Brookman, Heather Woodbridge, Duncan Gray, including the two pre-school children Cameron Gray and Gavin Woodbridge. It also involved sterling work from head teacher, Patricia Thomson, support teacher Jackie Milner, drama advisor Chris Giles (both from Kirkwall) Anne Ogilivie, pre-school assistant, Edith Craigie, auxiliary, and Isobel Muir coming back from retirement to act the part of Mr Carter. After each function folk enjoyed suitable refreshments. On Christmas Eve there was the traditional and entertaining children’s party which in the old days was referred to as the “bairns’ Christmas treat”.

Then came Christmas, with snow and ice and a bitingly cold wind from the northwest. At the Memorial Hall on December 30, about 30 folk somehow got seated on old forms set up on the curtained stage. Heaters made the confined area cosy as we watched an innovative puppet show organised by Helga Tulloch for the children on the island. The show was loosely based on the activities of Ragna of North Ronaldsay -a ‘great lady’ of Viking times. Helga and Georgette Herd brought the puppets alive, with Chris Sutcliffe, narrator, and Scott Tulloch, stage assistant. Lemonade, biscuits and festive drams were served at the finish of the performance. By Saturday the icy condition of the roads forced a postponement of the island’s traditional end of the year event until Hogmanay. On this night quite a number of visitors to the island ensured a good attendance at the last dance of 2001. The Community Association’s new president, Peter Donnelly welcomed everybody and set the proceedings in motion. Two short films were shown as a video but projected on to a large screen by special equipment kindly lent from the Kirkwall Community Centre. The films which had been made in 1934/35 were entitled, ‘The Rugged Island’, a Shetland Lyric, and ‘Eriskay’, a Poem of Remote Lives. The films, whilst conveying the romantic side of island existence, also very beautifully depicted the way of life on those islands almost seventy years ago. Rex Cowan then gave a short talk, illustrated by a video, in which he explained the changes in underwater archaeological exploration. In the early seventies his team of divers had discovered and explored, the wreck of the Svecia owned by the Swedish East Company and lost on the Reef Dyke in 1740. At that time, as Rex said, exploration methods were much less advanced.

The dance which followed, with upwards of 70 folk participating with enthusiasm, proved a special success with a great Eightsome Reel taking us near to the midnight hour – Sinclair’s pipes fairly swept us on. Then at a little ceremony just before the turn of the old year, Peter Donnelly, presented me with a beautiful Seiko watch and a leather hand-bound illustrated edition of the complete works of Robert Burns. Those two very fine gifts, both inscribed, were given on behalf of the island by the North Ronaldsay Community Association. He went on to mention my 12 years as president of the association and the work I had done in that time. Although I felt that this recognition was far beyond my contribution, I could only graciously accept the two very splendid gifts being able only to say thankyou, but my thoughts were away back through those years. Remembering the little ups and downs, the special events that we had conceived together and the fun that we’d had. But especially I remembered the work and support of so many others – during my time and long before – whose help and commitment often goes unmentioned and unrecognised, but whose contribution makes collective efforts possible and ensures success. Tea, sandwiches, and all sorts of homebakes were then served as the old year slipped away.

Ian Deyell counted down the last seconds of 2001. Then at twelve midnight the hall hummed with all sorts of good wishes as folk moved around to shake hands with one another. Shortly, the dance swung back into action with Ann and Lottie’s accordions going at it, and also in fine form was Kelvin with his fiddle. I played along with them adding to the volume of the music and so on went the dancers merrily indeed with the second last dance being the favourite Strip the Willow. As the music increased in tempo, arms and legs flew in all directions with ‘yoochs’ and ‘skreeks’ sounding more and more frantic. That was the way to bring in the New Year before the last waltz with the sadder music of the old Scots tunes – The Rowan Tree, The Four Marys and Loch Lomond, reminding us of other times. Robert Burns’s universal song was then sung to bring a great night to a close.

Well, I’ve almost come to the end of my letter. Today has been another dry and fine winter’s day with a very fresh, southerly wind – I say today – but I see with a shock that it is now almost 3 o’clock in the morning. What in the world is to become of me if I continue like this I can hear people say – I shall certainly have to nip 40 winks or more through the day. You know at 61 who cares. I’m about to have a look outside – as I have a chore or two to do. Then I’ll tell you how the night is.

The night is fine with that fresh wind still blowing from the south, and the moon, now half spent, is hiding and peeping from among dark clouds that come and go against a hazy sky. Only a very bright star or two shines palely through the mistiness of the night. As I looked round the island at such a late hour, the one light to be seen was that of the Lighthouse as its long beams swept slowly round, and round, in an anti-clockwise direction – why does it turn anti-clockwise I wonder? I thought for a moment about our recent activities and the passing days. There were many memories to turn over in the mind. All those events described above, the white Christmas as it had transpired to be, with the sharp brilliance of a full moon lighting up a spectacular snowy landscape; magnificent sunsets behind islands sometimes purple or blue, and at other times partly covered with snow; the sight and sound of heavy northerly seas hammering past to the west, and east of the island with the white of the waves luminous and a little frightening in the night. The thunder of such seas could easily be heard even within the confines of one’s home. Then there were the sometimes marathon and very lively parties at various houses, one or two of which I managed to attend. There was the inevitable gossip; the differing opinions and versions of events both past and present; and often the intense talk and speculation about North Ronaldsay and what its future might be.

Well, what indeed will it be, or rather what can it be? That is the question! Ragna, mentioned above and described in The Orkneyinga Saga as a wise and self-assured woman, once had a verbal exchange with Earl Rognvald, which resulted in an error of judgement on his part.

Ragna said: “Now the proverb comes true that ‘few are so wise as to be able to see everything as it is’. . .”

Perhaps, if we were all as wise as Ragna we might arrive at solutions to some of the problems that beset many small communities – especially those like ourselves that live at the periphery of society.

This is November 23, and I’m sitting once more at my computer. Today has been as mild as a summer’s day, and even tonight the temperature outside is a surprising 50 degrees F. Yet only a few days ago the wind blew fiercely from the Northwest carrying flurries of short-lived snow and sharp hail that rattled the windows. And almost every other day it seems the rain comes ‘tuimin doon’. Such sudden, unseasonable fluctuations in weather surely do tell a story of climate change. Certainly winters are no longer like they used to be but then very little is.

I’ve just come in from having a look at the night – it’s mild as I mentioned, with a warmish wind blowing from the Southwest, and the moon is lighting up a cloudy sky. Sometimes she peeps briefly from behind busy clouds, and out to sea two well-lit ships are passing by. For some reason this night the appearance of the moonlit sky and sea reminded me of a picture we used to have hanging in our living room long ago. The thought of it takes me back at least 50 years and to the North Ronaldsay of those far off days.

The glass on the painting got broken many years ago and I was remembering that the picture has lain unseen in a curious little cupboard situated near the ceiling in my bedroom. Over the years its memory has haunted me a little for I have a vision of it in my mind. So I went straight from the cool of the night to my bedroom and now I have the picture at my side. It is more or less as I remember. The painting depicts a moonlight night at sea. The moon is partly hidden behind silvery cloud but still illuminates a bright path across the water. And in the near foreground two sailing ships, which look like fishing smacks, are outward bound. Their sails are dark against the sky, and near the bow of one an orange light sparkles warmly. How wonderful it would have been out at sea on such a night. Maybe one of the fishermen was playing a sea-shanty on his fiddle as the boat made passage to the fishing grounds of 100 or more years ago. The sound of the music would have travelled from ship to ship and far across the moonlit waves.

Before I tell you about our Harvest Home I must mention briefly a day or two I had on the Orkney Mainland. One day in Kirkwall I met two senior men in their seventies and eighties. One was a South Ronaldsay man and the other came originally from Stronsay. So there we were – three island men in their sixties, seventies and eighties, We had a great crack for a time about life in Orkney in times gone by and comparing it with today. I think the three of us agreed that old-fashioned neighbourliness –- when folk on the farms helped one another has almost gone. Machines do it all. And there you have it. Sadly, we also agreed that the Orcadian dialect is fast dying out as are the traditional crafts such as the work of the old blacksmiths, and all those diverse crafts practised on the farms of 60 or more years ago.

Thinking for a moment of old farming methods, one dark and rainy day I managed to visit the Corrigall Farm Museum just before it closed for the winter. There one travels back in time. I had a grand ‘discoorse’ with the custodian – in wreaths of blue smoke from a peat fire as we talked about this and that. Among many interesting old farming items in the building, I saw on the walls a picture of the Gospel Ship and a portrait of Burns. When summer comes again I must retrace my steps there for a proper visit.

And talking about the change from old to new, dare I say that virtually within feet of this award-winning, historical link with the past, rows of black plastic silage bales two-tier high stretch the length of the building and more. Stepping out from the front door the view of the Orcadian landscape is completely ruined. What, I wonder, would the ghosts of those who once farmed this old homestead think some early morning, when they rose out of their box-beds to look across the familiar lands of Harray with the hills of Hoy in the background?

Another day in Kirkwall – a Sunday in fact – my wandering footsteps took me along the sea-front as I walked to town from Craigiefield. The Cathedral bells were ringing their familiar notes that are forever stored in my memory – for many a day I have heard their music. By happy coincidence when I reached the front of the Cathedral it transpired that this particular Sunday was BB Enrolment Sunday which meant that the Boys’ Brigade and the Anchor Boys were on parade. Out of the Cathedral they all came and shortly formed up on Broad Street. Soon, with banners flying and led by their pipe-band, they marched away down the street and into Albert Street, and so on to their new hall up at Papdale. Well, I marched along with the company just as I had done in the Fifties when I was a member. I would have liked though, to have seen more discipline in the marching. But how very fine this all was, listening to the band, and seeing those young fellows following the pipes and drums with the same pride, I think and hope, that we old members used to feel. Before I came back to North Ronaldsay I once again, as I often do, made a visit to the splendid and majestic St Magnus Cathedral – the Cathedral of the people of Orkney.

The floor is full as an Eightsome Reel gets into full swing at the North Ronaldsay Harvest Home. (Picture: Peter Donnelly)

Now then to our Harvest Home. On Friday, November 16, 82 folk comfortably filled the Memorial Hall. This, in fact, would be the 12th consecutive year that the old hall had seen again the celebration of the harvest. Once more, Loganair brought out to the island our many friends, relations, and guests, with some coming especially from far away. Captain Ian Potten was this year’s Loganair representative with vice-convener Jim Sinclair as the Harvest Home speaker. Unfortunately, Jim Sinclair’s wife was unable to attend, as were representatives approached from Orkney Ferries. After a delayed appearance one of our great Harvest Home supporters, and indeed of North Ronaldsay, finally arrived. This was Howie Firth, now living in Elgin, who made an apologetic entrance to handclaps, cheers and the stamping of feet.

Thereafter, proceedings quickly got under way. John Cutt gave the grace with the traditional supper following. Later, before the ‘toast’, I said a few words and announced my retirement as president of the community association and from the committee. After 12 years I felt, and said, that it was time for new blood and new ideas. I acknowledged the great support that I always received from each succeeding committee over the years – many of whose members had served much longer than I had. As a relative latecomer to association affairs, I had held the banner for a few years. Others, over the long history of firstly, the Old Hall Committee (1920-1948), and then the Community Association, had served just as conscientiously as I had attempted to do. I promised to help with future functions, and then proposed a vote of thanks to my colleagues and all others who help, and for those who were involved in any way with this year’s Harvest Home.

Guest speaker at the North Ronaldsay Harvest Home this year was OIC vice convener Jim Sinclair. (Picture: James Thomson)

Jim Sinclair was then invited to address the company. He had grown up with, as he said, the more old fashioned harvest work during the Forties and Fifties – work which is now almost a thing of the past in Orkney. He went on to reminisce about those days and during World War Two when several hundred servicemen were stationed in Shapinsay. Some-times, their genuine attempts at helping with the farming activities were not always successful. When binders arrived in Shapinsay as long ago as 1912-13 his farm was among the first to acquire one. The sheaves were then, of course, mechanically tied. Occasionally, though, he remembered flattened crop being cut by the reaper, forerunner of the binder, which left the cut swathes to be bound into sheaves by hand. He described how on fresh, sunny days it was wonderful to see the binder sheaves fall, one by one, into long lines lying ready to be stooked. Often nearby, he would watch gannets dive with spectacular effect into the sea as they fished for food. But he mentioned other more unpleasant days – tangled crop, cold, wet days and so on, which were also to be endured. These combinations of images, along with memories of cups of tea and grand spreads of food being served in the hairst fields, the satisfaction of working together, of neighbours helping, made those times of the past great memories to treasure. Today machines have replaced all the old ways, and thereby we have lost an age when real human values were part of everyday existence. Jim then proposed the toast to the harvest. Fine drams of whisky sparkled briefly in the light of candles and barn-lanterns before disappearing rather neatly and bringing this most pleasant part of the Harvest Home to a close.

In an instant candles were ‘slocked’; the beautiful displays of carnations (created once again by D. & H. Glue) and the lanterns were deposited safely in the ‘little end’. Then outside we went with the long tables, dishes clattered in a cleaning ritual, slipperene got dusted on the old hall floor, and shortly the accordions were in business as the standard first dance, Strip the Willow, filled the space from the south to the north end of the hall. And so one of our best Harvest Home dances began and continued through the evening until the draw for the raffle took place. This raffle was organised in aid of substantial funds required for window replacements in the Memorial Hall. Ian Deyell supervised the raffle for which people had kindly donated numerous bottles of whisky, wine etc. Those items, along with one of my watercolours, which I had contributed, raised a sum of £273. Further donations brought this figure to a grand total of £300.

On went the dance as energetically as ever (no time for tea) as the night swept on to the music of accordions and Howie Firth’s recorder. During a brief interlude Howie entertained the company with an amusingly topical Harvest Home composition, (including a chorus) which he sang to quite an original tune. And then before we had time to think, between three and four in the morning, the second last dance was announced. Another Eightsome Reel was the choice, which shook the hall with (again) four sets dancing madly to the skirl of the pipes. Finally, the last waltz and Auld Lang Syne brought the 2001 Harvest Home almost to a close but not before Jim Sinclair was carried shoulder high round the silvery floor of the hall. Then I was also raised to the realms of the simman garlands and coloured buoyheads before hot soup, sandwiches etc was served to round off an unforgettable night. A little later the old key of the hall finally clicked in the darkness of the night.

“This is the land whereon our fathers wrought
Year after year, feeling scant need to clutch
For distant gains, since, with little or much,
They tilled their scattered fields as they’d been taught,
Or tried the sea to find what might be caught
Of fish or crab. This was their land, and such
Their joy therein, and seeing the sunlight touch
Its evening hills, no other land they saught.”

First verse of the poem, ‘Orkney’, by Robert Rendall (1898 – 1976)

When the fuchsia tree begins to display its scarlet flowers and the honey-suckle also comes into bloom, then one realises that the main of the summer has passed.

Another sign of the advancing season is the ragged robin. It’s a flower that favours damp ground and it makes sweeps of pink along some of our few loch edges. And then there are the purple blue vetches that are a pleasure to the eye at this time of year. They are to be seen here and there, but mainly along parts of the road sides where they mingle with the many flowering grasses, butter-cups, silverweed, curly doddies etc.

On July 8 a new extension to the North Ronaldsay Bird Observatory was officially opened by Jim Wallace QC MSP – an event to be reported shortly in The Orcadian.

On August 11, a slide show and dance took place in the new community centre. James Thomson very kindly showed an interesting selection chosen from the thousands of transparencies which he has taken over a period of more than 40 years.

He called the show ‘Orkney Faces and Places’, and his presentation got the evening under way.

A few Friends of the North Ronaldsay Trust were there to raise more money for the North Ronaldsay Trust. They ran a very successful raffle, which realised a sum of £104.

Over 70 folk, including a number of visitors to the island, enjoyed the social get together.

Apart from such entertainments the island’s native sheep punding and clipping – which, among other things, can also be entertaining – has once again been completed.

By the end of next month the remaining jobs of the season – some oats cutting, barley to be plastic wrapped, and tattie picking, will all be done.

Going away back to June when the main of the summer’s work had begun, silage activity was in full swing, and some hay cutting was getting under way. Then we had two weeks of misty, wet weather and all such activity came to a stop.

When conditions improved there was a flurry of work, cut grass was plastic-wrapped, and hay got turned and baled. Now-a-days hay baling is almost becoming a thing of the past in North Ronaldsay, and this alternative, rather clever, method of wrapping grass (or grain crops) in plastic sheeting is taking over – what would the old folk say if they could come back and see things today I wonder?

In the 1960s hay was still being cut by quite a few farmers using the old horse drawn reaper but pulled instead by tractor. Then the cut swathes of grass had to be turned by fork for curing. It was surprising how quickly this work was accomplished when there were a few folk going at it – besides it was fun – well, if there were a few helpers it was.

Making hay on North Ronaldsay in the 1960s

Some hay-turners were very fast just as there were turnip singlers that could out-strip fellow ‘hoers’. Next, the hay, when sufficiently dry, was forked into coles (small gatherings of hay about four feet or so high) and once they were considered to be cured, the coles were built into stacks – usually in the ‘yard’ – an enclosed area near to the farm steading.

Although some stacks were built in the fields it was more convenient to have them near the byres for ease of feeding. The hay, mostly made into ‘windlins’, was then fed to the animals that were tied up during the winter in the relative comfort, warmth, and shelter of their byres.

A ‘windlin’, by the way, was made by getting hold of a fair amount of hay (or thrashed straw from oats or corn sheaves) in ones ‘skirt’ (lap), then by fixing a longish wisp of the material from either side with a few turns, it becomes held together in a sort of oblong shaped bundle. A wonderful twisting and turning movement of the arms and hands accomplished this task quite neatly. Well, well, as my Faroese friend would say.

The last letter I wrote – about my childhood war-time memories (Twinkling with the stars of memory), was written away back in December of last year when I took a ‘gee’ (O. N. – a turn of mind, a fancy) for writing on this computer at which I sit tapping at the moment. In fact I have not been working (if one can call it work) at this machine for a while – apart from brief coverage of island events.

Now that some local folk have had time to read that ‘1940s’ letter and make comment on this and that, there are some statements to put right for the record.

I think it might be interesting as well to expand a little on one or two aspects when I have the chance. It’s surprising though how sometimes a lapse of concentration or a misconception can lead to inaccuracies. One should try and get one’s facts correct even if sometimes its difficult when different people have different versions and conflicting memories of certain events.

In fact it’s interesting to think how some folk will remember certain things which others will not, or that one person will be absolutely adamant that he or she is correct. I’m thinking for instance about favourite films seen again some years later. Surprisingly one often gets the sequence of events mixed up, and even we can be quite wrong about certain things which happened or indeed never happened – the memory does plays tricks.

I’m thinking too about certain inaccuracies contained in my Boy’s Brigade memories (part of my ‘Red Diary’ letter) which go back to more than 40 years ago. David Partner, in his excellent and most informative article, printed in The Orcadian recently, which I really enjoyed, corrects two. One, the white shoulder haversack was not worn on weekly parade nights as I thought – rather it was kept for special occasions. And two, the Kirkwall BB Pipe Band did not lead the Armistice Sunday Parade but, as David says, the band did head the Parade on Empire Youth Day.

I certainly remember other occasions when the Pipe Band marched through the streets of Kirkwall – couldn’t someone organise another meeting of the old band members when they could march once more through familiar streets with the pipes skirling and the drums tapping? That would be very grand. Anyhow, on matters that appear questionable it’s said that in order to get as near to the truth as possible, at least three versions of a particular event, and from three individuals, should agree.

Fresson's plane with some North Ronaldsay folk going aboard with produce from the island – eggs, lobsters, etc., from left: Mrs Cutt of Garbo, Bella Swanney of Sanger, Mary Robertson of Holland, Annie Swanney of Trebb, Tommy Thomson of Nether Linnay and Ronnie Swannay of Trebb.

When I was writing about Captain Fresson’s air service to the North Isles (begun in 1934), I had that it was about 20 years between the time this provision officially ceased (at the outbreak of World War Two) and its subsequent restoration by Loganair in 1967. Well of course it was nearer 30 years – but isn’t it amazing to think that Fresson’s passenger service to the North Isle began almost 67 years ago.

Then, for example, he and his pilots provided two flights per day and for three days in the week between Kirkwall and North Ronaldsay. In 1939 Fresson was also able to begin an airmail delivery and collection to the island for a short time. It almost spelled the end of the Royal Mail contract run by Post-boat between the islands of Sanday and North Ronaldsay.

However, the start of the war ended that venture, so in fact the Post-boat continued to carry the mails until Loganair took over the contract some 28 years later. Incidentally, the change from plane to boat was not achieved without some controversy, since some islanders were for the retention of the Post-boat connection and others for the air service.

The issue was finally settled at a public meeting held at the island school, chaired by the head teacher at that time, Robert Flett. Anyhow, the adjustment to my earlier calculations has, as you can see, allowed a little expansion on Fresson’s history, plus my intention to include an interesting photograph from the time. But those who want to learn more about this period in Orkney’s history should read Captain Fresson’s memoirs contained in his book Air Road to the Isles published in 1967.

On Seal Skerry a rusting ship’s boiler continues to draw ones attention as it has done for 86 years. It belongs to the Scotfus – a Norwegian ship that grounded in 1915 (her 16-man crew were taken off safely by three island boats) – Peter Tulloch in his book A Window on North Ronaldsay mentions this wreck (and others). There is another boiler visible, when it is ebb-tide, nearer the shore upon which the odd seal often sits resting or sunning himself.

This was the one identified in my war-time letter – the Alice Doods boiler – (o (in Doods) as in ‘doh’, – ray – me). It’s possible that the RAF planes that I mentioned as using this relic for target practice did so, but it was the other boiler, still very prominent, that was the main target. To mix up the names can only be explained as a curious lack of concentration – not at all uncommon for me.

My next door neighbour, who knows the surrounding fishing area well, thought that the old lobster fishing men – or at least one of them would have been tempted to take his staff across my back for making such an inexcusable mistake.

Many a creel have I been involved in setting and hauling in its proximity – in fact for fun I have actually stood on the blessed thing more than once – Alice Doods boiler indeed! Mind you, only a local person would be any the wiser but this correction gives me an opportunity to relate a little more about the wreck.

The Scotfus was loaded with carbide, wood pulp, and timber, and as Peter explains this cargo took fire. Eventually, as he says, a few local fishermen from the north-end bought the wreck and they were able to retrieve, among other things, most of the ship’s cargo of carbide.

For some years this element provided another source of light in many homes – but not all as the oil lamp was the more common lighting provision. The carbide lamp worked on the principle that water was allowed to mix with carbide in a controlled proportion which then gave off an inflammable gas. In later times carbide could be bought locally at one of the island shops, so that the carbide lamps were still in use in the 1950s. And even I remember one still working in the early 1960s – it burned with an intense white light, and I seem to recall a sort of sulphurous smell.

I’m also reminded that there were carbide bicycle lamps in use in my school days, but somehow I cannot remember much about them apart from the little red and green glass that lit up on either side of the lamp – I wonder why this was so on a ordinary bicycle lamp, was it a sales gimmick or was it like the direction indicators used on aeroplanes and ships – red for port green for starboard? Or were those bicycle lamps, as someone suggested, adapted from some other use?

My Sanday informant tells me that the carbide bicycle lights were also used on that island but doesn’t remember the inside house lamps.

With regard to the Spitfire or a Hurricane that I mentioned as having possibly been the plane which made a forced landing in a field of Antabreck early in the last war. It was neither. The plane was in fact a Blackburn Skua, described as a fighter-bomber or dive-bomber. Those planes were single-engined with a Max Speed of 225 mph; fuel tank 163 imperial gallons, giving a maximum range of some 760 miles (an indurance of over four hours); they were designed mainly to operate from an aircraft carrier; and carried two of a crew – the pilot and a navigator/rear gunner.

The rear gunner operated a Lewis machine gun, with four Browning .303 machine guns mounted in the wings being fired by the pilot. The plane carried one 250 lb. general purpose bomb recessed under the fuselage, which was aimed and released by the pilot. Peter Thomson, formerly Greenspot then Neven, now living in Finstown, informed me as to the type of plane, and Rognvald Scott (then aged around eight or nine) who, as I said in my letter, lived at Antabreck at that time, confirms it. I suppose the event added to Rognvald’s fascination with the war-time planes, as he went on to become a pilot and subsequently a Squadron Leader in the RAF during the 1950s

My two informants further tell me that the wings of the plane folded up which of course would have been the case since the plane was designed primarily to operate from an aircraft carrier. Rognvald remembers his father Roy, with his tractor, and assisted by other islanders, taking the plane up to Antabreck where it was partly housed in a shed until the appropriate authorities were able to fit a replacement propeller. This would have been done, I imagine, in an attempt to hide the plane from enemy identification and attack from the air. It was a foggy day when the plane made its forced landing on North Ronaldsay – said to be the cause of the accident. It was also said that the plane had run out of fuel, which is also a possibility if you read on.

In W. S. Hewison’s splendid and authoritative book This Great Harbour Scapa Flow, the writer says that the Skuas were operating at their extreme range when flying offensive missions near the Norwegian coast, and many in fact often had to ‘ditch’ short of their base.

The metal fuselage of the Skua was, by the way, designed to be watertight in the event of ditching, and the plane also carried an inflatable life-raft. Hewison goes on to say that 16 Skuas, each armed with one 500 lb semi-armour piercing bomb, made naval history on April 10,1940.

On that day they flew from the wartime aerodrome at Hatston (just outside of Kirkwall) to Norway, where they attacked and sank the 5,600-ton German cruiser Konigsberg in the harbour at Bergen. Fifteen of the planes returned safely to Orkney. The 16th went into a spin (seemingly a weakness in the Skuas) and crashed, killing the two crew members. The Konigsberg, as Hewison says, was the first major warship to be sunk in battle by aircraft alone.

As I finish this letter, the night is fast drawing in and I’m putting all those old stories and thoughts away again.

My computer, by the way, also has a CD player, which I’ve just put on for a change and I’m listening to a recording of the Scottish tenor, Robert Wilson. I’m waiting particularly for his fine rendering of ‘Land of Hearts Desire’. That other fine Scottish singer Kenneth Mckeller also sings this song so beautifully. It’s a wonderful song of the Hebrides; of days of sun, sand and dreams, and far cloudless skies and starry nights. It’s evocative of all islands I suppose, and it especially reminds me of a North Ronaldsay I once knew. But still the island and the sea and the sky remain, and the stars still shine.

When a display of wartime model planes was held at the Memorial Hall, Ian remembers: “I was most impressed by those planes – most likely Spitfires, Hurricanes, Lancaster bombers, Swordfish torpedo-bombers, etc.”
(Picture: Dave Stewart)

In my bedroom I have an alarm system that remains switched on during the night. It has two small fixed lights, one red and one green, and when my bedside lamp is turned off those two colours, glowing side by side in the darkness, frequently remind me of the war years and when I was living at Cruesbreck.

I was born there in 1940 and lived there until 1948 when the family moved to the present home at Antabreck. Although quite young during the last years of the 1939-1945 war there are nevertheless some memories which remain especially clear from those far away days.

The two lights, which provide the inspiration for this letter, are similar to the direction identification system used on ships and aeroplanes – red for port and green for starboard. From 1940 until almost the end of 1945 Norway, a country closely connected in many ways with Orkney with its Norse history, was occupied by German forces. Shetland, of course, has the same historical links but probably more so because of their closer proximity.

During the conflict in Norway there was the famous ‘Shetland Bus’ link when many Norwegians escaped mainly by fishing boat across the North Sea to Shetland. A few years ago I bought a book with the title of The Waves are Free by James W. Irvine (a Shetlander) which is a comprehensive history of the war time Shetland/Norway links – there is also of course David Howarth’s definitive book The Shetland Bus.

One of the very impressionable memories I have of those last years of the war is of the dark starry skies, when frequently the sound of aeroplanes would tempt me outside to see what was happening. Then one would see those little green and red lights, that I’ve mentioned, seemingly among the stars, tracing their way across the blackness of the sky. The sound of the passing war-planes brought a feeling of some excitement and speculation – what sort of mission were they flying; would they survive and come south again – or would they be shot down over Norway or the North Sea.

Though I cannot recollect the heavy raids that went over to Norway that my late father used to talk about, when the sound of the droning engines were heard for some time, there is no doubt that those occasions must have been exciting, and also unforgettable, from the distinctive noise of so many planes flying thousands of feet above North Ronaldsay.

During those war years there were stationed on the island, RAF personnel who were billeted at Holland House. The house, which belonged to the Laird of the island, was unoccupied during the war, and it was about the only place of sufficient size to accommodate a number of men – at one time there was as many as 12 on duty there. Also, the building is fairly highly situated on the island, and it has a tower from which a good lookout could be maintained.

The purpose of their occupation was to keep watch for enemy planes that might be on their way to bomb the Scapa Flow Naval base, or report on passing war ships or whatever. They had a radio operator who relayed such information to the relevant authorities.

When those RAF men were here I was too young to know much about their presence, or how they took part in the life of the community and so on. But what I do remember especially, though, was an exhibition of war-time model planes which they organised. The Memorial Hall was the place where the models were displayed, and the planes were laid out on one of those long wooden tables, supported on trestles, which were used for catering. I was most impressed by those planes – most likely Spitfires, Hurricanes, Lancaster bombers, Swordfish torpedo-bombers, etc. I remember the detail of one of the models very well because a school contemporary of mine had received a present of one, and on occasion we would play with the plane. It was a fairly large model (probably a Lancaster bomber) 20in or more wing span I should think with the distinctive red, white, and blue identification markings. It was painted in a khaki hue, dark green, and black I seem to recall, and in a wavy design. It also had the little green and red navigation wing-tip lights, which actually worked, perspex (I think) cockpit, and similarly made revolving gun turrets.

There was, by the way, a rear-gunner on a bomber who came from North Ronaldsay – Flight Sergeant John Thomson, from Howatoft – and that of course made the model even more fascinating. Marion Chester (nee Tulloch, Kirbest) was the owner of this present – I wonder if she still has it? Apart from those rather sophisticated and substantial models from Holland House, there were also a number of small metal ones manufactured by ‘Dinky’ which some of us as individuals had – I suppose they would have been cast in white metal or aluminium, and we would probably have received such toys in our Santa Claus stockings.

They were very neat little models, silver coloured and accurately made. I seem to remember one in particular as it had a twin body with the cockpit section situated in the middle, two joined tail sections, and three-bladed propellers, painted red, that turned easily when one blew on the blades Ð I think it was an American plane (a Lockheed Lightening (P38)) Alastair Henderson (recently retired Lighthouse keeper in North Ronaldsay) and his wife Dorothy, now living in Stromness, tell me.

As well as the ‘Dinky’ planes there were also a range of model naval ships made by the same company, and when we eventually came to live at Antabreck in 1948, I remember finding one of those toys – a destroyer, that had been left forgotten on the ledge above the door in my then new bedroom. I imagine the little model belonged to my cousin Rognvald Scott when he and the rest of the family stayed at Antabreck when it was their home.

You might think that somebody only aged five and less, living in a place so remote from the momentous events that were taking place, would hardly recall much about those war years. Yet there were many things that happened, and many connections that impressed young minds. There was, for instance, the National Geographic magazines which my father used to get from his sister, Mary. She was a teacher in Aberdeen at the time and subsequently taught there for many years. Those magazines had graphic and impressive illustrations of the war activity – encounters on the sea and in the air – apart from pages of photographs.

I’ve just had a look at some which we still have -they take me away back to those times. I remember too, Mary’s sister Bella, who was a nurse working not that far from Aberdeen in the wartime. She used to tell us, in later years, about the ‘poor RAF boys’, as she described them, that were brought into a special hospital dealing with the terrible burns and other injuries that many of them suffered in combat, or when their planes crashed. Then there was always the talk about the great things that were happening. There was the wireless with the latest news, and I remember Sir Harry Lauder singing World War One songs that were still favourites, songs like “It’s a Long way to Tipperary” or “Pack up your Troubles”. Those songs would probably have been recordings since by that time he would have been in his mid-seventies – dying in 1950 aged 80 – but maybe, on the other hand, he still continued to broadcast.

Then there was Lord Haw-Haw, the Nazi broadcaster from Germany, whose voice came over the airwaves with his propaganda. I can’t recall much of him except the talk about his treachery and the ridicule piled upon him by the folk at Cruesbreck. My uncle Bill was particularly incensed with his broadcasts. Anyhow, Lord Haw-Haw (William Joyce) was born in the USA of Irish parents. He was captured at the end of the war, subsequently tried, and executed as a traitor in 1946.

Once a sea-plane landed in Nouster Bay which appeared very big and unusual looking, I thought, as it floated high in the water. And earlier in the war a RAF plane -possibly a Hurricane or Spitfire, made a forced landing in a field north of Antabreck. It was brought to a stop by running into some fencing wire.

I certainly remember the accident being talked about, but at that time Antabreck was not yet our new home. In any case I was too young to remember the actual event. However, the pilot was unhurt and the plane had only suffered a damaged propeller. A spare was sent out and the plane flew back to its base and so lived to fight another day.

When we were at Cruesbreck where our family were living during the war years. I was just thinking that there would have been nine of us actually staying together at the time – my father and mother, brother and sister (another two brothers and a sister were born later) my grandparents, and my two uncles and myself.

One day is especially clear in my mind, as on that day a German plane flew very low over Cruesbreck. We must have heard the plane approaching in time to be able to get outside, and see the huge black coloured bomber roar over the house, and head south in the direction of Sanday, and no doubt on towards Scapa Flow on a raid.

In Sanday one could see the towering, early-warning radar pylons that were so prominent against the skyline, and a relative of mine living there, Mary Anne Fotheringham, tells me that one of the civilians working at this station was killed by a bomb dropped during an enemy raid. Mary Anne also mentioned that in addition to the RAF, the Army had a substantial presence, and the island had its own Home Guard unit made up of upwards of 70 men. In North Ronaldsay, by comparison, there was no Home Guard. There were, however, a number of men who acted as ARPs, and there was a Special Constable, John Tulloch, Hooking, a World War One ex-RNR, who was in charge. There was also a Coastguard unit to keep an eye along the beaches for war-debris, mines, and so on.

A number of mines landed and exploded, or were defused. Such work was carried out by army disposal officers, one of whom had been in North Ronaldsay, was killed while working in another location. And, still on this subject, I also remember hearing about John Tulloch, Purtabreck, another First World War RNR(T), veteran, who had served on the mine-sweeping trawlers of the Northern Patrols. He had actually defused a mine – the rusting remains of which is still in existence at the old home. Those mines that did go off caused windows to break here and there, apart from other damage done close-by. It must have been quite frightening with shrapnel falling well inland – though I do not actually recall hearing the explosions. (Some of my age do.) Pieces of shrapnel were examined, talked about, and regarded with some awe by myself and my school contemporaries.

Another connection with the planes was the target practice carried out by the RAF when they would frequently make mock-attacks round and near the Seal Skerry. Their pilots were shooting mainly at the remains of an old ship’s boiler (Alice Doods, pronounced “Dods” locally, ship-wrecked in 1911) which was prominent on the skerry. It’s still there, but slowly settling as salt, rust, and time takes its toll. A German plane that passed over very early in the war, fired on the wreck of the Hansi (Norwegian cargo boat loaded with wood-pulp) thinking it to be a worthwhile target. At that time the Hansi had not been long ashore below Scottigar, where she had drifted after having been holed on the Reef Dyke in 1939.

In later creeling years, when we were working from the Noust of Sandbank in the sixties, we used to occasionally lay up our ‘Sea-Gull’ outboards for protection in one of the wheel-house sections that had come ashore by that time. One could see the impressive damage of the German’s attack, and British plane’s target practice, evident by the many holes torn savagely into the iron. But one of the results of the sweeping practice-raids by the British planes was the dropping of spent cartridges (and clips) – mostly at the north end of the island. Empty cartridges such as the 20mm cannon shells falling from a height would have been fairly dangerous – for example, one landed in a fishing boat on shore and went through the bottom of the boat, I’m told. Many of the discarded brass cartridges were collected and polished, and there were very few houses that did not have them as ornaments on their mantelpieces.

Even after the war I remember finding odd cartridges round Antabreck, and some are still to be seen in an island home or two. In fact I’m looking at two different sized ones at the moment. They have the dates 1941 and 1942 stamped on the bottom, and also the calibre information .50 and 20 mm. There was a smaller cartridge, a .303, – the smaller calibre were machine-gun ammunition, with the 20mm being a cannon shell fired on the same principle.

Added to those mixed recollections are many others like: the compulsory black-out blinds for windows, which prevented any light from being seen from the air by enemy planes at night. The fixing for the rollers remains in some houses – for instance, they are still to be seen in almost every room in Antabreck; ration books for clothing, food etc. – maybe not such a hardship in an island context, since North Ronaldsay, at that time, would have been almost self-sufficient. I do remember though our folk receiving fruit, dates, very rich cakes full of currants, etc. from relations in Canada; then there was the bottles of cod-liver oil and concentrated orange juice -spoonfuls of which we young folk had to take – one after the other with the unpleasant one being taken first; gas-masks which we were supposed to carry to school every day, and the special much larger, and quite sophisticated ones, which I think young babies could actually be enclosed within. They had a form of air-pump to supply air; felt blinds being put up in the Memorial Hall when evening functions were on – they are still to the fore and used for slide or film shows on occasion. And such chores as byre work at night had to be carried out with the minimum of light – indeed flashlights were forbidden and those responsible for this law were on the look-out. John Tulloch, who was, as I mentioned earlier, a Special Constable, acting under strict orders, was said to have been particularly vigilant in this respect having been known to knock the flashlight from out of the hands of more than one offender.

Well, those are some of my few war-time memories with bits and pieces added for interest. They are the recollections of a four or five-year-old living in a fairly isolated island, with a population at that time in the region of upwards of 270, and with a school attendance at the end of the war of around 36. Today the school role is 30 less and the population is at least minus 200.

During the time that I have been writing and cross checking this relatively short account, many stories and other interesting information have come to light. For instance, Jimmy Thomson, formerly of Nether Linnay, aged seven at the time, tells me that he actually saw the helmeted face of a gunner seemingly looking at him from a German plane. This was during the attack on the Hansi mentioned above when the plane concerned flew very low over his home as it approached its target. Or salvage work on the Hansi and the grounding and total loss of another Norwegian ship called the Mim about a week earlier etc. But such additional material is too long for this particular letter.

I should perhaps mention though – thinking about ‘isolation’ referred to above – that during those times there was a passenger plane-service which had operated twice a day, three times a week, from 1934/35 until 1939, but then reduced to only intermittent, mostly emergency flights, during the war. This service was operated by Captain E. E. Fresson OBE – one of the pioneers of British Airways. He had, in addition to establishing the North of Scotland and North Isles air-service, just begun carrying the Royal Mail to the North Isles in 1939, but this was discontinued at the outbreak of hostilities. It would be nearly twenty years later, in 1967, before Loganair restored that combined service.

An island boat with an inboard engine, known as the Post-boat, made the Royal Mail and passenger connection to Sanday – a six-mile, hour or more long, open-boat journey, and the main steamer sailing’s between Kirkwall and the island would have been once every two weeks – though often it was much longer between. Such connections were dependant on weather, and in those earlier years there is no doubt that the winters were more severe. Snow with huge drifts was not uncommon when we were going to school in the forties, and often, even if the steamer reached North Ronaldsay, the pier could not be berthed. Incidentally, I also remember a tarpaulin covered gun up for’ard on either the Sigurd or the Thorfinn – maybe on both.

Here I am at last bringing this letter to a close and thinking back to the two little coloured lights in my bedroom with which I began this letter. Sometimes, but very seldom nowadays, I might hear the sound at night of one of those older type propeller-driven planes. If such an occasion arises I’m up and outside in an instant searching the dark skies for the little red and green lights – looking just a ‘peedie’ bit ahead of the far-away droning of the engines. I have heard them a few times but less and less as the years pass. And when I do, and when I identify those magic lights among the stars, that trace once again the war-time paths of long gone airmen, and light up the navigation buttons of the mind – there seems to be a feeling of lost times that pervades ones thoughts – a certain nostalgia – a kind of sadness maybe, that comes and goes like the Northern Lights. The old Eskimos used to believe that this phenomenon of the shimmering lights was the souls of their dead dancing in the sky. Perhaps they do, and perhaps once in a while the lost aircrews will join with them to dance in skies still twinkling with the stars of memory.

In one of our attics, which is full of 101 items of as wide a range of subject matter as one could ever imagine, and covering many years of accumulation, one day, some time ago, I came across a little red Boys’ Brigade Diary for 1954. The Boys’ Brigade was an organisation with which I was involved for a time – but more of this later. The contents of my diary, which include entries for Christmas Day 1953 and that year’s Hogmanay, are short and simple, but nevertheless they give a brief account of those times when I was mainly living in Kirkwall – plus bits and pieces related to North Ronaldsay and like diaries do, they stimulate the memory and take one back in time.

Well, I always planned to try and put something together which uses the diary as a sort of memory stepping stone. So here at last I am sitting down at my computer intending to tell you a little about those times.

I suppose I should begin at the beginning and go back to the year of 1952 when I, and some others of my generation, first left North Ronaldsay to attend the Kirkwall Grammar School. A few, a bit older, were already there, or in Sanday and Finstown, and yet others were further afield – at Universities, Colleges, and so on – they usually left for their venues later than the standard school-time. However, that year, at the end of the summer holidays, we left the island by Post Boat, being rowed out in a small praam to this boat. During good weather in the summer time, the Post Boat was sometimes moored out at sea a little distance from the land at Bridesness – an area from which island fishing-boats worked. This was the only time we sailed from that location that I remember – all other times were from the pier. When leaving for a new school term or coming home on holiday, we had to frequently embark or disembark in swells which rose and fell by many feet. And sometimes when we arrived at the pier, home on holiday, we had to help ‘wap’ the boat up by hand-operated crane from the sea on to the pier, and then on to a cradle to be again ‘wapped’ to the safety of the boat-noust.

In the early days there were no cars to take us home; generally, to keep our clothes clean,we sat on old sacks, which would be spread on a ‘bogie’, linkbox, or maybe a little cart, drawn by tractor. In those days Johnny o’ North Ness (John Tulloch) was the boatman in charge. He was indeed a man of the sea, aged at that time 55, and responsible for carrying the Royal Mail between Sanday and North Ronaldsay. Earlier, in 1939, during a difficult and dangerous rescue of a number of the crew of the Mim (a Norwegian cargo vessel) which had struck the reef dyke – a submerged reef lying about a mile distant from the island, the captain of the ship, seeing the rescue at first hand, was said to have described John Tulloch as “a boatman in a thousand”. A Naval Prize crew, who were on board the Mim, were also highly impressed by his seamanship – but this is another story.

Let me depart here for a moment from my first Post Boat trip to give you some idea of what travellers had to frequently endure when communications depended entirely on the sea connection. It was not unusual to wait for a day or two in Kirkwall for suitable weather conditions when we were on our way home at the end of each school term. There were numerous rough trips from Kirkwall when sometimes the ship had to turn back well into her passage – even on occasion from the very pier in North Ronaldsay, without landing passengers or cargo and having then to return to Kirkwall – a journey which could take four hours or more in adverse conditions; of being weather-bound in Sanday and waiting for the weather to ‘tak-aff’ so as to allow the Post Boat to make its six mile or so crossing to our native isle.

Every morning as we waited we would look anxiously seawards to see if conditions had improved sufficiently to allow a passage. If so, it was down to the Black Rock – that landing and departure point to North Ronaldsay so familiar to generations of islanders, and from there homewards across the North Ronaldsay Firth. But even with those many delayed sailings only once during the festive season did we not get home before Christmas Eve. I particularly remember that occasion, and the unforgettable Christmas morning when we eventually did get home.

As we approached the Start Point Lighthouse, Sanday, on board the SS Earl Sigurd, the rising sun appeared spectacularly above a sea which on that day was calm and settled. Funnily enough, we never seemed to have problems with leaving North Ronaldsay, and many a night when I hear the restless wind sounding loudly outside my bedroom window, I remember so well the feeling I had, and I suppose all of us had, when we were about to leave our homes, families, and friends, for another long term away. We hoped it would not be weather to leave in the morning – but it always was.

Thinking back, it was a considerable sacrifice for our parents to make, and a loss in many ways for all of us – emotionally and otherwise – in those early and formative years of our lives. Many islanders left North Ronaldsay with different aims in mind, and all, in one way or another, experienced those emotional upheavals, which apart from anything else, often meant financial hardship for the parents. Yet, very many of those who left went on to gain distinction in a diversity of careers and occupations which extended to the far corners of the Commonwealth. In previous letters I have written a little about those boat journeys and told of the outstanding achievements of many native North Ronaldsay men and women. Any expansion on those aspects of communication and history would require a separate letter.

But to get back to my story, once on board the Post Boat, we motored from Bridesness to Sanday (a journey of just over six miles and taking an hour or more to complete) where Moodie’s car hire service took us to the Kettletoft pier. We then boarded the SS Earl Thorfinn and sailed to Kirkwall from where I continued my travels on to the West School in Holm which I attended for a year, before moving to the Grammar School in Kirkwall.

In a way, the schoolhouse in Holm was like home from home, for my aunt, Winnie Brown, (née Tulloch, born at Cruesbreck) was a primary teacher in the Holm School. Her husband, George, from Aberdeen, a first World War RAMC veteran, was the headmaster. I have good memories of that year in Holm. In this letter I will only mention a few things which will give a flavour of my life there. Well, there was the ‘singing telephone wires’ of those days that made music in the wind – and particularly on sharp, calm, frosty nights; collecting milk from the farm of the Mosses down the road, and cheese from Sarah Gaudie nearby; primroses in spring at the Millford bridge; then there was the war-time connections and recent relics – coastal and AA gun defence emplacement sites; the radar station at Netherbutton with its towering pylons; the famous Italian prisoner-of-war Chapel in Lamb Holm and so on. One has to remember that in 1952, only seven years had passed since the war ended. Then there were the many Nissen and wooden service-huts seen everywhere. One was situated near the school – I think it was part of the adjacent war-time service’s hospital. It had a wonderful series of Nativity figures modelled by the Italian prisoners of war stored away in a corner. Those beautiful little models which impressed me greatly, were I think displayed in the school at Christmas for a time.

When I was staying with my aunt and uncle, I recall that our folks in North Ronaldsay used to send in eggs and maybe a little home-made butter, from time to time, which we had to collect from the pier on steamer days. In the Fifties North Ronaldsay only had one sailing every two weeks – weather permitting. My year in Holm passed with its many associations, which included the 1953 Coronation celebrations, held one bitterly cold day, on June 2, at Graemeshall. But quite often for the next few years I and other relatives, when we were at the KGS, went back to the Holm School house for weekends. We really used to have so much fun during those visits. On Monday mornings we, along with other parish pupils, had to catch the early school bus to Kirkwall as it stopped at various pick-up points.

Once established in Kirkwall (where we islanders mostly had to stay in ‘digs’ – girls from the islands, and any distance outwith the town, lodged in the Girls Hostel) life changed again for me after my year in Holm. Our digs were situated above what used to be Lipton’s shop at 1 Broad Street, and William Hay (undertaker and cabinet-maker) was our landlord.

Staying there were three of us from North Ronaldsay – Frank Thomson, from South Ness, my brother Sinclair, and myself, Ralph and Peter Work from Stronsay, and sometimes one or two extra lodgers that changed from time to time. Others staying in the digs were Jimmie Macrae, manager of Lipton’s, and Victor Hay, son of our landlord.

Mr Hay was married to a lady from the south who had been a NAAFI cook during the war, working in service camps that were situated near Scapa as I recall. As well as cooking for us, she also provided meals for the public in the same premises. Looking back over the years, Mrs Hay was a good landlady, when one considers the responsibility she and her husband had for their young lodgers.

Mr Hay, on the other hand, was more stern and more remote, and we were, I suppose, a little frightened of him. Once during a fairly noisy and energetic pillow fight, when electric-light bulbs were broken, and feathers were flying all over the place, he came up unawares, to our fourth storey attic-bedrooms and gave us all the most terrible lecture.

But there are so many stories to tell about those days – if only about the way we lived throughout the seasons in that lodgings – I shall confine myself in this letter to a few, colourful recollections such as, summer days when we would go for walks – often out to the Scapa beach, swimming in the sea there and also elsewhere; football, athletics and sports days at the Bignold Park; the long chiming of the St Magnus Cathedral bells on a Sunday, or their daily ringing of the hours, quarters, and halves; attending the Paterson Kirk; Victor’s involvement with the Kirkwall Amateur Operatic Society – he was an enthusiastic singer – we often tried on his costumes – sailor’s and soldier’s uniforms, with swords, guns, helmets, and so on; sitting round a sometimes not too warm fire at night in the winter term, or on long tiresome, cold Sundays; going for walks to keep warm – even going to bed on Sundays during the day time for the same purpose; school revision and attending very, very many film shows – first at the old Temperance cinema, and later on at the new Phoenix picture-house. The list is long with many expansions possible under each heading, but for this letter I will confine myself to mentioning a few items of interest, and other subjects which come to mind as I look over my diary.

This brings me then, to my Boys’ Brigade diary. Maybe I should say a little about this organisation before I continue. In a short dictionary description this boys’ movement, founded in 1883, by a Thurso man, Sir William Alexander Smith, is referred to as – “An Organisation for boys to develop self-discipline and team spirit”. It is also, one should add, a Christian movement with its well-known guiding Hymn ‘Will Your Anchor Hold’ which we sung at the beginning of the Parade night held every Thursday. To illustrate this connection, here is an entry in my diary, Sunday January 17 – “Went to Bible Class (Boys’ Brigade) then church, and then Bible Class”.

We were expected to attend the church, receive religious instruction, and participate in other related activities. I suppose that other organisations such as the Scouts and the Girl Guides are similar, in that they aimed at character development, practical skills, and in giving a grounding in principles of life and behaviour based on Christian ideals. There is no doubt that many of us, who were members of such organisations, enjoyed the feeling of community, learning, and playing together, in those early impressionable years of our lives.

One summer a fairly large contingent of our company went to Edinburgh for a camping holiday, but we actually stayed in a church hall in Gilmerton. I remember being in Portobello, visiting the Edinburgh Zoo, The Scotsman’s printing establishment, Dobbie’s flower gardens, etc., and interestingly I found a photograph of our company marching to a church service one Sunday led by our captain at that time, Robert Tullock.

The memories of our activities connected with the BBs generally remain as pleasant, constructive, and lasting ones, though there are some in the public at large who take the view that such organisations were designed to prepare young minds for unquestioned obedience – such as, for example, in war-time. Interestingly, listening to documentary programmes about the Hitler Youth Movement in Germany – particularly during the Thirties, one hears former members talk with the same nostalgia about times which they, in their turn, obviously enjoyed. Yet many of those young people went on to participate in the final horrors of Nazi Germany, and in a war that caused so much suffering and destruction. I find, as I write, my mind jumping in different directions – thinking for instance about what has happened in so many countries since the end of the Second World War – and still happening almost 56 years later. And what about the recently reported behaviour of primary school pupils in the south attacking their teachers – so severely indeed that in some cases teachers have actually resigned? Well, those are issues for consideration as I think back to our own school days and before, and how we, and our parents’ generation, generally behaved.

From the opening ‘Personal Memorandum’ page of my 1954 diary I see that in 1953, on October 8, I became a member of the 1st Kirkwall Company of the Boys’ Brigade – Rank Private. Further details state – Paterson Kirk (the Kirkwall BB Kirk); Bible class on Sunday; Band practice – Friday. Thursday, as I said, was parade night when we turned out wearing the pillbox hat, belt with the polished brass ‘anchor’ emblem, and white starched haversack – which seemed to be symbolic of the soldier’s standard one rather than being functional. In addition we used to compete with one another in the ‘digs’, where we were all members of the Brigade, in having the most highly polished black shoes. This generally much sought-after attainment was achieved by hours spent working at the military ‘spit and polish’ method. In fact, the feel of the Kirkwall Company in the Fifties was of an almost semi-military style organisation – one has to remember that in those days some of the officers in charge had recently been in the services during the war. Discipline, with great attention paid to proper marching, drill etc., was very much a part of the routine, and on public parade days we were expected to wear a dark suit if possible. I have to say that our marching was very professional, and we all took some pride in this. Particularly, for example, on public parade days, such as Armistice Sunday, when we were led by our pipe-band. Today, and in recent years, when photographs appear in The Orcadian of the Boys’ Brigade and some other groups where they are seen marching, everybody is at sixes and sevens. Obviously marching is no longer of much importance.

The first entry in my diary is one written on New Year’s Day, Friday, January 1, 1954. It says “Out of bed late, went to Cruesbreck, then went round about the houses, after that the dance, lovely dance”. On Sunday 3 it says, “Up first, Uncle Bill (steamer agent at that time) came to tell us about the steamer . . . everybody in bed except myself. Packed our cases for Monday.” Then next day I say, “Up about half-past 7, went off with Post (Post-Boat) at half-past 8, caught the steamer in Sanday, left about 12 noon – Stronsay – arrived in Kirkwall about 2.30. Lovely trip wasn’t sick, marvellous.”

I’m looking over my entries as the year passes and I think it will be interesting to continue quoting a few more and expanding where necessary. My entry for Thursday, January 7, mentions snow and Parade Night, “School as usual (two periods art) snowball fighting, etc., Boys’ Brigade tonight, learned 1st and 2nd part of 6-8 time . . .” The 6-8 time was a drum ‘beating’ – a particular arrangement of drumstick music – if you like – that kept the time for any piece of pipe band music written in 6-8 time. One had to learn other arrangements for tunes written in 2-4, 3-4, slow-march, and strathspey time, and so on. Apart from drumming there were classes in Piping, Bugling, First Aid, Signalling, Camping, etc. and after an examination, badges were awarded to successful pupils. Those badges, which were substantial silver-looking solid pieces, were worn with pride. Once, not many years ago, I saw a young BB recruit of more recent times. He was wearing one or two similar badges, but they seemed less impressive, I thought, by comparison with those of the Fifties. Also, the general impression of other accoutrements which he was wearing and with which I was not exactly acquaint, was that they were almost flamboyant – designed, it seemed, to attract or impress for the sort of superficial reasons one sees more so nowadays – but then again I’m probably out of touch and too old-fashioned – “Move with the times,” they say. “Go with the flow” – I’m not sure I agree with either – “Give an inch and lose a mile”!

The entry for the next day says: “Slept in today, fire broke out at P. C. Flett’s, gutted, boxes of cartridges exploded . . . fire in Deerness 9.15 pm.” On Saturday following I went to see the film, ‘There’s a Rainbow Round my Shoulders’. Through the diary there are the names of the numerous films that generally all of us in the digs went to see, films like ‘Ivanhoe’, ‘The Cruel Sea’, ‘Botany Bay’, ‘Singing in the Rain’, ‘The Road to Bali’ and so on. I suppose they were enjoyable diversions from the routine and the home sickness from which we suffered from time to time.

My diary mentions many other snippets of information about school, digs, weekends in Holm, going home, etc. Here are a few chosen to give a feeling of those times: “Miss Hourston (English teacher) in a bad mood today”, MacKerron, (Head of the KGS) gave us Biology . . .”, “Went to Mr Scott’s (Art teacher) exhibition today – very good”. Then pertaining to life in our digs – “Mrs Hay (our landlady) in a good mood today for a change”. A Friday – “The alarm bell did not go off today as Pat (Peter Work from Stronsay) forgot to pull up the knob”. Then one day in February the entry says, “Up early again, Mrs Hay mad about us going to the bathroom too early and coming down at twenty-past (must be 8) the time she told us herself . . .”. And on a Saturday, “Up late went round a lot of shops to get paints. After that I went out to Holm in the car. Miserable day. Painted a picture . . . and had great fun as Netta and Catherine (cousins of mine) were there”. Then here’s an interesting entry for Saturday, April 24, “. . . Started to buy my clothes after breakfast, pyjamas 26/6, shirt 16/6, pullover 16/6 . . .”

I’m coming to the end of this letter, and I think I’ll finish with three appropriate entries, two of which I had made a few days before New Year’s Day 1954. They take me home again to North Ronaldsay – that island which exerts a hypnotic and abiding influence upon those of us with the ties of generations, and history, instilled into our very souls.

March, Wednesday 31st (coming home for Easter) “Up at half-past five, had our breakfast, then left Kirkwall at half-past six, went to Eday first, then Sanday. Nice passage . . . Post-Boat (to North Ronaldsay) nice passage”. A day or so later at home, “Up very late today, (we) took up a load of neeps, thrashed a load of sheaves, had our tea, a gale of wind . . . went to bed”. Then going back to a few days before my diary began I had written more lengthy accounts of Christmas Day 1953 and Hogmanay (written at the back of my diary on some spare pages) “. . . when we rose up and came by, the table was covered with presents. We had our breakfast first and then opened our presents. Mummy showed us all her first ‘iced’ (Christmas) cake. It was very nice, then Mrs Dawson came over with her cake (a present) . . . (Mrs Dawson was the wife of Walter who was the doctor on the island at that time. He was in practice from 1946 until 1954 . . . had a lovely dinner of roast chicken, fruit, followed by tea and cake . . . went to the concert and dance in the evening . . .”

Finally, Hogmanay, 1953. “We did not do much in the morning but in the evening the fun started. Sinclair and I went to Greenspot with a present . . , then by half-past eight all the crowd (the Linklet’s toon crowd) had gathered in Arnold’s, (he also lived at Greenspot – both houses shared a single dividing gable), had a good laugh there over Barrenha’s dog. Went to Greenspot, then to the doctor’s (Dr and Mrs Dawson always invited the Linklet’s toon men for a visit) . . . with big rubber boots on . . . in the sitting room covered with a grand mat. After that we went to Barrenha, after that Phisligar then Antabreck – stayed an extra long time . . . good fun. I did not go round after that but stayed at home and went to bed . . . in bed about five past three”.

“God gives all men all earth to love,
But since man’s heart is small,
Ordains for each one spot shall prove,
Beloved over all.”
Rudyard Kipling