New Lambs, Owld Stone

 

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Picture: Anja Hall

Sorry, but the picture o the lambs is cheust clickbait. This post is aboot sometheen else. It’s aboot pittan up a new lambeen shed. Read on, though! Pittan up a new shed is a big event.

Ally arrived shortly eftir Christmas wae his Japanese digger tae dig oot the found. He worked long oors, and soon struck rock; the kind o stuff we caal ‘blue whin’, tae be precise. Haird as diamond. Whit ancient sediment wis he brakkan up? Whittiver it wis, stoor stood oot o it when Ally pit the brakkar on it. That slowed us doon a bit. We enjoyed Ally’s company when he wis here. But when he wis feeneeshed, we didna miss the noise o the brakkar gaan aal weekend long. D D. Ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd ddd. Ddd ddd. D d. d.

Eftir the hole wis dug, Bruce and Scott arrived tae assemble the kit. It gaed up in no time. These boys work haird, teu. And in any weather. Drivan rain, howlan wind, freezan cowld. Nane o it bothered them much – they cheust worked and worked and worked. And the shed wis up – a bonny new structure gleaman in the April sunshine. They got the concrete floor poored in the nick o time.

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So. Tak the sheep in, and stert lamban. The usual, cutesy ‘Lambing Diary’ stuff sterts tae happen. Multiple births. Easy lambeens. Bad lambeens. Up aal night. Unsuccessful adoptions. Successful adoptions. Orf. Snatchan some sleep through the day when ye can. Calorific breakfasts, and litres o cappuccino. Faalan asleep on a weet bale in the new shed at 4.45 am. Steam in the haet o the piggy bulbs. Milk. Mithers. Atrocious waather. Joni Mitchell on the radio. Boiler suits laggered in … best no tae say. Red Throated Divers caalan ootside. Peedie lambs gaan Meeeh! Meeeh! Meeeh! till yur cheust aboot demented wae it.

Soon, the new shed, that began as an empty hole in the grunnd, is fill o life.

I step ootsite the shed door wan morneen at aboot 6.00. The sun is shinan eftir a few days o April shooers. The rain haes washed the gutter fae the thoosand fragments o blue whin that lie aal roond the site. In the corner o me eye, I see the fossilised underjaw o a peedie fish – no unlike a troot fae the Harray Loch. If thur’s new life in the new shed, then thur’s the remains o some o the owldest life on Earth rooed up ootside. Fossil fish fae the sediment o Devonian Loch Orcadie, when Orkney wis in the southern hemisphere.

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Island driving etiquette

Learning tae drive on an island is easier than learning tae drive in a city. No roondaboots. No traffic lights. No dual carriageway. Ye might hiv tae watch oot for ducks crossing. Or owld fermers oot for a slow drive, lukkan at the kye. But there’s no doot, it’s easier tae learn tae drive on an island.

Ye come tae understand that ye’ll probably recognise just aboot everybody ye meet on the road. When ye’re gettan lessons, ye mak a peedie, surreptitious glance at the driver o every vehicle ye pass (hoping your driving instructor doesna notice). When you pass your test, you are free tae gie them aal a freendly wave when ye meet; it’s fun when ye see yer pals.

Folk hiv got their own, idiosyncratic waves that they use when drivan. Wan freend acknowledges ye wae an almost imperceptible lift o the finger. Anither flaps his airm up so high he hits the roof o the ker.

So it saddens me that there’s a lot o folk livan here noo who hiv no idea aboot island road etiquette whitsoever.

An owld freend o mine, who is in his 80s, wis accosted in November by a fast driver who nearly ran intae him in a 30 MPH zone. The driver pulled in ahead o him, and accused me freend o pullan oot in front o him. When me freend pointed oot that is wis a 30 zone, the ither driver became aggressive. Anither freend haed the misfortune tae go off the road on the ice in December, ending up in a field. A passing driver stopped, not tae ask if he wis OK, but tae shout ‘idiot’ at him. Giving a teenager a lesson in Kirkwall last week, I couldna believe it when a ker behint impatiently peeped the horn at her.

Whit folk like these fail tae appreciate is that this island only has a limited number of folk, and a limited number o roads. Ye’ll go roond and roond, and meet the sam folk ower and ower again. It’s worth mindan on that the sam applies tae island life in general. That’s why we tend tae be polite folk, who avoid confrontation if we can help it. 21st century road-rage doesna work in wae island living.

Skipper Gunn’s Gifts

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In the four o clock darkness o the late December afternoon, Skipper Gunn turns his back on the Christmas lights that are strung fae the rigging o the whitefish boats. He crosses Harbour Street, twists his skinny frame under the Ba barricades, and slips through the front door o the North Star Bar.

Skipper likes a double O.V.D. at the coal fire through the back, his peedie thin legs hanging fae the bar stool. His phone pings relentlessly wae notifications fae Leona – mind on Skyler’s prescription, don’t forget aboot Dale’s consent form, mind on the boat leaves early the night.  Steel-toed rigger boots, a toorie and a peedie beard. That’s Skipper. He nivver actually sailed as skipper, and he drinks in binges that come like northerly gales; one every twelve weeks or so, more often in the winter months.

Ally Ratter is sat there already, like a Heavy Metal Santa. Long white beard, and the big gut. His t-shirt says Baby Please Don’t Go. Ally is the engineer on the Jarl Thorfinn. On his fortnight ashore, Ally parks his reid Hilux on the pier at aboot 12.00. He sets his heavy wallet and his phone on the Formica o the bar. The screensaver is a picture o his dowter, Carrie. Four pints o Guinness for the afternoon, and four for the evening. Ally’s phone doesna ping; his ex doesna spik tae him.

But Skipper and Ally hiv a lot tae spik aboot. Their days in the school hostel taegethir. Westray folk that merried Sanday folk; Sanday folk that merried Westray folk. Ally’s fither’s trips tae Montevideo and Nagasaki. Skipper’s grandfither on the Northern Convoys. Climate Change. The weet westerly waathir, and hoo ye nivver get a right northerly gale any more. The reward for the ROV that the renewables company lost in the Westray Firth. Orcas in Eynhallow Soond. The price o lambs. Faroese quota. Unreal tonnages o salmon feed.

And dae you ken whit Brandon Harcus paid for that seventy acre at Ness? says Skipper, getting louder. Quarter o a million!

I heard that. I heard he paid cash in twa Lidl kerrier bags, says Ally, quietly. Still, he’s no a bad lad.

Sky News plays dumb overhead. Refugees: Skip wonders whitwey they can afford I-Phones; Ally says I-Phones are all they hiv. Ally luks at his screensaver.

Wae a dour nod tae the barmaid, Ally orders Skipper anither O.V.D. Ally’s gettan tae the stage whar he’s just aboot managing a peedie, shy smile. Skipper’s gettan tae the stage whar he can feel the rum coursing through his forearms. Ally does smile – peedie weys – aal big, heavy teeth. Skipper’s bad teeth luk broon in the mirror ahint the bar, especially when he’s been drinkan rum.

Mind on the bairns’ presents, Skipper.

Ah’ll no forget aboot them – I pat them in the waiting room.

And mind on the boat goes early.

Ah’ll no forget aboot that. Leona telt me no tae bother coman home if I miss it.

The north wind is gettan up. The boys on the boat will be gled tae get home across the Soond tae Blindarsay the night. Skipper scoops his last dram and claps the gless doon on the Formica.

Time for the boat. Hiv a Merry Christmas, Ally.

Ah’ll dae me best. Enjoy yersels the morn, Skip.

Cheers, beuy. And try no tae think aboot Carrie too much, says Skipper.

But I want tae think aboot her, says Ally. Anyway, get doon the pier – it’s three meenits tae six.

Oot intae the rising northerly wind he goes. Back across Harbour Street, and doon the pier tae the boat. Straight past the waiting room. He taks a peedie lurch as he’s crossan the linkspan, but whether it’s the wind or the rum he doesna ken. He’s no sooner aboard when CLUNK. CLUNK CLUNK the bow doors are secured and ready for sea. Skipper heads tae the lounge, kicks off his riggers, and is flat oot snoran like a bandsaw afore the boat sterts tae bury her heid in the lumps in the tide off the Ness.

He’s oot for the whole crossing until the voice blares oot o the speaker Ladies and gentlemen we have now arrived at Blindarsay please remember tae tak your belongings wae you as you disembark. And oot he goes again intae the wind.

Merry Christmas, Skip, say the boys on the deck. Merry, Christmas, beuys! Skip crosses the cobbles at the head o the Blindarsay pier. The lights hing doon fae the village Christmas tree as it springs upright and doon, upright and doon, atween the gusts. Cloods scud across the cowld sky and reveal a glimpse o the North Star. He’s home, on Christmas Eve! Skip gies a peedie skip and teks across the peedie square, past the War Memorial, and up tae his peedie Cooncil hoose whar Leona surely won’t realise he’s that drunk.

The wind claps the door shut ahint him. The nerrow lobby is fill o bruck. He sees three manilla envelopes wae cellophane windows addressed tae Mr S and Mrs L Gunn on the floor. Skyler is greetan; Dale is on the Xbox. Leona stands in the kitchen doorway. Her hair luks like it could dae wae a wash. She has rubber gloves on and a dishcloot in her hand, and she speaks quietly so the bairns canna hear: Did ye mind on the presents, Skipper? The wind roars owre the roof tiles. Jesus Christ the presents.

*          *          *

By seven AM the wind is doon again. Leona steps ootside the back door wae the bin bags, sets them doon, and lights an Embassy Regal. She can hear the eider ducks on the still bay a quarter mile away as the eastern sky reddens. They mate for life, her mither tellt her. Skip is indoors, sleepan on the sofa. The bairns are sleepan, too. As she exhales, Leona’s phone pings. It says ‘new message from Ally Ratter’:

LUK IN THE COAL HOOSE LEONA.

SKIPS NO A BAD LAD.

MERRY CHRISTIANS ALLY xX

Doon the concrete path tae the coal hoose she goes, and there, inside the door, are the three damp, bright parcels. The paper is soggy wae salt watter, and it’s a peedie bit ripped, but there they are. Leona draas deep on her cigarette, haads the breath, and stoops in under the low lintel o the coal hoose tae retrieve the gifts. Thank God fur that, sheu mutters tae hersel as the light sterts tae come up.

 

 

Norroena

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Hugh Marwick’s The Orkney Norn (1929) is the dictionary of the Norse language of Orkney. It records words of the land and words of the sea, weather words and the names of creatures and places – words like gems glittering in the last lingering light of the Viking Age.

Hundreds of the words have become obsolete, left behind as ways of living and ways of making a living have changed forever. There are also, here and there on every other page, sporadic words that have survived – against all odds – into the digital age.

So we preserve the contemptuous bruck – trash, garbage, rubbish. We maintain freck for bairns and pets. Orcadian dogs still weesk at the door for in, and when wind and tide contend at a ness there’s a lively chabble.

These words are part of the modern Norn/Scots/English mashup that is today’s Orkney language. But for how long will we keep them, in the face of online standardisation?

Mibby for twathree generations yet – for a hunder or so unbound copies of Marwick’s magisterial work have been discovered during a clear oot o the former store of Leonard’s bookshop in Kirkwall.

Now bound, and with miraculously preserved original 1928 dust jackets, these remarkable time capsules are available for sale. The new/old book is a magnificent object in itself; an antiquarian curiosity packed full of the rich and beautiful mystery of the Orkney Norn.

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(The newly-bound edition of The Orkney Norn is available from The Herald Printshop, Kirkwall, priced £55)

Bonny Isle o Sanday

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Cata Sand

 

 

A billion grains o sand. A hunder thoosand migrant birds. A scant scattering o folk. The isle o Sanday in October presents a glorious unfolding flatness o sand/soil and pure sky, stretching northwards and eastwards into the shallow North Sea – into distances that belie the island’s deceptive baby dragon profile on the admiralty chart.

This isle is a vast table o riches spread beneath the northern sky. It’s possible for a vistor tae get lost in Sanday. Distant hooses on the horizon seem like they canna be on the same island, but they are. Every road ends in the sea. Every aspect pleases.

We traverse the vast ouse o Cata Sand and climb the dunes. A gull owerhead in the blue is an emblem o absolute purity. Godwits and redshank wade in 20mm o brine. A heron awaits the flood. The tide returns swiftly, and wur walk back is twice as long as the walk oot.

Sanday is a modern, forward lukkan piece. A generous proportion o the profits o the 10 MW wind farm at Spurness are ploughed back in tae community projects, such as the employment o a ranger on the island – whose job is tae mak the abundant wildlife accessible tae the public. We join ranger Emma on a scheduled walk roond Spurness, whar sheu shows us a peedie baby selkie in a geo. The mither selkie waits anxiously nearby on the margin o Eday Soond, like a granite boulder. Migrant goldcrests flit roond the geo in the morning sun – fire creaturs in a watter place.

Sanday haes a magnificent literary heritage, teu. The Victorian gentleman-farmer Walter Traill Dennison single-handedly saved Orkney folklore with the publication in 1880 o his The Orcadian Sketch Book, a little-read gem o lore and language. As a result, we ken more folk tales fae Sanday than fae any ither pairt o Orkney.

For instance … the Broonie o Helliehowe tormented a family in a nearby ferm tae the point whar they haed tae leave. On the day o the flit, they were carting their possessions tae the ither end o the isle when the Broonie popped his heid oot o a milk churn and said: my, but wur gotten a fine day for the flitteen. The tale is a cautionary one: many problems are within us, and canna simply be left ahint.

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But on Sunday morning at low-watter we leave wur problems ahint and cross the causeway tae Start Point, the easternmost and flattest pairt o aal the brokken isles o Orkney. Here, the selkies sing, and the abundant shell sand haes a purple hue in the morning sun. Here, in the shadow o the only vertical-striped lighthoose in the northern hemisphere, we gaither groattie buckies till wur hearts are content.

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(Sanday Sealcam: http://www.sandayranger.org/galleryvideos/4591470429)

Last night in Tokyo – Japan Diary Part Three

We are a merry company, twelve Japanese and two Scots working our way through the thronging Tokyo streets to the tavern at Myogadani. The November evening is wet, but the weather can’t dampen our spirits. The tavern is simple, the food honest, and the company warm.

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In the tavern at Myogadani

The celebration is to mark the end of a rich and wonderful visit to Japan. Our companions are members of the Japan Scotland Society and the Tokyo Caledonia Society, and all speak excellent English.

A tiny waitress appears with a huge bottle of saki. She fills a glass in front of me until it can hold no more. The diners laugh and cheer as I stand up and do my best to sup the saki without spilling. Osamu, our kind host in Tokyo, makes a short speech, and I make a short reply. We begin our banquet of tempura shrimp, fried chicken, smoked Pacific fish, and crisp edamame.

The group is deeply interested in Scotland. Most have travelled there, some of them frequently. One lady spent a winter in Orkney, and speaks English with an Orkney accent. Some of the others enjoy Scottish country dancing. They ken lots aboot malt whisky. One of the ladies specialises in origami, and presents Linda with three beautiful, delicate paper girls, dressed in traditional kimonos. We learn some of the rules of Tanka and Haiku.

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Origami lasses

The following morning, Yuko takes us to the Meiji shrine at Shibuya. This is the perfect place to relax after a busy week. There are weddings taking place at the shrine, and children’s confirmations. Here, we see peedie lasses in real kimonos, brilliant in the crisp November sunshine. Tokyo is a magnificent city, and our friends have been so kind. We long to return.

November 14th and 15th, 2015

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Kimono lass

 

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Linda and Yuko at the Meiji Shrine