Orkney - Like a good Whisky

I was visiting Orkney with a reason; and I will blog about that another time, perhaps when the death threats have stopped and I feel that it is safe to re-open both my Facetube and Instaphoto accounts. In the meantime it’s safe to say that I went to Orkney to look at horses and that sight-seeing was not top of the agenda. As luck would have it, the Foreign Secretary with whom I stayed for the weekend, had to transverse part of the Mainland to check her horses and therefore I was treated to twice daily tours of Orkney’s largest island.

Before my visit, I thought Orkney was an island or two, hundreds of miles off the coast of Scotland. So, for those of you whose geography is as shit as mine, I’ll tell you that the 67 islands that make up Orkney begin about 6 miles north of Caithness on the Scottish Mainland.

My host had advised me to bring plenty of layers as the weather forecast was for cloud and a brisk wind. If you are ever fortunate enough to visit Orkney, please remember that when an Orcadian says “bring plenty of layers” what they actually mean is “bring clothes that you would wear if you were visiting North Northumberland in January while they are having a bit of a cold snap and you are planning on standing on the beach for several hours and pop another couple of jumpers in, just in case”. The wind is absolutely bloody freezing when it’s coming from the North and apparently the wind had been coming from the North for 10 days. (The inhabitants of Orkney refer to the weather forecast in the same way that we would check our watch whilst waiting for a delayed train.) I had asked my host if her home had electricity as I would pack my GHD’s, she told me not to bother as it is usually so windy you have to wear a hat. And I thought she was JOKING.

The Foreign Secretary had to work on the Friday that I arrived. Apparently there was an approaching referendum of some sort and being Foreign Secretary meant she had a lot to do.

So I wandered through the shops on the main street and saw there was an M & Co but no other chain stores. There were some lovely shops selling knitwear and jewellery produced on the island and the true tribulations of living on an island struck me when I went into a charity shop. Every sodding item was from M & Co.

Being a proper tourist for a day was actually a huge benefit to me as I did something I would never normally do – I went to a museum. The Orkney Museum is opposite St Magnus Cathedral and it’s free to visit. The museum is housed in Tankerness House which dates back to 1574 and began its life as the home of the Archdeacon of St Magnus Cathedral. It’s like a rabbit warren with many different rooms that take you through the history of Orkney; and they have history by the bucket load.

The first human settlers were present on Orkney circa 8000BC and the famous Ring of Brodgar which is Orkney’s largest stone circle, was built around 3000BC. Brodgar is impressive, stretching 104 metres in diameter with 27 of the original 60 stones remaining. It’s an incredible feat of engineering, when you think that building began on the Egyptian pyramids around 300 years later.

Quite literally, just down the road from the Ring of Brodgar are the 6 metre high Stones of Stenness which date to about 3100BC. And not much further down the road there’s Maeshowe’s Mount which is a chambered tomb that was constructed 5,000 years ago.

You don’t have to drive very far to sight-see in Orkney; it’s a bit like Wuhu Island on Wii Sports Resort.

Skara Brae is Northern Europe’s best preserved Neolithic village and it was revealed by a storm in 1850. And in 2003 the Ness of Brodgar was discovered. This is a vast 6 acre site which is thought to have been a place of worship, pilgrimage and trade. It also contains what the experts believe to be a Neolithic temple – one of the largest ancient structures built in Northern Europe.

Orkney was also home to the British Home Fleet in both World Wars; as Scapa Flow is one of the greatest natural harbours in the world. It has been calculated that the body of water that is Scapa Flow is 125.3 square miles and contains just less than 1 billion cubic metres of water.

On 13^th October 1939 a German submarine skirted through the sunken block ships and nets and fired 3 torpedoes at HMS Royal Oak. She sank in 15 minutes and although 386 sailors were saved, 833 lives were lost. As a direct result of this, Winston Churchill ordered barriers to be built cutting off access to Scapa Flow from the East and 1,000 Italian Prisoners of War were shipped from North Africa to carry out the work. The resulting barriers connect the islands of Burray and South Ronaldsay to the Mainland and are used as connecting roads to this day.

The Italian Prisoners took what left over concrete they could and built the famous Italian Chapel from 2 Nissen Huts. The demolition team sent to tear down the camp after the war ended, thankfully refused to touch it and The Chapel still stands in ornate beauty on the tiny island of Lamb’s Holm just off the Mainland.

One thing I did know about Orkney before my visit is that there are no trees. So it was strange that I took a phone call from a friend on my day-of-being-a-tourist. “Can you see any trees?” she asked. I replied that I could see loads of trees; but then admitted that I was standing outside a garden centre. The Foreign Secretary proudly pointed out “The Wood” on one of our island tours. And right enough, there is one dense, green leafy wood tucked into a fold of the land, sheltered from the salty wind. There are trees in gardens but they don’t grow more than about 10 feet tall due to the wind, so everyone has to buy these strange looking cobble type things to burn on their wood burners. The views are absolutely breathtaking, you only have to turn a corner and there’s another incredible bit of scenery. The landscape is massively varied, there are quantities of it that resemble mountains, there are boggy areas growing reeds and there are fields and fields of Buttercups. Apparently the land is very fertile so I can’t understand why there are so many Dockens everywhere; although I suppose this is useful if you get stung by a nettle, but I didn’t see many of those. Orkney only grows what they need to support their livestock and there are plenty of cattle and plenty of sheep. Some of the teeny tiny islands that you can only just reach when it’s low tide are the home to some sheep that never leave. The Farmer goes over and collects that lambs that are ready to be sold and leaves the ewes there until it is time to take the ram over. Talk about the Mountain going to Mohammed. The wildlife is amazing – I have never seen so many Oyster Catchers, possibly because they have no Foxes on Orkney and no Badgers either. Typically the day after I left I saw that there had been several sighting of a pod of Orcas. Well that’s just another sign that I’ll have to go back. In fact, I would go back just for a serving of the local Scallops and if you like seafood I would urge you to book your flight right now. Where I live if you order Scallops in a restaurant you will be expected to pay £7,500 per Scallop and receive a maximum of 4 on your plate. Not on Orkney. They practically heap them on to your plate bragging “These are the best Scallops in the world! Do not insult me by being unable to finish them! Or I will spit on you!” I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

I leant a new word too; “Swadge”. It’s a brilliant word that we have no equivalent of. Swadge is what you do when you have had a huge meal and are feeling sleepy and content. The lady who taught me this word confided that when you Swadge you often have to undo the top button of your “breeks” as they are invariably too tight and you lie on the sofa. Like you’ve had too much of a good thing and you need to reflect and enjoy what has just happened.

And that’s how I feel about Orkney. It’s like Whisky and Campbell’s Condensed Soup, you could water it down and it would still be magnificent.

Flying to Orkney

Last weekend, I went to Orkney. No, honestly I did. She, who claims to never leave home, has not only had a night in the Scottish Borders sleeping under canvas, but also 3 days in the land of Ork. I flew from Edinburgh on Friday morning and 1 hour and 15 minutes later I landed at Kirkwall. I’m not saying that the aircraft was small, but whenever I turned the page of my Horse & Hound magazine I inadvertently bumped the Pilot’s elbow. The Cabin Crew was one lady who served a complimentary cup of Tea or Coffee with a Tunnocks Caramel Wafer; whilst the aircraft was still climbing. And I mean, really climbing. Had Margaret forgotten to put the brakes on, her trolley would have slid all the way to the tail in a nano-second. 

I have felt more safe in my life, than when we approached Kirkwall. It was windy. Not madly windy, but enough to be moving the plane in all directions as we saw the runway underneath us. And when you do touch down at Kirkwall, make sure you have a tight grip on your rosary beads as they apply the brakes with all of their might. Apparently it’s a short runway and I wish that my host for the weekend had informed me of this once I was safely back in Edinburgh. My host (The Foreign Secretary) also laughed when I regaled her with details of the scary approach to landing. She cheerfully reported that it was only scary landing at Kirkwall when you look out of the aircraft window and are looking straight down the runway. I.e. the wind is so strong that they have to bring the plane down to land on a 45 degree angle; otherwise the wind would blow the aircraft over when it touched down. Again, hearing this when I was safely back in Edinburgh would have been more helpful.

The “Terminal” Building was something of a shock too, although I should have been more prepared considering that Air Traffic Control was a man with a Megaphone shouting “Get out of the bloody Way”. You walk in a door and there you are. You’ve arrived. No hunting for the baggage carousel because it’s right there on your left and your welcoming committee is standing in front of you. And it’s lovely. How wonderful to be able to walk from the plane, grab your bag and go. Brilliant. And the check in process (Aside from the bloody Jobsworth who scanned my handbag and decided that it still needed to be searched, although to be fair, he was only 12.) is a breeze. Your flight is called, you walk through a door, through security, which apart from the Jobsworth was a pleasant experience, then you enter another airy room where you can stand and watch the men refuelling your plane that is the size of a shoebox. And when the lady who is Cabin Crew pulls up the steps she calls to the gentleman who has loaded the hold, “Thanks Tom, see you later” and slams the door shut. It’s like getting the bus. It really is like getting the bus and I suppose to the Orcadians who use it all the time, it is just as simple as a bus to them.

I was going to carry on this post and tell you about my sight seeing but I’ve changed my mind and will do that in another post, because frankly, Orkney warrants it. I left Kirkwall at 4.10 on Sunday afternoon and was home by 7.45pm.

By Monday evening I was ready to go back.

One thing I will tell you is that I didn’t get to see the Italian Chapel that was built by Italian prisoners of war. Apparently the Chapel is one of the most visited attractions on Orkney. So there’s only one thing for it, I’ll have to go back. Damn it.

Flybe, operated by the Scottish company Logan Air, fly 2 to 3 times a day to Orkney from Edinburgh, they also have flights from Glasgow, Inverness and Aberdeen.

Referendum Day - Just a brief thought

I read this morning that Katie Price has never voted before; despite the fact that she stood for a seat in Greater Manchester in 2001. Clearly not one of her people told her that she was allowed to vote for herself and perhaps with a campaign backed by the Daily Star with the slogan “Vote Jordan for a bigger and betta future”, this was for the best.

I have nothing personal against The Pricey, I think she has made a huge success of her life with some plastic assets and a lorry load of brawn. I don’t know anyone who has willingly bought anything from her equestrian range but it does show the diversity of her business.

But as a candidate for Parliament, I mean, what the? You’d be better off voting for Edina Monsoon as at least she would (in her own words) just Tax the stupid people.

I hope everyone uses their vote today. Whichever way they decide to vote, women did in fact die to allow us ladies to put our cross in the box.

The Proud Owner of a Rubbish Cat

My cat; is a shit cat. He’s rubbish and refuses to sit on my knee. Occasionally if my other half picks up the black and white fur-ball, he will sit on his knee for approximately 15 seconds. Then he clearly realises that he is sitting on a human knee and makes a bid for freedom. This behaviour confuses me greatly; Father Christmas delivered this crap excuse for a cat on Christmas day 2 years ago. The kitten was so tiny his eyes hadn’t quite turned from kitteny-blue, to green. When he was a minuscule thing that fell asleep sitting upright, he would sit on my knee happily. He even used to sit on my knee when I was at my desk, replacing my usual wheatybag. These days the nearest I can get to cuddling this anti-social creature is picking him up and draping him over my shoulder like some hairy, living, accessory. And that only works while I am walking around or standing up. If I sit down with my hairy, living, accessory, he’s off. He’s quite a big cat and I had no idea how much a cat can eat and not get fat. Perhaps Slimming World should be marketing cat food as it certainly doesn’t put weight on the fur-ball and he eats 4 pouches a day. He is always hungry but will only eat from a pristine dish and as my other half has taken to using my bloody Burleigh pasta dishes whenever the cat’s dish is dirty, I have considered just feeding him on the floor and mopping up afterwards. This cat takes a mouthful of food and then places it on the floor to chew it. And he’s certainly Spatially Aware as he always makes sure he drops his food on the floor and not on the mat underneath his dish that would be easily washed. He is also a bit strange as he doesn’t remotely mind getting wet.

He returns from his travels with his tail shaped like a question mark and his coat wetter than an otter’s pocket. So why do we bother keeping this poor excuse for a cat? Well, grim though it is, we don’t appear to have a mouse problem anymore. In fact, if Dr Crippen had made a cat, this would be him in the flesh. He kills anything. Mice, rats, moles, rabbits, birds, nothing that is small and moving is safe from this cat.

In fact even things that are big and moving aren’t safe as I saw him wrestling with a Pheasant the other morning. We returned from the afternoon school run the other week to find that he had devoured half a rabbit in the bloody conservatory. Hats off to my 7 year old daughter who, upon hearing that her Mother is more squeamish than a celebrity faced with a Bushtucker Trial, promptly collected the dustpan and brush and proceeded to sweep up the remains. All I had to do was call out “Make sure you pick up both the rabbit’s ears, darling” in my very best Mary Poppins voice. She’s also a bit of a dab hand at rescuing live rabbits from underneath the planters on the patio. Her tools of choice are a shoe box and my 3 foot long dressage whip. Poor bunnies. My other half has now made a mesh barrier to go across the conservatory doorway. It’s brilliant, it means the plants don’t get cooked and the cat can jump it easily but not while he is carrying a rabbit. We haven’t had another bunnygate incident since it was installed.

We had to lock the cat flap some months ago; so that the cat can go out but cannot bring the vermin that he has caught, back into the house.

One day we moved the sofa in the kitchen and found a dead shrew under it. And another shrew squashed under the rug at the sink.

He’s an awesome hunter and I’m not sure what I want more, a cat that purrs himself to sleep on my knee or a 5 star vermin controller. Obviously as Father Christmas brings all the presents on his sleigh direct from Lapland, that’s where the black and white fur-ball came from. But if Santa was the kind of man to use a cat charity so that he could re-home their cats and kittens, I’m fairly certain it would be this one. ;)

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