27/05/07 – 28/05/07: Kirkwall & Orkney

We left the Inverness Youth Hostel and drove up the A9 highway along the coast to make our way to the most north-easterly point of the United Kingdom. A lovely drive, because for most of the part you could see the water. If it wasn’t the water of the ocean, it was water of the beautiful lochs. Along the way, we stopped by the town of Dornoch, who have their name on maps because they were the town who had the very last witch burning in the Scotland, and stopped by Helmsdale, who have their name on a map because the an over-zealous mother who wanted her son to be earl accidentally poisoned him instead.

We went past a couple of very, very pretty bridges. On one occasion…

Dave the tour-guide: [you have to imagine it with the Scottish brogue] Eh guys! Know thut brrrudge frum thut rrrrully famus moovee? With da flying carrr?
Someone on the bus: [Gasp!] Harry Potter?
Dave the tour-guide: Aye, thut’s da one… remumburrr thut scene where Haarre un Rrron fly thrrroo thar brrrudge?
[Sounds of Velcro tearing resounds from all over the bus as everyone undoes their camera cases: craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak. There are murmurs and whispers and a few ‘oh migods’ and ‘cools’]
Dave the tour-guide: Eh… well thut brrrudge there? See it?... Well thut’s not it [Chuckle chuckle chuckle].

There were castles all along the way up to our destination. We only got fleeting glances at them though. I guess when you’ve seen one castle – and I’ve already seen several castles – you’ve ‘seen ’em all’ as they say. From what I’ve gathered, there are three sorts of castles. You’ve got the fortress type of castle – like the ones all along the bottom of Kent, the Cinque Port Castles; then you’ve got the residential castles, and then you’ve got the just-to-show-off sort of castle. Most of the castles along this A9 highway were residential and show-off castles. One of them was a typical fairy-tale castle with the conical towers and everything.

And then…

Dave the tour-guide: Oh guys! See that brrrudge thar? Now that brrrudge…
[Sounds of Velcro tearing resounds from all over the bus as everyone undoes their camera cases again: craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak-craaaaaak. There are murmurs and whispers and a few ‘oh migods’ and ‘cools’]
Dave the tour-guide: that brrrudge… is not it either [Chuckle chuckle chuckle].

Now, most people have the idea that John O’Groats is the most north-easterly point of the UK. But it’s actually not. The most north-easterly point is another 20kms or so away from John O’Groats, at a place called Duncansby Head. We had all stopped by a supermarket and bought our lunches for a picnic. And what a lovely day for a picnic it was. The skies were the most perfect shade of spring-time azure, the grass was lush and green and just that little bit damp, and the cool breeze was blowing. And it was fresh and crisp. Not that ‘countryside’ fresh which essentially translates to ‘eau de manure’ or that ‘salty sea air’ fresh which basically means ‘rotting seaweed’. No, this was actually, factually, really fresh. We walked to the top of the cliffs and it was like when I was at Dover. There were no fences. Just cliffs. Well… there were fences, but they were there to keep the sheep in! A few of the team kicked a soccer ball around, Rob the American went chasing sheep. We could see him in the distance, the little white balls moving away very quickly from the little black figure. There were a few choice comments floating around as we sat on the grass digesting. He came across a little aloof to most of them, but I had spent some time with him during the ‘speed-meeting’ session on the first day and found him to be a pretty ordinary guy. He’d later revealed to me that all he wanted to do was feel what real wool was like, before it’s been processed. Guess since most of us were from sheep-countries – Australia, New Zealand, England – it’s something we take for granted. I told him it wasn’t that exciting. It smells funny and it’s greasy and dirty. Still. He wanted to feel a sheep before he went back to New York City. Not many sheep in New York City apparently.

Anyway. Lunch finished all too quickly because we had to catch a ferry to the Orkney Islands. On the way back to John O’Groats, we passed some heilan coos. That’s ‘highland cows’ with Scottish accents. We’d been driving a fair bit that day, which meant that we only saw in passing and from the window of the bus what would be considered mundane to some – like sheep. Needless to say, the heilan coos, like the sheep, were not mundane to some. As we drove past one paddock full of cows, a pitiful cry came from the back of the bus. It was Jordan the Canadian: ‘Stop the bus! Aaah maaaaen! Ya gutta stop the bus!’ I didn’t turn around but I could just picture his two hands open-palmed banging on the window, dying for a shot. Dave-the-tour-guide had to laugh. C’mon. I laughed. We couldn’t stop the bus where we were when that happened, but Dave pulled over this time. We must have looked a sight, a bus load of people taking shots of cows. What their farmers must think. But I didn’t just take a photo of them, I even bought a souvenir key ring later. They’re so cute! They’re so hairy, with these horrendous dangly fringes that could rival my most attention-seeking students’; and these long, long, horns. Of course, Rob the New Yorker had to stick his arm through the barb-wire fence to try to feel the fur!

The ferry ride to St Margaret’s Hope wasn’t too bad. I had taken my ginger pills and filled up my stomach with thick, heavy buns, and was actually well enough to brave the deck! I took a video shot to prove it all happened. St Margaret’s Hope is so called because the 3 year old Princess Margaret was on a boat to Scotland to be married to one of their Princes when the boat crashed there and she died.

The Orkneys is an amazing place. It’s got an unbelievable collection of immaculately preserved Neolithic community sites, all previously buried under their peat bogs. One place we went to see this in detail was the Tomb of the Eagles. Due to loop-holes in the law, the entire precious archaeological site is privately owned by the landowners. The elderly gentleman had been digging around what’s basically his backyard years and years ago when he found a cave, and there he was on his hands and knees in the dark, he flicks his cigarette lighter, and came face-to-face with mounds and mounds of human skulls. Turns out he’d stumbled across a Neolithic burial site. Bones and talons of eagles were found with them, and the actual archaeologists who later came along and put all the pieces together and studied the place decided that the people had put their dead out to be picked clean by the eagles that used to populate the area, then separated the bones, putting all the skulls in one place, and all the arms and legs in another spot and so on. The family later opened up a little visitor centre. Very, very nice by the way. Not just some cheap garage-job either. Check out the photos of the site with accompanying commentary.

While we were there, Dave-the-tour-guide espoused the wonders of ‘Orkney Ice Cream’. Now I know my chocolates. And I know my ice-creams. And I know that tour-guides usually get a little something for their tourists’ patronage of any particular emporium… So we all bought a tub of Orkney Ice Cream. Some had bought them on the ferry, but they sold out pretty quickly. So I got mine at the Tomb of the Eagles. And my verdict? Good god it was very, very nice ice cream. Creamy. Smooth. Melts on your tongue without icy bits. Subtly flavoured without any overpowering sweetness. Mmmmm. Ice-creeeeeem.

He also went into considerable detail about the Orkney people, or, as they prefer to be known, the Orcadians. They like to separate themselves from your general idea of what’s ‘Scottish’ because their history is so much more… diverse, I suppose? There’s significant Viking and Norwegian heritage in the Orkney Islands, and the language, culture and archaeological evidence (that basically just ‘sits’ in people’s back yards!) demonstrates this is still a part of their everyday life.

After visiting the Tomb of the Eagles, we made our way towards the Kirkwall YHA. Apparently described in one of the group’s Lonely Planet guide as being ‘prison-like’. On the way, we had to go through the Churchill barriers and passed over Scapa Flow.

The Orkneys are made up of around 70 separate islands, and during the war, was the perfect spot for the other side to make their way into Britain because the British couldn’t possibly guard all the various channels that the islands made. At some point, the British ships that were stationed around the flow got the wrong message about the end of the war, and the captain commanded that they all scuttle their ships is a final attempt to stop the Germans from getting through. So to this day, the wrecks sit Scapa Flow. Winston Churchill then had the barriers built around certain islands to prevent any future problems with undesirables getting through. The barriers were built by prisoners of war, and a lot of them were Italians.

The Italians being staunch Catholics, had to have a place of worship. So in their spare time, they all put in together and built a chapel out of a two Nissen war huts. Check out the photos and see how they’ve painted all the little bricks on the inside. Don’t forget that the whole building is basically one big piece of corrugated tin bent into a concave. What’s so amazing about this little chapel is not only the story of the men’s dedication behind it, but the art work inside. I mean, most chapels you see in the cities and stuff are big, grand, over-the-top things. Yes, the art inside them are amazing. But think of the money behind them when they were built. This little chapel built by prisoners in their spare time with what spare bits they could scrape together (mainly bits from the ship-wrecks in Scapa Flow) made me think of that story of the two men in the temple.

So, having slept so early last night, I went out to a pub for a steak and ale pie tonight with some of the group. The pie was cold and the meat was powdery. Apparently when you ask for a pie here, it’s the meat and gravy on a plate, with a piece of puff-pastry on the side. Weird.

Mark texted me at some point during the night and insisted that we all join the rest of the gang at some other theme pub down the road, so we popped in on the way back. One of the other girls mentioned that the only reason why he’d text would be because there was no one there. Most shrewd of her. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one completely bushed, so I didn’t look like that much of a party pooper when I bowed out and went back to the YHA.

And good god – it was prison-like! Lovely people running the place, mind you. But it was horrendously dark, dingy, squishy, with squeaky metal-framed beds and no ventilation so the whole place smelt like a toilet. It was pretty gross. Nice people though.

The next day was full-as. We went to Skara Brae. History. Photos. Rain. Chilly pins-n-needles inside your nostrils kind of wind. It was brilliant. What was remarkable about Skara Brae was that in this Neolithic settlement, the houses were set up as they are today. And to really feel that, we went to Skaill House next. Which is one of your fancy mansions all done up. Didn’t get many photos there. But still. The point was that in all those thousands of years, we really haven’t evolved that much.

We also took a walk up to Marwick Head. Then went to the Borough of Birsay for lunch. By this time, I was on information overload. And even as I write this, I can’t quite bring myself to go through all the details because I’d get them mixed up, and there’s just so much, so much, so much to write.

We also stopped by the Castle of some big laird or prince who was a tyrant, so the people left it to ruin. And a Church. Whose name I forgot. All I could remember of that place was that I was really busting for the loo and used the rickety men’s loo on the side of the road because there was too long a queue for the ladies’.

And then! We drove past the town of – get this! – TWATT! Heh heh heh! Talk about puerile pleasures.

Just when you think you couldn’t possibly fit another destination and history lesson in, we went to Maeshowe. Wow. The guide there was a little… you know. Stuffy. Don’t take photos! Don’t touch! And so on. But basically, it’s like something out of those Indiana Jones movies. Temple built so that on certain days the sun shone in just the right spot and all that. And it’s been graffitied all over by Vikings. Apparently academics have come along and translated the carvings despite the thousands of years of difference, graffiti hasn’t changed a bit either. It’s got stuff like ‘Thorni fucked Helgi’; or ‘Ofram the son of Sigurd carved these’. Which is no different to our more contemporary ‘Jim was ’ere’ and ‘For a good time call…’ There was also the carving of a dragon which is now the emblem of Maeshowe. What really cool is the fact that the carvings were very, very thin. Which meant that it must have been done with a sharp knife of some sort and no mistakes made. Amazing huh? On top of all that, there were, of course, the carvings which were meant to be there. Read up about it. It’s brilliant.

Following that, we went to the Ring of Brodgar, and the Stones of Steness. What I loved about these standing stones is the fact that everyone flock to see Stonehenge in Salisbury, which is fenced off, and there’s big hoo-ha about it all. And these rocks here in the Orkneys stand literally in people’s back yards and front yards. There was one property that had some significant pointing stone (like a heel stone or something) in the driveway, and the driveway had to go around it, and there’s flowers planted around it! It was pretty cute. The Stones of Steness were smaller, but no less amazing. It was a very good experience because we’d come quite late in the afternoon, and there were no other people around. Just us, and sheep. And the beautiful breeze. All very spiritual actually!

That night, the group of us walked around the town for ages until someone made an executive decision that we were having curry. Yep. Curry. The meal that just kept on giving… Another amazing thing about this trip up here was the fact that because we were so far north, the sun literally didn’t really set until close to 10pm at night. There was just so much light. One would imagine that the opposite would be true during the winter months of course. So dinner was at a nice curry restaurant. Then, it was off to a nice pub for a few drinks, and a bit of booty-shaking. Yep. I’ve still got it!