Stromness Dragon

No 1970s Englandshire upbringing was complete without the local schools (nominally C of E) holding a ‘harvest festival’, to which all pupils were expected to contribute a vaguely seasonal foodstuff. The resulting collection of tins of spaghetti and packets of dried soup would (I now presume, having given it little thought at the time) be distributed amongst the poor and needy of the parish. The ‘festival’ aspect largely passed us by, except for a slightly more enthusiastic rendering than usual of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, but I do remember gazing at the clever corn-wreath-made-out-of–bread-dough and thinking that it was clearly the same one as last September except a bit darker and shinier. Did they simply re-varnish it every year? And would an Orkney Harvest Home bear any resemblance to those childhood memories?

Having long been a ‘toon bairn’, I approached my first Harvest Home in Deerness with interest. We had been invited by friends who live in the parish, thus giving us a much-needed ‘in’ – I would have gone to one long before this, but always felt a bit of a fraud, having no actual connection to the country or farming community. Said friends breed sheep and recently helped us move house in return for a crate of homemade elderberry wine. The credit- and cash-based world economy may be crashing around our ears but the barter system is well and truly alive in Orkney. Come the day that potatoes are hard currency, we’re laughing.

Anyway. First adventure was the weather. Coarsest night of the year so far – lashing rain, Force 8-9 gales, plus a bit of thunder and lightning to stop us getting bored. The drive to the east took the best part of an hour – forgot to take my passport but was assured by the pals that they’d vouch for me. A bit of strategic parking at the hall enabled us to open the car doors without mishap. There were tons of folk – I counted well over 100 for the meal and another couple of dozen who came for the dance afterwards. It seems that the old traditions are kept alive in the East Mainland. The meal was a fine steaming plateful of mince and clapshot – I had the vegetarian option which was clapshot. Some cheek, you might say, a vegetarian going to a Harvest Home, but haud yer wheesht, I reply. The plates were replenished from a jug of mince brought round the tables. Any deficiency in my main course was firmly compensated by two large bowls of trifle for pudding. Proper stuff too – home-made custard and topped not with girly whipped cream but with a muscular pink raspberry blancmange. No sooner were the bowls scraped clean than the finest collection of fancies were placed before us. What is the clear but indefinable difference between an ‘ordinary’ homebake and a fancy? Could be something to do with coconut. There was tea, tea and more tea. And more fancies.

Between fancies I took a deep breath and looked at the folk around me. At the table next to us were the grand elders of the Deerness farming community in their dark suits, both the shoes and the full sets of teeth polished to a high shine. Behind us was the table of youth. This was clearly a community event but the teenage element kept apart from their folks and grandfolks, enjoying the chance to dress up and impress. There were some absolute stunners – young lassies of 15 or 16 dressed in shimmery little dresses and killer heels, beautifully coiled hair and flawless skin. The lads tried their best (shirt ironed, hair gelled, plukes squeezed) but their plumage was drab by comparison.

The speaker was a well-known author and teacher from the West Mainland (sharp intakes of breath – ‘I spy strangers!’) who got everyone on-side by extolling the many virtues of Deerness and telling a few farming anecdotes and mildly risqué jokes. Our tea and fancies settled and the men got more beers in. After votes of thanks to caterers, barmen and speaker, the gents were asked to help clear away the tables in preparation for dancing. We quickly secured chairs at the side of the room and watched the band set up – turns out the bass player is member of the Orkney cricketing mafia and bowls a good line, so my husband got a wink of recognition.

I was very much looking forward to dancing (see previous blog) and had heard that not only was The Westray Band one of the best, but that this was rumoured to be their last live appearance in Mainland Orkney! I was, however, under no illusions. My man rarely dances, except at weddings and then only once or twice and under duress. Our pals are non-dancers, he having once famously walked through a Strip the Willow and subsequently never asked again. I decided my best tactic was to sit forward in my chair looking wistful and eager, but as I suspected, the good folk of Deerness danced mainly with one another. It was fun watching as the teenage boys took up their grannies and aunties and mums, and the lovely lassies danced with each other. It’s worth repeating what Ginger Rogers said about dancing with Fred – ‘I had to do everything he did but backwards and in high heels’. During the usual energetic Strip the Willow, one poor girl had a Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction and spent the rest of the dance clutching her halter top. We spotted her later on doing the same dance, one hand across her chest, the other clutching her mobile and writing a text. That, by God, is multi-tasking.

But the best was yet to come. The band called a Westray One-Step. The first half was danced and we clapped politely whilst I continued to look wistful: at which point my man stood up and announced that he thought he could manage this one. After a couple of rounds he had it perfectly, Waltz turn and all. I was amazed and delighted and when we sat down he said he’d just gone about it scientifically – observe, understand, copy. Flushed with success we sailed through several more dances and he was in serious danger of starting to enjoy himself. Don’t get any ideas, he told me. That was a one-off. But it was lovely! *sigh*

The band called a Quick Step and we left the floor to the professionals – couples who had been married and dancing together for decades. We gazed in wonder at what my husband calls ‘the Dark Arts’. Another Eva 3 Step, and the young lads were up again, a few shandies the worse for wear and dragging their poor aunties round the floor. A crush at the bar indicated a stag night had arrived and wasted no time joining in the festivities. When the band veered into Country and Western territory, the stags gave us a word-perfect and very spirited rendition of Blanket on the Ground to great acclaim. Yet another Strip the Willow and anyone over the age of 20 kept well clear. At the back of one o’clock our hosts left, and we were left in alien territory without our guides…….but of course, the folk of Deerness were warm and welcoming. As I waited with the coats, I was approached by a friendly, handsome young man who asked me if I’d had a good evening. Having assured him that I had, I then revealed to him that I was returning to Sandwick. The West Mainland! He howled with disappointment. Sandwick! Is the west not a bit ****? he asked. I put up a spirited defence but he was like a hound in full cry. Even the names he claimed, were better in the east. ‘Deerness…..’ (arms flung wide) ‘….place where the wild deer once roamed….’ (looking poetically at the ceiling) ‘…….Sandwick……’ (hissing with scorn) ‘……place with…….sand…..’ (withering sneer). Having established that we had met previously through my work, he then serenaded me with a Meatloaf song until my man emerged from the bathroom. I proffered the Duffel coat and our new friend assured my husband that he liked his toggles and that he bore great resemblance to Paddington bear. In fact, he claimed in a Eureka moment, my man looked just like a big bear and backed this up by throwing his arms around him and giving him a huge cuddle. I shall embarrass the poor chap no more but rest assured that the education of the youngsters of Shetland is in charming and safe hands.

By the time we had extracted ourselves, driven home and got into bed it was getting on for 3 o’clock, and we had experienced our first Harvest Home. It was brilliant. All of it. And at the risk of getting all rosy-specced about it, it was a fine example of a rural farming community celebrating its year’s achievements. Next stop, Rousay!

Some of you may recall that I had a boyfriend at University who was a bit of a layabout. This story concerns him, his brother, his brother’s girlfriend and a small bird. The names have been changed.

The relationship I had with Eddie was a volatile on-off affair, full of fireworks and emotionally demanding scenes. During one comparatively stable month, we spent some fine spring days together; I was at University studying history and working part-time - Eddie was doing very little, an activity in which he excelled.

We had plans one weekend, involving something intimate and couply probably, but I forget what; it all came to nought due to untimely intervention by Birdline. For those of a certain age, long long ago in the pre-internet days, members of the bird watching world would submit sightings of birds to a phone information service which was then accessible to all by calling a number. This, as you will have gathered by now, was, and for all I know still is, Birdline. You ring them and a recorded message tells you all the rare birds sighted throughout the British Isles.

The call came via Eddie’s brother, Steve. Throughout his whole life, Steve had been fascinated by birds, some would say obsessed. He spent all his holidays as a child volunteering for the RSPB, and studied whatever it would take to get a job working with his beloved birds. Steve as an adult was duly rewarded with a permanent position working for the RSPB and he spent his working days tramping the moors, glens and mountains of Scotland observing, recording and who knows what else. A man happy in his work, with a very relaxed attitude to laundry and the only individual known to me personally who has climbed all of Scotland’s Munros.

Steve called on the Friday morning, breathless with excitement. The Holkham Estate in Norfolk, a well-known birding stomping ground, was at that very moment home to a red-breasted nuthatch. Hold that front page. This bird, whilst common as anything in the Americas, was as yet unknown this side of the Atlantic. This was its first European sighting EVER and we were going to see it. We? Who’s this we? Steve, Steve’s girlfriend Bonny, Eddie and me.

Eddie and I drove to Edinburgh that afternoon. All thoughts of couply activity had disappeared in a puff of reddish-brown feathers – we were going to Norfolk! At Steve and Bonny’s house we packed the essentials: boots, map and binoculars, and as the sun set over Auld Reekie we headed south for the shires. Steve drove all night, whilst the rest of us tried to sleep. Cramped in the back seat I spent most of the night with Eddie’s none-too-clean feet in my face. At daft o’clock we stopped at a service station and bought snacks for the day ahead –no shops on the Holkham Estate, and certainly no time for girly sightseeing in Norfolk. We arrived at the estate at 7 o’clock in the morning. Guided by hand-written signs through country lanes and woodland policy we pulled up at a car-parking area, in which I was astounded to see a collection of at least 50 cars.

On foot we headed for the woods and pretty soon encountered others on a similar quest, lured by the promise of a rare sighting. Tales abounded of nuthatch activity. It was hanging around in a flock of long-tailed tits. It had spent most of the previous day perched on the rangers’ shed. It had flown away. And so on. In a soft wooded glade carpeted by pine needles, we found ourselves a spot and I proceeded to lay out our picnic breakfast. So, how did we get to see the bird? I asked Eddie, keen to show an interest. There were scouts, he explained, all over the forest. If anyone saw the bird they gave a sharp, fast couple of claps, and that was the signal for everyone to investigate. I buttered a roll thoughtfully and started to cut cheese. The air was muffled and womblike under the trees and strangely somnolent. A toddler played cherubically with some pine cones and a friendly air prevailed. A rhythmic clap from deep in the trees started me out of my daze. Within seconds the seemingly benign binocular-wielding birders were transformed into a herd of elephants at a half-price sale in a bun shop. With a great trumpeting and stampeding they went crashing off through the undergrowth. The small child was saved from a bizarre death (‘Toddler Twitcher Tragedy’) when a pair of hands snatched it to safety and threw it into a bush. The chase was on!

Twenty minutes later, chest heaving, heart pounding, legs shaking, the thought struck me. If the bird had been in that tree, it was not likely to hang around with 100-odd people pursuing it like hounds in full cry. We returned to the wreckage of snacks and picked pine needles out of the yoghurt. Repeat ad infinitum.

After 8 hours we called it a day. The poxy bird (by now referred to uncharitably by me as the dry-roasted nut-rash) was nowhere to be seen. Steve had not slept for 36 hours, our clothes were starting to smell, food was a distant memory, and we had failed in our quest. A footsore and disconsolate group, we trudged back to the car. On the path we passed half a dozen people gazing nonchalantly into a bush and we stopped to chat and to console. What were they looking at, we wondered? That green woodpecker we saw earlier? A great grey something? No, they giggled. They were looking at a red-breasted nuthatch. We gawped. The smallish, greyish, reddish bird stared back as if wondering what all the fuss was about. Then it flew away.

Since moving to Orkney I have become interested in birds - it’s hard not to be when on any given day I can look out of my bedroom window and see guillemots, cormorants, shags, fulmars, red-breasted mergansers and occasionally great northern divers. Every time we visit the house of a new friend, I cast an eye around their bookshelves to see if they keep a decent bird book. If so, I take it down and flip to the section at the back marked ‘Accidentals’, wherein are listed rare sightings. I point proudly. 1989-1990. Norfolk. Red-breasted nuthatch. I was there. I saw it. My friends make polite murmuring noises. The boyfriend, I tell them, did not last long, and is currently on his third wife. This I know because after nearly 20 years he contacted me through Friends Reunited - but that, as they say, is another story.

Hi folks - the blog afore this one got lost in date confusion but I hope you will read my little story.....

I've written a story! I humbly submit it in the full understanding that Hermit Life is a very hard act to follow.....

Nearly Home

My eyes are closed but my ears are open. The men are laughing and cursing and I can smell ale – I think my flask split when I landed. There is a rough blanket thrown over me, and a flake of snow lands on my nose. It is cold enough to make me blink in surprise and I open my eyes and look around me. Some homecoming, this! We have travelled such a great distance that I barely recognise my own land. Was it always so small, this island? Of course, until I was chosen to go with Rognvald’s men, I knew no other life. From my earliest memories at my mother’s skirts, to the first time the jarl’s man cast his eyes upon me, I knew only the warmth and safety of hearth and family.

My family. I feel my eyes sting – from dust or tears I cannot tell. Am I nearly home, or lying dreaming in a makeshift desert camp, listening to the men tell tales of the cruelty of the barbarian? Many a night I slept with their murmuring in my ears. I often heard their cries too – either in pain or the heat of passion. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. All men are the same when their heads rest heavily upon your breast in deep slumber.

My vision clears and I make out a dozen or so men, wrapped in woollen cloaks against the snow flurry. This ancient mound may have walls of thick stone, but we had to breach the roof to get in, and the hole we made was not small. Still, it is a good enough place to lie low for a while. We’re stuck here, says Helgi, at least for a day or two. The men are easy with it; they play dice, flip coins, make bad poetry extolling their courageous exploits in the Holy Lands. Of course, the skaldic verse says nothing of the drudgery of war – the rats, the liquid bellies, the blisters from a foreign sun. We don’t get much of a mention either; the women – well, girls, really, although I feel like I’ve aged a lifetime in the three years we’ve been away. Join the Crusades, they said, and see the world. Sometimes I think all I saw were dirty pots and scabby members.

Thorfinn nudges me with a foot. ‘Hey,’ he grins, ‘See what Erling’s doing.’ He laughs at his friend who is carving something obscene on the wall. I smile and tease Erling for his lack of finesse. ‘You do better then,’ he growls, throwing his metal point on the ground. I pick it up thoughtfully. A smooth piece of stone just above head height tempts. What should I carve? I steal a torch from a sleeping man. My name? Too commonplace. A cross, symbol of our struggles in Eastern lands? That was no fight of mine. And then, I know. My mind soars back to the dusty Jerusalem alley, where I am watching an old Arab scratch a mythical beast onto my ankle, and press ink into the scraped flesh.

In this stone chamber of the ancient people I lift up my skirts, look down at my dragon tattoo, raise the metal point, and start to carve.

We Stromnessians are recovering from Shopping Week. Every year for the third week in July, Stromness puts on its best clothes, hangs out the bunting and puts on a grand show for the townfolk. This tradition was started 60 years ago, in the austerity of the post-war years, and is still going strong. People come from as far away as *gasp* Kirkwall to enjoy the doughnut eating competition, the pet shows, the jugglers, the pavement artist contest, and especially to look at the fantastic shop window displays. The shop keep their designs a closely guarded secret until the first day, when the Shopping Week Queen (a lassie from Stromness Academy chosen by popular vote) and her attendants arrive by lifeboat and declare the festivities open!

Prizes are awarded to the best windows, and the good folk of the town spend the next week scratching their heads over the Odd Man Out competition also held by the shops. A person could get seriously obsessed by Odd Man Out. The first prize window went to The Quernstone for their fabulous Dr Who-themed display - and their Odd Man Out was a robot from another Sci-Fi programme (which caused intense debate as to whether it was that one from Lost in Space that has the wobbly arms and says ‘Danger, Danger’ etc.).



This year to celebrate the 60th anniversary, a very jolly light display was erected on Inner Holm (a tidal island in the Hamnavoe). It must have been visible from the whole town just about, and it was the last thing I saw before drawing the curtains at night: ’60 – SSW – 60’ it proclaimed in big flashing lights. We tried to take a photo but without much success.

The three legged race goes past our house and we always have a good laugh at the couples tied together and arguing. Here’s Batman and Robin dashing past!



This year we were treated to a mini-Up-Helly-Aa with two Shetland squads (Scalloway and Cullivoe). We took hundreds of pics but here’s a small selection. I have never seen so many folk in the streets of Stromness – it was absolutely brilliant. A huge thank you to all those who came down to take part. Can you come every year?



The main street in the town is usually closed to traffic during Shopping Week and it looks strangely quiet





……the cats enjoyed it.







So did the cyclists.



On the Saturday night of Shopping Week there is always a big parade with floats and fancy dress. Pulled by tractors, the floats give the local people a chance to unleash their artistic streaks, score a few points against the council, poke fun at the ferry service, and get in touch with their feminine sides (see Shetland Up-Helly-Aa blog ref: Transvestite Tuesday…). Some of the floats were very close to the bone, but some were suitable for a wider audience – here’s a selection.



And the other BIG event of the week was………….we got our new kittens! Attempts to photograph them have been thwarted by the fact that they romp professionally and will not sit still. As you can see they are all little wrigglers. 10 weeks old now – it will soon be time for formal introductions to the older felines of the house. Please enjoy these blurry kitten pictures.

Summer! No time for writing! Here's some photos instead!

A midsummer concert at the Standing Stones of Stenness by Shoramere....






The Ring of Brodgar at 11 o'clock on midsummer's night...









And now, especially for mjc, the vegetables....(a sneak preview - full blog coming soon)







Off to soothshire for grandmother's ninetieth birthday. Keep safe, chums.

Hello blogging chums. Remember me telling you about our arts/writing project featuring the Ness Battery? Well it’s all starting to come together, and I have a big favour to ask. We are trying to gather everything that’s been generated – photos, poems, canvasses, monologues etc to see what’s usable. I would like to include my blog, and I would also like to include the possibility of some of the comments. How do you feel about this? I might not use any of them, but it would be nice to have the option. I can easily leave out your blog names if you don’t want them used. What do you say? Would you like to be part of our work of art?

I had a boyfriend at University who was a bit of a waster. Whilst my time was spent writing essays, working split shifts at a local hotel and taking minutes for the Students Association, his strengths lay in rock climbing, smoking dope and listening to Captain Beefheart records. He used to think of himself as a free spirit, a child of nature who felt in touch with the earth and eschewed the corporate dollar. In reality this meant that he signed on whilst his mum paid his rent. Working was for mugs. Why give the b*st*rds the satisfaction of working you to the bone, when you could be skimming stones, pitching a tent or looking at rainbows?

We met at a friend’s party. Our eyes collided, the thunderbolt of lust hit, his girlfriend dragged him off, sulking. Two days later he skateboarded into the hotel reception whilst I was on duty. The wheels rattled alarmingly on the parquet floor, hit a brass runner and the board flipped over, sending him headlong into the desk where he landed more or less at my feet. He gazed upwards with his sky-blue eyes and pleaded: ‘I love you. Please go out with me’.

When he put on his wounded puppy face, there was not a soul alive who could say no. He was, probably still is, charm personified. When his eyes looked deep into yours, you were the centre of the universe; but not just any old universe – his universe. The unfettered joy he took in living everyday was tempered, even honed, by a public school upbringing. He would open doors. He was always courteous and polite, happy to carry your bags for you. Old ladies loved him.

I was lured and willingly captured. I found him electrifyingly sexy. Strangely though, he was not exactly good-looking – sandy, thinning hair not long for this world, prominent nose. Glasses. Not much taller than me. Nice tight behind though.

Every time he was unfaithful to me he would throw himself into an agony of self-recrimination and tortured soul-searching. I would tell him I never wanted to see him again. He would cry, write heartfelt letters of apology, leave the country and go on long treks through politically unstable regions of the southern hemisphere whilst I fretted that my selfishness and conventionality had driven him to such extremes. After weeks of worry and desperate longing on my part, he would turn up on the doorstep with a handful of crushed wild bluebells or a beautiful shell. He would be unshaven, grimy and stinking and I could not resist him.

It ended one morning when I woke to find a much-folded note under my door. He was sorry, he had written, but he had met an old friend, they had discovered they were soul-mates and were getting married. The newly engaged couple were leaving town immediately to escape the malicious tongues of those who did not understand and wished them ill.

A year later, he was married with a child. Two years later, so I heard, he was divorced, working in finance, playing golf and doing a lot of cocaine. After a year or so in Australia, wife number two became one more piece of debris on the path of relationship destruction. He had, it was rumoured, found God.

And now? After nearly 20 years, he has contacted me. Living in Tibet and married to a beautiful Chinese peasant girl (of course), he works as a professional photographer and is concerned with healing the earth once more. His email was accompanied by a pretentious Rush lyric and an obscure line thanking me for ‘the gift of books’. What, books in general? Something I’d given him as a Christmas present? I have no idea. At the bottom of the message was a link to his web page where his photos could be viewed and bought for an extravagant price. Unless of course they were needed for an environmental cause, in which case they were free.

I have decided to err on the side of dignified silence – he will not be getting a reply!

I must admit I'm not a great taker of landscape photos - the views always seem diminished somehow. But who could resist this? I don't think I have ever seen Stenness Loch looking so beautiful!

On a sad note, our old cat Jess died on Tuesday, at home, being stroked, no vet trauma thank goodness. She was very old and she had a fine life but we will miss her. Here she is with Minxy Gracie (Jess is the tortoiseshell).

I had a most exciting adventure recently, I went inside the Ness Battery! Can you contain your joy? Thought not. For the uninitiated and geographically confused, the Ness Battery is a WWI and WWII military installation on the outskirts of Stromness, by the golf course, overlooking Hoy Sound.



It is surrounded by a 10’ high perimeter fence topped with barbed wire, and it covers about 2-3 acres of land. There are gun batteries, ammunition stores, barracks, officers’ quarters, underground bunkers and vast quantities of corrugated iron and concrete. Best of all is the highly unusual mess hall, but more of that in a moment….

" >

A group of Orkney artists (loosely affiliated under the name ‘Untitled’) had this idea of joining up with some writers and see what creative processes were generated. I was paired up with a local painter, whose usual medium is oils on very large canvasses depicting sea, sky, beach debris, and my favourite, the cows in the forest (not inspired by an Orkney scene!). Over some nice soup and a cup of blackcurrant tea we chatted, enthused about Surrealist art and in a roundabout way thought we might like to do ‘something’ inspired by the 20th century legacy round Orkney’s shores.



Something stirred in the deep dark recesses of my memory…….I remember a local archaeologist telling me about the Ness Battery mess hall and some paintings on the walls done by the soldiers, vaguely reminiscent of the Italian Chapel (which was painted by POWs in the 1940s). Hmm. We did a bit of research. Turns out the Ness Battery was sold by the MOD to Orkney Islands Council in 2002 for the princely sum of £1.00. A search of the Royal Commission’s website and we had one or two tantalising photos. We got quite excited about this and decided to tap our friends in high places and see if we could get in……..and they said yes.

" >

So, last Tuesday, our local museum curator, writer and story-teller unpadlocked the gates and we drove up the weed-cracked concrete track, through the rusting sheds and abandoned bunkers. As well as the scary lookout tower and assorted concrete buildings there is a collection of half a dozen wooden-clad buildings, grey paint and shutters badly worn. Most can’t be opened as the locks have all rusted shut, but the mess hall door stood open and in we went. It was bright sunshine outside and it took a minute for our eyes to adjust to the gloom within, but after a moment we could see the walls clearly – and what a sight!



Round three of the four walls are painted extraordinary scenes of rural English life, a vision of Arcadia that includes children playing in a no doubt enchanted forest, a colourful gypsy encampment, a thatched cottage containing tea-room and contented cat in the window, and a village street scene with ye olde inne named the Jolly Farmer.









The signature tells us the paintings were done by AR Woods, but no more is known about this person. Were they an artist in civvy street? There is something quite impressionistic about the paintings, and they are more skilful than a first glance would suggest. Was AR Woods a man or a woman? Were these scenes intended as a backdrop for amateur dramatics? Our museum friend mused that the paintings maybe served to remind them what they were fighting for, even if the reality never really existed.



What we found intriguing was that all the pastoral scenes are filled with the most un-Orcadian vistas, forests, buildings and characters, as if the painter were trying to block out the reality outside of howling gales and the turbulence of Hoy Sound. The wisteria, the cottage roses and the apple orchards were perhaps a protection against a more immediate enemy, a sort of floral frontline.







The mess hall is not in a good way. The paint is peeling, the damp is getting in, and the few remaining shutters that still open are rusting fast. There are possibly moves to make the Ness Battery a focal point in the wider Scapa Flow project, perhaps as an interpretation centre. It would be very sad to see this fascinating place rotting away to nothing, but doing what it would take to make it safe and accessible would result in the loss of a lot of its decaying charm.



We took loads of photos and discussed what our next step would be, and we are looking into some sort of projection/performance installation thingy, featuring our photos and some writing. Unfortunately my partner in crime has had to go away for a few weeks unexpectedly, so I don’t know how much we’ll get done, but writing this blog has been a good start towards getting my thoughts on (albeit virtual) paper. I’ll let you know how we get on!





………………….

Update on musical prowess……glad your fpu enjoyed the concert, Flying Cat. The general consensus amongst the performers was ‘not too bad’ – praise indeed from Orkney folk. We’re doing a repeat in the Cromarty Hall in the Hope this Friday. I’m not sure I can keep up this rock n roll on-the-road lifestyle.