Rude word cold
Posted: Sunday, 26 October 2008 |
The grey plumage of this years young tysties seems to hint at the coming season. Cold bites at exposed skin, fingers turn to useless rubber only to be revived by being wrapped around a mug of steaming tea. Leaves go from green to brown and fill the gutters with their dry wind driven rattle. Light on the Dwarfie Hammars is like liquid gold, deep shadow fills the valleys and clefts as the setting sun casts its last breaths of light from the west. Hats appear, gloves dug out from drawers and stuffed into coat pockets.
Rain gathers in puddles, dripping over the edge of the harbour wall, only to be blown back up into the air and land once again in the puddle. I have heard of perpetual motion, perhaps this is perpetual soggyness. The wind tears with sheer anger and fury at everything, slapping the boat against the pier, the squelch and squeal of the fenders cushioning our movements, our ropes bar tight and wrung dry. Dark horizons show on the radar, their passing leaving small piles of hail on the deck. Sometimes the wind will whip up the water and carry a smoke of seaspray in tiny tornadoes over the piers, the taste of saltwater on your lips as you scurry for shelter from the squall.
Winter has arrived all of a sudden, and the small green isles brace themselves for the dark months ahead.
Beneath the waves the now occasionally turbulent waters of the flow are brimming with life. A million fish swirl and dart around the wrecks, anemones bloom in their underwater gardens and scallops flip and flop away from you on the silty bottom.
Two weeks and we are done, our season over for another year. I am tired, dog tired and am looking forward to not having to move for an entire week although I suspect life may get in the way of that.
Rain gathers in puddles, dripping over the edge of the harbour wall, only to be blown back up into the air and land once again in the puddle. I have heard of perpetual motion, perhaps this is perpetual soggyness. The wind tears with sheer anger and fury at everything, slapping the boat against the pier, the squelch and squeal of the fenders cushioning our movements, our ropes bar tight and wrung dry. Dark horizons show on the radar, their passing leaving small piles of hail on the deck. Sometimes the wind will whip up the water and carry a smoke of seaspray in tiny tornadoes over the piers, the taste of saltwater on your lips as you scurry for shelter from the squall.
Winter has arrived all of a sudden, and the small green isles brace themselves for the dark months ahead.
Beneath the waves the now occasionally turbulent waters of the flow are brimming with life. A million fish swirl and dart around the wrecks, anemones bloom in their underwater gardens and scallops flip and flop away from you on the silty bottom.
Two weeks and we are done, our season over for another year. I am tired, dog tired and am looking forward to not having to move for an entire week although I suspect life may get in the way of that.
Thinking warm thoughts
Posted: Tuesday, 28 October 2008 |
Not quite sure about the thinking warm thoughts theory. I keep thinking about warm feet, but they never seem to arrive.
It snowed today so we stayed tied to the pier all nice and safe. The problem with snow is that it can reduce the visibility to zero, no fun for divers and for other boats. A good choice to stay in port I suspect.
Here are some piccies I took.
It snowed today so we stayed tied to the pier all nice and safe. The problem with snow is that it can reduce the visibility to zero, no fun for divers and for other boats. A good choice to stay in port I suspect.
Here are some piccies I took.
After coming to Orkney in May 2006 for 8 months, somehow I am still here. Running the MV Valkyrie in the summer and helping on the farm in winter is now my life. 
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