Stromness Dragon

The Reverend John Graham

A few weeks ago a gentle, retired Church of England vicar called John Galbraith Graham revealed that he had terminal cancer of the oesophagus. Graham is in his 90s and by anybody’s lights that’s a good innings, but the outpouring of sympathy and sadness was remarkable – as was the way the announcement was made.

‘Sign of growth (6)’ read the clue for 18 down. Other clues followed, until the reader was in no doubt that Graham was revealing his condition and imminent death through the medium of crossword clues. Rev Graham is known, you see, throughout the crossword-loving world as the compiler Araucaria. It is because of this man that I know that Araucaria is the Latin name for the monkey-puzzle tree, and it is through him that I developed and honed my ability to solve a fiendish cryptic crossword. He is, in the words of my Twitter pal Feexby (himself a professional crossword setter), ‘the Guvnor’.

The dragon parentals tried a number of daily newspapers when I was growing up, and when I was about 8 or 9 years old they settled for The Guardian, which is still my paper of choice. Being a precocious little Dragon I used to tackle the Concise Crossword with my father, but I found it rather pointless and ultimately unsatisfying. One day, when my brain had clearly grown tired of French irregular verbs and dissecting A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (yes, I was that insufferable) I decided to tackle the Big One. The cryptic. I can’t remember the compiler, but I do remember that it was utterly impenetrable; I could make neither head nor tail of it, and threw it down in disgust. But the clues went round and round in my head, and the next day when the answer was printed, I tried to match up the clues with the answers, and figure out how they fitted together. They still, unhappily, made no sense. I was destined to be one of those people who just couldn’t do cryptic crosswords.

The next step was university in St Andrews; and a dull boyfriend who did a degree in statistics and went on to become an accountant. Sitting in his cold, cold flat on City Road (Cammo Lodge, where the toothpaste froze) one afternoon, and needing distraction from the drafts and the turgid, pompous Marillion album which the BF was playing, I picked up a copy of….I think it might have been the Sunday Express. My eyes scanned the crossword clues, and suddenly, a teeny tiny synapse in my brain made the leap. I solved the clue. The resulting serotonin rush was enough to bring a little smile to my frozen lips, and I pressed on. Some sort of breakthrough had clearly happened, and there was no stopping me that afternoon. Fish and his tedious nonsense faded away as I felt my brain warming up like the valves in an old television set. The Sunday Express crossword may not be the most challenging of puzzles (I have no idea as I have never done another since) but it gave me the confidence to start tackling the serious contenders.

As a student I worked in the Victoria Café, where we served beer, deluxe hot chocolates and cheese & tuna croissants to the student population of the town. Being an establishment of quality, the café bought only quality newspapers, which were printed in a large format – none of your tabloid size in them days, folks. Oh Gawd, I’m getting nostalgic about paper sizes. Anyway, if memory serves, we got The Times, The Telegraph, The Scotsman, The Guardian and (only in its second year of publication) The Independent. Between microwaving croissants and frothing milk my colleagues and I, and occasionally the regulars, would stand at the end of the bar and put our brains to work. One particular puzzle stands out. It was published in The Times, and it celebrated some sort of anniversary. Five parts of the crossword were published from Monday – Friday, with the whole thing being put together on the Saturday in one enormous cryptic crossword. The prize was a trip to India or a cash prize of £2000. My pal Shane and I tackled it together over copious cups of tea and many roll-ups. Two of the clues went right across the page – one from left to right, another top to bottom, straight down the centre. To this day I can remember the answers: The Across clue answer was ‘What you lose on the swings you gain on the roundabouts’ and the Down clue was ‘I am a bear of very little brain and long words bother me’. It is no exaggeration to say that Shane and I put our lives on hold for that puzzle – study, work, friends – they all came second to our quest. The final clue that we cracked to finish the crossword was this: ‘Swearing in part of Russia’. The answer is ‘oblast’, and in today’s world of internet wonders, it would have taken me only minutes to find it. In the late 1980s, it took several days of searching through the university library’s thickest dictionaries before I arrived at the ‘Eureka’ moment. We had extra cream on our hot chocs to celebrate. We sent off our completed entry, and didn’t win the trip to India; but frankly, we didn’t care.

Fast forward to a bar job in Edinburgh, where the pub had several puzzle aficionados. We smoked and cursed together over the evil works of Peter Bee of The Scotsman; one regular was convinced that Bee was a woman, as only a woman’s mind could be so devious, he claimed.  After a deadlock situation, when we had racked our brains fruitlessly and tried so many workings out that the paper’s margins were a scribbled mess, sometimes only a trip to the bathroom would work. That minute or so of peace and bodily functions could often result in a breakthrough.

My greatest triumph, puzzle-wise, came the very first time I ever solved Azed in The Observer. I cannot begin to describe to you how hard I found this puzzle – but my very-thumbed copy of Chambers Dictionary stands testimony. On the very few occasions I finished Azed I prided myself on joining, temporarily, the elite of crossword solvers. This is the puzzle that Colin Dexter does to give his brain exercise. He noticed over several years that one prize-winner’s name came up time and again – CJ Morse. Thus was Dexter’s fictional detective named.

Although I flirted occasionally with other papers, my loyalties always lay with The Guardian. The puzzles were quirky, funny, sometimes themed. Shed, Bunthorne and Fidelio were gits, and I seem to remember that the latter was actually in prison as he compiled. But my favourite, as with so many people, was always Araucaria. Interviewed on Desert Island Discs, this clever, sweet man revealed his affection for his audience: ‘I have a vague picture in my mind of an idealised solver, who is a combination of everybody I’ve loved’. And that affection is repaid in spades, judging by the reaction to his sad news.

Life has moved on, and due to constraints of time and money, I no longer buy a daily paper. The last time I seriously tried a crossword was a few years ago whilst in hospital, when Mr Dragon brought me a book of Guardian puzzles to keep me occupied. I just never seem to have the time nor the patience now to sit and work it through. The knowledge that Araucaria won’t be around for much longer might prompt me to look out for his last works. And this – picking up last week’s weekend Saturday Guardian, I glanced at the puzzle. It was set by someone new to me, who goes by the name of Bonxie. I might just give it a try.

Tags: Araucaria, crossword, Guardian

I learnt an excellent fact today. I was thumbing through a terrific little book called ‘How to Read a Church’ (which accompanied a TV series that I missed completely) and came upon a section all about the hierarchy of angels. Not being brought up in any religious tradition, I am coming to these beings with my only references being school nativities and Michaelangelo’s fat cherubs (which I think are actually putti), so they seem quite wondrous to me.

There is a lot to be said about angels, (and best said by folk better informed than I am) but the bit that caught my eye was a piece about the archangels. All angels are messengers, but the Archangel Michael was also a warrior – in the War in Heaven he defeated Satan in battle, and cast him down. Michael also carries the souls of the deceased to heaven, and gives them a chance to redeem themselves – for this reason he is often depicted holding a set of scales. And here’s the thing; Michael is the senior Archangel, above all the others, like Gabriel and Raphael.

St Michael - with sword and scales

Because of his elevated position in the heavenly hierarchy, churches dedicated to Michael are very often on mounds, hills, high points.

St Michael's Mount

St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall is an excellent example. Two weeks ago I was at the church in Harray, dedicated to St Michael, and I can confirm that it is indeed perched on a mound – there is an Iron Age broch under the graveyard!

Kirkyard of St Michael's Kirk, Harray

Mr Dragon and I had taken a little drive out there to find the grave of the writer Eric Linklater. I shall write about Eric another time, as there are some stories to tell, but for now, I would like you to go and find a St Michael’s Church near you, and tell me if it’s on a hill.

Graves of Marjorie and Eric Linklater

Inspecting the war memorial

Tags: Archangel, Eric Linklater, Orkney, St Michael

If you are Scottish, there is a chance you might know about the Stone of Scone. If you are not, then you may not be aware of the cultural significance of this lump of rock – a significance signposted by its other name, the Stone of Destiny. There are many stories, legends and theories about the Stone, so for the benefit of the unknowing, here is the stone’s brief(-ish) resumé.

Legend says the stone began its journey into legend in Palestine. It provided somewhere for Jacob to rest his head whilst he dreamt of the ladder that connected heaven and earth, the preferred mode of travel for angels going up and down between the two realms. At some point, it became part of the personal sacred object collection of an Egyptian Pharaoh, whose daughter Scota fell in love with an Irish fellow and travelled to the outermost reaches of civilisation and founded Scotland. Allegedly. The stone (described in one account as made of black marble, covered in beautiful elaborate designs) was said to have been used by St Columba as a travelling altar, and was so revered that it was eventually taken to Dunadd hill in Argyll where it was used to crown the ancient kings of Dalriada. As Scotland grew as a nation, the centre of power was moved to the middle of the country, and the Stone of Destiny was placed in Scone Abbey. There, it provided historic gravitas and a focus for the coronations of the first Kings of Scotland.

During the turmoil of the Scottish Wars of Independence (brought on by the death of Alexander III in 1286), the English King Edward I laid claim to his northern neighbour in the most violent of terms (not for nothing was he known as the Hammer of the Scots), and ransacked the country. In 1296 he invaded Scotland and stole the symbols of her nationhood; these included the Scottish crown and an alleged piece of the true cross. He also prised up and carted off the Stone of Scone/Destiny and shipped it down to England. The stone, by this point, had undergone a mysterious transformation; instead of a slab of shiny black, inscribed marble, it had become a rectangular lump of Perthshire sandstone. Edward was so determined to crush the Scots and all their pretensions to nationhood, that he had his own throne modified with a special Stone of Destiny-shaped hole in the seat, so that the stone could be slotted in under his backside. And so, in Westminster Abbey, the throne of St Edward housed the stone, and received the royal bottoms of every single English King or Queen crowned since the early 14^th century. And from 1603 onwards, it saw the coronations of every Scottish monarch too, since the two thrones were joined under James VI and I. There were those who doubted its provenance, saying it was little more than the stone cover for a medieval cesspit, and that the real one was being safely stored, ready for the day when Scotland rose as a nation again.

St Edward's throne - the Coronation Chair

So……whether you have been paying attention to that history lesson or not, the point is, the stone was and is considered a very important symbol of Scottish nationhood. And Edward stole it. Possibly. No matter that the event took place hundreds of years ago, it has been a sore (and moot) point for Scots ever since.

On Christmas Day 1950 a group of four young students from Glasgow University stole the stone and stashed it in the boot of their Ford Anglia before making a dash for the border. They crossed it too, despite road blocks, and a bit of banter with the policeman who stopped their car (along the lines of: ‘What’s in the boot then, Sonny?’ ‘Haha, oh, just the Stone o’ Scone, ye ken’, ‘Haha, very good son, on ye go’). The establishment was outraged and after being hidden under the bed of an Orkney minister in Carnoustie (allegedly), the stone was taken, nearly four months later, to Arbroath Abbey. The custodian, a doughty chap called Wishart (another Orkney connection?) is reported thus in the Guardian newspaper:  ‘Mr. Wishart said that…three men carried the stone on a wooden litter up what used to be the nave of the abbey between the ruins of the pillars. “They laid it at the three stones which marked the site of the high altar. They carried the stone in a reverent manner, their heads were uncovered, and it was a solemn and impressive little ceremony. The men shook hands with me and wished me the best of luck and then went. As soon as I knew that the Stone of Destiny had been placed in my charge I locked the gates.”

Arbroath Abbey

The Stone was promptly taken back to England. The abductors had at some point dropped the stone and it had broken in two, whereupon they had cemented it back together. There are some that claim that the stone stolen by the students was never returned to the Abbey; there are tales of a signed scroll hidden in the ‘real’ stone, and yet more tales of brooches and other jewellery pieces containing fragments of Destiny rock dust being passed down through the generations….and there were, so I am told, other unsuccessful attempts to liberate the stone from its wooden confinement in Westminster Abbey.

In 1996, under what kind of pressure I don’t know, the Secretary of State for Scotland Michael Forsyth negotiated for the Stone of destiny to be returned to Scotland. On a damp, misty St Andrew’s Day, the Stone crossed the Scottish border at Coldstream, accompanied by a detachment of Scottish soldiers and a piper. There were a few lumps in a few throats that day, as the stone made stately progress to Edinburgh, transported in triumph up to the great castle on the rock, in Scotland’s capital.

And I knew exactly where to stand to get the best view.

The night before, I had been out late in the Royal Mile. I was dressed in a long black cloak, and I carried a black box containing a leather whip, a fake ear, and a set of keys to the Underground Vaults. There were no takers for the ghost tour of haunted Edinburgh that evening, but I loitered at the Mercat Cross for a while, scanning the deserted High Street for potential customers. I spotted a vehicle trundling through the mist down from the Lawnmarket, and clocked it at once for an Army Landrover.

This is not unusual, as Edinburgh Castle is still a working castle and barracks, and one would quite often see soldiers about the place. What was unusual is that the vehicle stopped round the back of the High Kirk of Edinburgh (also known as St Giles Cathedral), near to a flight of stone steps and a door that is rarely, if ever, used. Four squaddies hopped out, opened up the back of the Landrover, and positioned themselves around it. Under the command of an officer, they then proceeded to reach in and bring forth a wooden pallet which bore a large object. It was quite heavy, judging by the way they were straining, and from my place in the shadows, I could just make out that the object was a big lump of concrete. A lump that was exactly the same shape and size as the Stone of Destiny. The four soldiers carried the wooden pallet up the steps and into the back door of St Giles, whereupon the door closed behind them.  The Landrover didn’t move, and neither did I. A few minutes later, the door opened and the soldiers carried the pallet and lump of concrete back down the steps again, before putting it back in the Landrover. They then did it all again. Out, up the steps, in the door, out the door, down the steps, into the vehicle. I was fascinated. One of the squaddies caught my eye, so I asked what they were doing. Practising, they said. The Stone of Scone was going to be taken into the cathedral for a special service, before embarking upon its final journey to Edinburgh Castle, and they were practising, to ensure that the transition from Army Landrover to church was smooth.

The next day I chose my spot carefully, and got a ringside view of the Stone being transported into the cathedral. Later that day, the Stone was taken to the castle, where it sits to this day, with the Scottish Crown Jewels as part of the Honours of Scotland exhibition. Whether it is really the ‘true’ Stone of Destiny, I have no idea. And I do sometimes wonder what happened to the lump of concrete.

Tags: 1950, Abbey, Arbroath, Destiny, Scone, Scotland, Stone, throne, Westminster

There are several things believed to be unique to Orkney. Microtus arvalis orcadensis is one of them, but that blog will have to wait for another day. The chair is another, although I have no doubt that within the hour someone will come bounding out of the woodwork (as it were) to tell me that they have been making chairs like that in Shetland/Wiltshire/Hawaii for centuries. If that is indeed the case, I look forward to the comparison.

The Orkney chair, in a little over 100 years, has gone from rustic home-made necessity in an island croft, to pride of place in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. It is a much sought after piece of furniture with good vintage examples often selling for four figures.

The chair is thought to have humble origins, although I have heard it argued that in later years it was only the wealthier farms that could boast one of them by their fireplace. The materials are indeed exceedingly humble – wood and straw. Orkney is not a tree-less place by any means, but the trees that grow here are usually only as tall as the buildings they hide behind, or growing at a 45 degree angle. Workable timber is almost impossible to find. But stand on the west coast of Orkney Mainland, and gaze out across the Atlantic…well, that’s a different matter. The sea can throw up treasure for the furniture maker in the form of solid tree trunks that were once either telegraph poles, part of a Newfoundland forest, or both.  Thus the first Orkney chairs were made of driftwood, cut to size and nailed together to make a basic frame.

It is in the back of an Orkney chair that the real skill lies, and the reason why the process could never be automated. The back is made from straw, bundled and sewn together. It sounds so simple, but it is so hard to get right (I know because I’ve tried it – more of which later)! Only oat straw will do, and preferably the straw from black oats with long flexible stems, left over from the grain that fed the humans and the horses.

Barley and wheat straw is generally too short and much too brittle, but I once saw a lady at the Bath and West Show in Somerset make a traditional bee skep out of barley straw that was soaked to keep it flexible ( the technique is very similar, although there is a difference in the stitching and where it goes).

Bee skeps

The first thing the chair maker must do is strip the straw, to remove the dried outer leaves and prepare the smooth stalk ready for use. It’s a job that might have been done traditionally by children, and it is not a tidy or clean craft. If you are in any way house-proud, banish yourself to the shed.

The technique for the chair back is a basic straw work principle. Once the straw is cleaned, you grab a bundle of 8 or so straws and bend them in the middle, round a piece of strong 2-ply twine. I think traditionally that the twine was home-made too, crafted from dried grass and twisted together – another job for the kids. You now have a bundle of straw with a diameter about the same as an old shilling, and it is this that forms the chair back, stitched together, row upon row. If you are making a circular basket, you work in the round, but for the chair you go backwards and forwards, stitching and feeding new bits of straw into the bundle. The really skilled straw workers can just add straw to the bundle and it somehow holds together without all falling out, but for novices like me it is handy to use a solid ring of some sort, like a sawn off circle of copper piping.

The straw work classes I once attended were run by the local council and taught by Alfie Bews, a characterful octogenarian from the island of Sanday. One evening, watching me struggle and swear as my straw fell out and the sides of my basket wouldn’t curve properly, he told me that I needed to be more patient. Oh! I said, exasperated. Patience! That’s the one thing I don’t have! Well, said Alfie, unperturbed; you’ll have to learn it. And as well as stocking up on your patience, if you ever want to be a straw worker then I advise you go and buy an economy-sized tube of high quality Norwegian-fisherman-strength hand cream, because your hands will be wrecked. Every drop of moisture will be stripped from them. They will be covered in blisters in a matter of hours. I speak from experience. In the end, I managed to make several small round baskets, a fruit bowl for a friend’s boat, and an Ali Baba-style laundry basket which is too narrow at the bottom, too wide at the top, and doesn’t have a lid. I have never, to this day, managed to make a chair.

If you have mastered the straw technique, your chair back grows upwards from the seat, with the straw rows sewn or nailed to the wooden frame. There is no wire or wood to shape it – the gentle curve to support the lower back is created by the skill of the maker. The result is a solid but slightly flexible back which prevents cold drafts from bothering whoever is seated in the chair. There are variations on a theme – some Orkney chairs had wooden drawers under the seat, for storing the whisky, or the bible, or the knitting, or all three. I learnt yesterday that the women’s chairs sometimes had the drawers opening at the side, as it would be unladylike and impractical to be groping around amidst the long skirts! There were gender differences too in the shape of the back. The women’s chair was made up to just above shoulder height, when the woman was seated; this apparently reflected the women’s habit of wearing shawls to keep their heads warm, and also meant they could see over the top of the chair back, thus keeping an eye on the household. The men’s chair, by contrast, had a shaped, rounded hood that shielded them from all drafts, and enabled them to hide behind their newspapers, oblivious to the demands of the household.

Thus it was that generations of Orkney folk made a sturdy, practical chair out of materials they had to hand. Then, in the 1880s, a local furniture maker decided that he would make these chairs and sell them to the general public. His name was David Kirkness, and the Orkney Library and Archive holds one of his order books, wherein are contained all the wonderful details of his chair orders – 5 shillings extra for a seagrass seat, 5 shillings extra for a drawer, and so on. Kirkness eschewed the unreliability of driftwood supply and made his chairs out of oak, or pine, or plain deal which could then be painted in a variety of colours. So popular were his chairs that they were sold through Liberty’s of London, who ordered them unpainted, and decorated them in red, black, or the very popular green. Some of them were upholstered, and there is a fine example in the Orkney Museum of a chair fitted out with padding and a maroon chintzy fabric. Through Kirkness, the Orkney chair was taken out of the croft and placed in the smartest of drawing rooms.

Chair by David Kirkness

Since then, various people have taken up the mantle of the chair making – most notably Reynold Eunson in the 1950s. Reynold was an undertaker and joiner, whose craft ranged from making coffins, to carving stylish wooden figures for St Magnus Cathedral during the 1965 refit of St Rognvald’s Chapel. He bought Kirkness’s workshop, and adopted many of his predecessor’s patterns and designs, keeping alive this old tradition. However, in the bright, brave new world of 1960s and 70s brightly-coloured plastic household consumables, the Orkney chair looked outmoded and old-fashioned. As houses were improved to provide indoor plumbing, electric light and other modern conveniences, the Orkney chair was often cast aside in favour of the cushioned armchair or padded sofa. A generation ago, the art of Orkney chair making was all but forgotten.

But take a look at the craftsmen’s directories today, and you will see a very different story. There are at least half a dozen chair makers working in Orkney now, and their wares are more popular than ever. The chairs are usually bespoke items, and because they are hand crafted, they can be made to any specification….children’s chairs, two- or three-seaters, with hoods, without hoods, curved rather than straight backs….different types of wood. To buy one new will cost you anything between £600 - £1,200. They are very popular as presents for wedding anniversaries or retirements.

Kevin Gauld - one of a new generation of Orkney chair makers

To see how far the humble Orkney chair has come, I refer you to the newly-opened furniture gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum, where they have special exhibits featuring only seven designers from the entire history of British furniture making. One of those seven is David Kirkness, and one of his displayed chairs belonged to the painter Augustus John. This permanent acknowledgement of our islands’ craftsmanship has been noted far from these shores: here is a link to an article in the New York Times, who know quality when they see it.

Now - where’s that bit of driftwood I’ve been saving?

Tags: chair, Kirkness, Orkney, straw, V&A

Mr Dragon and I met a nice lass from BBC Radio Scotland at the weekend. We were chatting about oral history, the memories of the older generation, and specific reminiscences to do with the war. She told us this story.

During WWII, her Scots grandfather found himself in Burma, fighting alongside the Ghurkhas against the Japanese. He and a few of his unit were separated and being pursued by a party of Japanese soldiers. Scrabbling around for cover they heard the sound of an aeroplane overhead, and looking up, determined that it was an Allied plane, and very possibly their passport out of danger. They started running and waving at the plane to get its attention, but the pilot clearly mistook their intentions, and started firing at the men on the ground. They dived for cover and watched as the plane flew a short distance then turned to circle, clearly keen to have another go. The soldiers on the ground had to think very quickly. How could they let the plane crew know they were Allied soldiers? What would be fast, obvious and unmistakably British?

They delved quickly into their packs, grabbed the packets of scratchy Army regulation toilet paper and got to work. When the plane circled again and the crew looked out of the window, there, in a clearing in the Burmese jungle, they could clearly make out the words FUCK OFF!

They stopped firing. Whether the men were picked up then or later, we don’t know. But the Scottish soldier survived the war, and his granddaughter reckons he would be delighted that the story was still being told!

Tags: Burma, Scottish, soldier, WWII

I had lived in Quoyloo for about three weeks before the knock came at the door. As it happened I was out at fiddle practice, so I didn’t speak to the lady herself, but when I got home Mr Dragon told me gleefully that I had had ‘the call’. A representative had dropped by to see if I would be interested in joining the local branch of the SWRI. The Scottish Women’s Rural Institute (known as ‘the Rural’) is the equivalent of the WI in England. For non-British readers, the WI (Women’s Institute) are the ones featured in the film ‘Calendar Girls’, based on a true story, where the ladies posed naked with sunflowers and sticky buns. The Quoyloo branch of the Rural would never stoop to such sensationalist tactics, I can assure you. Why waste a good bun?

The Rural was formed in 1917, has over 20,000 members and more than 700 branches. Most Orkney parishes have one; Quoyloo is not actually a parish, but has one anyway. The aims are the same today as they ever were; to pass on skills from one generation of women to another, to take part in activities together, and to enjoy the friendship and company of local ladies.

I applaud them mightily for their talents and philosophy. One is not born knowing how to darn a sock or make lemon curd, and if a young lass from the city had the good fortune to marry an Orkney farmer, well….she would need to learn these essentials. The Rural meetings are usually held every month, there is sometimes a theme or a motto, and often a visiting speaker, followed by gallons of tea and any number of home-baked goodies. A quick glance at this week’s Orcadian newspaper reveals a run down of the Rural meetings over the past month:  in Firth, the ladies chose the motto ‘A laugh is worth 100 groans in any market’, and enjoyed a quiz, a drawing game, and a Christmas story. The women of Harray embraced the spirit of ‘It’s always the busiest folk who have time for more’, whilst listening to John Copland from the cattle mart talking about ‘A Day in the Life of an Auctioneer’. Meanwhile, in Costa, the guests Thora and Anne sang and told stories, mindful of the phrase ‘Sweet music lingers in the memory’.

I have, on occasion, had the pleasure of speaking or playing as a guest at the Rural. The ladies are always a discerning but appreciative audience, and any guest is treated very well indeed, plied as they are with tea, cake, and potentially winning raffle tickets. But then….the crunch. The payoff. The heavy, heavy responsibility. It falls to the visitor or guest speaker, you see, to judge The Competition. The objects in The Competition, brought in by the members, will usually be laid out on a side table for inspection and awarding of points: the grading might be 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd, or Gold, Silver and Bronze, or some other way of marking the three best items. The judge ponders, picks up, inspects, tastes (if appropriate), holds up to the light. After due deliberation, and without knowing who made or chose the items, the judge then places the awards accordingly. The ladies themselves will then inspect everything, and the chair or secretary will note down the winners and order of merit.

At this point, those who are aware of the workings of the Rural will know what the competitions involve. Those who don’t will be shaking their heads and wondering what all the fuss is about. I can do no better than emulate our local station BBC Radio Orkney who regularly read out the sublime and poetic Rural competitions.

An item knitted from 100g of wool.

A poem about winter and four cheese scones.

An old plate.

A photograph of a flower and a jar of raspberry jam.

An embroidered handkerchief and a glass milk jug.

A matchbox filled with objects beginning with ‘M’.

A Christmas tree decoration (any craft) and home-made Baileys (!)

It is, as I have already said, a heavy responsibility to choose between the items presented, and one that must be treated with all seriousness. The crafts, creative writing, artistic appreciation and cookery skills of the Rural members range from warm-hearted attempts, to full blown genius, and sometimes the judge must exercise high levels of diplomacy – difficult when the items are anonymous.  I do hope that as a result of my judging efforts no-one has ever been cast down too much; after tasting six jars of rhubarb chutney it can be difficult to tell between them. When presented by a range of tartan items, I hope my ambivalent feelings towards dolls were put aside in an attempt to admire the artistry of the kilt stitching. And I beg forgiveness for the rebellious thoughts that have flashed through my brain when confronted by dense cheese scones - to wit: ‘Mine are better than that!’

And therein lies the reason I ignored the summons. Not that I fear the Rural’s (erroneous) reputation as the bastion of old-fashioned attitudes. Neither am I put off by the (again false) impression that the Rural is full of old ladies (firstly, some of them are younger than I am, and secondly, they are individuals and many of them are brilliant and wise and funny). I could beg to be excused on the grounds that I have many other things to do, but that isn’t really good enough. No, the reason I have not joined the Rural is this. I am far, far too competitive. I would hear the call to produce a traybake and a knitted teacosy, and I would not rest until I had made the best traybakes and teacosy of which I was capable. The red mist would descend, my competitive streak would kick in, and no prisoners would be taken in my desire to gallop across the finishing line ahead of the pack. The day I stop wanting to win is the day I shall join the Rural. In the meantime, I shall continue to listen with pleasure to Radio Orkney’s broadcast of that week’s competitions.

A drawing of a farm animal.

An item beginning with J and a floory bannock.

Four squares of fudge and a bonny plate.

What do a spade, an hour glass, a candle and a chess piece have in common? Any devotee of 17^th century churches will know the answer – they are all symbols of mortality that appeared frequently on gravestones as a reminder to the church congregations that their time on this earth was finite.

The spade was usually accompanied by a turf cutter, and the pair of implements represented the tools of the gravediggers’ trade. The hour glass reminded observers that the sands of time are running out….and if the hour glass is at a jaunty angle, it is indicative that the person named on the stone was taken too soon. The candle, in similar vein, was our allotted lifespan burning to its inevitable conclusion.

Skeletons, or more usually the skulls and crossed thigh bones, show what we will all become; rich or poor.

Orkney, in the 17^th century, was a time of grinding hardship for many, with famine never far away. The grimness was the mostly the result of years of harvest failures, although the landowning classes were largely protected from the worst. The tough times were accompanied by a similarly lean period in terms of spiritual succour. The Scottish Reformation in the 1560s had seen the perceived corruption and materialism of Catholicism thrown over for the relative simplicity and purity of the Protestant faith. The printing of the bible into English had meant that many could now read the word of God for themselves, without requiring a priestly interface. There was no need, went the argument, for incense, liturgy, rich robes, Latin – every man was equal in God’s eyes and with just the good book to hand, he could enjoy a personal relationship with God. The church of John Knox and the Reformers advocated social responsibility too – they saw the church’s role as encompassing teaching (a school in every parish) and help for the poor and needy. Knox was no killjoy, despite popular belief, and was not averse to a game of golf on a Sunday afternoon after a morning’s preaching.

By the mid 17^th century though, the simplicity and honesty of the Presbyterian faith had become a sour, punitive thing, typified by the fire-and-brimstone sermon and the Stool of Repentance. The kirk session had become the moral arbiter for the parish, with the power to shame, impose fines, and dole out meagre alms to the deserving poor. Church attendance was compulsory, and because the church fabric maintenance was the responsibility of the local landowners (who often feuded with the ministers), the kirks were usually cold, damp, and draughty. From the pulpit, the ministers addressed the moral shortcomings of their congregations, whilst the session clerks kept a close eye out for transgressions such as working or partaking of inappropriate activity (like going for a walk) on a Sunday, or evidence of pre-nuptial relations. The churchgoers would have had little comfort from their surroundings; if their eyes strayed from the man in the pulpit, they would not have fallen on colours, decorations, stained glass. Instead, they would have been greeted by a reminder that their days on earth were numbered.

Conversely, it was there, in the gravestones, where folk could see artistic skill, and beauty of a sort. The artistry of the monumental masons speaks to us today loud and clear.

There are some very fine collections of gravestones and markers throughout Scotland; here is a lovely example from the kirkyard in Auchtermuchty, bearing skull, bones, tools, hourglass, and the words ‘Memento Mori’ meaning ‘Remember Death’.

Greyfriar’s kirk in Edinburgh has an astonishing plethora of scary angels, full-size figures, iron railings to prevent the bodysnatchers, putti and skeleton-encrusted mausoleums, many blackened by centuries of Auld Reekie’s reek. But nearer to home, the people of Orkney would be scared and awed in equal measures by the carved stones on the floor and walls of St Magnus Cathedral. The nave of the cathedral was once a burial ground, where the great and the good of Kirkwall were laid to rest (not for eternity as it turned out, but that’s another story…..).

One of my favourites is this early C17^th stone, to a merchant’s wife.

The photo doesn’t really do her justice, but it depicts a young woman with tumbling locks kneeling and praying to heaven – her dress is exquisitely folded beneath her knees. Above her is a gorgeous starry firmament and a pair of winged heads, representing the spirit. To the right, a hand emerges from a bank of cloud, bearing a crown. The layer of cloud lies opaquely between earth and heaven, to prevent earthly mortals from viewing the celestial, and can be seen in various depictions on the St Magnus stones. The hand is offering the crown of heaven, yet the hovering hourglass reminds us that the lady can attain the kingdom of heaven, but only through death. She is flanked by a pair of elegant Ionic columns, symbolic of the slender grace of the feminine.

The carved stones that line the St Magnus walls are special, for sure; there is a dancing skeleton, some luscious bunches of grapes, and enough skulls and crossbones to satisfy the most ardent pirate-fancier. But rarer than all of them is the diamond-shaped wooden board that hangs in the north nave aisle.

This is a Mort Brod, or death board. The fashion for these came from Holland in the early 17^th century and was very popular for a while in the east of England, where they are known as hatchments. Hatchments usually depict a coat of arms,  and they were made to act as death notices and memorials. Very few mort brods survive in Scotland – this seems to stem from a edict of the Church of Scotland in the late 17^th century that any churches still containing these wooden death boards were to burn them forthwith. Not only this, but the boards were fragile and vulnerable to rot or woodworm.

The St Magnus Mort Brod dates from the 1620s and is believed to be the oldest in Scotland. One side shows a skeletal Death figure wearing a white shroud and a big grin. Around him are the usual tricks of his trade, hourglass, spade and so on, and above his head, the Memento Mori scroll. The initials RDN appear too – for this was the death notice of a Kirkwall glazier called Robert D Nicolson. The reverse of the wooden panel has a poem in a diamond shape that reads: ‘Below doth lie, if ye would try, come read upon this brod; the corps of one Robert Nicolson, whose soul’s above with God. He being 70 years of age, ended this mortal life; 50 of those he was married to Jean Davidson, his wife. Betwixt them two, twelve children had, whereof 5 are left behind. The other 7’s with him in heaven, whose joy shall never end.’

It may not have provided much comfort to the 17^th century Orkney churchgoers, but I would like to think it maybe raised a smile. As the decades and centuries went on, attitudes to God, the afterlife, and church attendance changed, and in most cases life improved for the common folk. The gravestones lost many of their reminders of death, and it perhaps consoled the living to think that their loved ones were safe in the arms of Jesus. The legacy of the grim years though, can still be seen, and if you get the chance to visit the cathedral, there are several eager and knowledgeable custodians who will be happy to tell you all about it.

Tags: death, gravestones, Orkney, religion, St Magnus

Hello one and all!

I hope you all had a lovely Christmas/Yule/solstice/whichever midwinter festival is appropriate.

My guilty confession is this; after 3 days of eating, drinking, sleeping in and watching TV….I got a bit bored. Does that sound dreadfully ungracious? I can hear the howls of outrage from here… ‘Oh, what wouldn’t I give for three days of rest and recuperation?! You ungrateful wretch! Thank your lucky stars that you have a nice family to treat you, feed you, wait on you hand and foot….’ and so on.

Actually I probably really needed those days – the run up to the festive season was as fraught and frenzied as ever, and a period of enforced rest was well-timed. The two-day trip to big old London Town to see relatives and a warship was lovely on every level. Then….the down time. 72 hours in, I needed to DO something. I have long suspected that I operate like a perpetual motion machine, and by slowing down, I am losing valuable momentum and at the risk of grinding to a halt completely.

Anyhow, it got me thinking. I’m not a great media hound – I tend to avoid television, I get a paper once a week, and rely on Radio 4 for most of my news needs. However, on the periphery of my island-dwelling vision even I can pick up on all the bad-tempered ‘true meaning of Christmas’ navel-gazing that seems to go on. The TV ads about Mums and supermarkets (I never saw them but there was a wonderfully spirited debate on Woman’s Hour!), the grumpy ‘it’s all so commercialised and what about baby Jesus?’ brigade, the ‘it’s a pagan festival and the evil church hijacked it’ social media posts. All these things are valid and should be discussed, no doubt. And I am fully aware that there are people for whom the festivities hold unhappy associations for one reason or another. But here’s the thing: none of these are good enough reasons not to have a midwinter celebration of some kind.

Being in the northern parts of the UK means that we have long, seemingly endless summer days, when the sun is still above the horizon at 10pm and you can comfortably read a book outside at midnight. The flipside, of course, is that during the winter months we have very short days which, combined with a low, slate-grey sky, never seem to get light at all. There are compensations of course, such as the aurora borealis and the great sunrise/sunsets (which we surely get all year but in winter you are awake to see them). But let’s make no bones about it, the lack of daylight can be crushing and depressing. Other northern regions have worse social problems than Orkney, but it is a fallacy to say that the native islanders don’t feel it – they just develop coping strategies. I have a friend who lives in Norway, who would dance gleefully every year when the winter sun finally rose above the valley hills and shone directly on her house, after weeks of only ambient half-light. The ancients of Neolithic Orkney considered the lengthening of the days sufficiently important to align one of their very greatest structures, Maeshowe, around it. I worked there for a number of years and saw the shaft of light penetrate the darkness of the tomb several times; it never lost its magic, and I would love to think that 5,000 years ago that intense light was the cue for drinking, dancing, kissing, giving thanks, and celebrating.

Let us not underestimate the power of light in the darkness, whether it’s a candle lit during a church Watch Night service, or a string of twinkly fairy lights on the tree. Accept too, that an important part of any midwinter celebration is the bringing of life and colour into the house, the consuming of food and drink (there’s only so much food you can preserve), and the gathering of people, be they members of  your geographical community, your relatives, or your lifelong friends (and if you are very lucky, they will be all three). There are other dates in the calendar where gatherings occur, but none is so powerful a mover of people as Christmas.

You may be thinking, by now, that I should maybe have written this blog several weeks ago; but I was informed this very day by Freddy Isbister that the people of Foula in Shetland never adopted the Gregorian calendar, and adhere to the old Julian calendar, with the result that the islanders celebrate Christmas on 6 January.

So bring on the Yule logs (nice pagan symbol there), carols (because singing with other people has been proven to have beneficial psychological effects), and family gatherings (which simultaneously make us wish we lived nearer, and give thanks that we don’t). Embrace the coming back of the light wherever you are, and in whatever belief system you choose (as long as it’s for no longer than three days)!

Tags: Christmas, Maeshowe, Orkney, solstice, Yule

It was just a few weeks into the war. On board HMS Royal Oak, the first watch was nearly at an end. Scapa Flow was quiet, the sky was clear, with a faint glow of Aurora Borealis on the northern horizon.

The Royal Oak was quite an old ship by 1939, having been refitted several times. She had seen action at the Battle of Jutland during WWI, and was in the convoy of Navy ships escorting the German High Seas Fleet to their Scapa Flow internment in 1918 after the signing of Armistice on 11 November.

At the outbreak of WWII Scapa Flow was once again chosen as the main base for the British Navy home fleet. The First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, had been warned that the Flow was not impregnable and he had set about ordering the mending and replacing of booms, anti-submarine nets and blockships. This large natural harbour of 120 square miles of sheltered water was well defended from the south and the west by large gun batteries, armed and ready before the war had even begun. But from the east, things were a different matter. The narrow channels between the small islands to the south of Orkney Mainland were defended by blockships. Many of these dated from WWI – old vessels deliberately sunk to deter and repel attack from surface or submerged enemy craft. The ships themselves were often retired steamships that had once carried cargo, or served as pleasure cruisers on the Great Lakes. Many of them are still there today.

The German Luftwaffe was quick off the mark, sending reconnaissance planes over Scapa Flow to take photographs and find the defences’ weak spots. Two U-Boats had attempted to breach Scapa Flow in WWI and neither had returned. The 1939 aerial photographs identified Kirk Sound, the channel between Mainland Orkney and Lamb Holm, as a possible way in; but any attack, it was clear, would be extremely dangerous – near suicidal, in fact - and it would take a U-Boat commander of exceptional skill to make his way into the heart of British naval territory.

The man chosen for the mission was Günther Prien, captain of U-47. Shortly before midnight on 13 October 1939 during a night, so says his log, of exceptionally bright Northern Lights, he inched his U-Boat through Kirk Sound and into Scapa Flow. As circumstances had it, most of the British Fleet were away from the Flow that night, and it took Prien some time to find a worthy target. But what a target – at anchor in Scapa Bay lay HMS Royal Oak, a capital ship no less, and one that had witnessed the humiliation of the German Fleet in 1918. Prien wasted no time in preparing for action, and the first salvo of torpedoes was fired. His first attempt was not successful, although it is believed that the Oak’s anchor chain was hit, waking many on board. A quick investigation concluded that there had been an internal explosion and there was no need for battle stations. Shortly before 1.00am on 14 October, Prien’s second salvo of torpedoes hit the British ship in the middle; there was a large explosion, she broke apart and sank within 15 minutes.

The Royal Navy response, after the initial rescue effort, was to lay a net on the water surface to catch any floating bodies. Divers who went down to inspect the wreck came back up with horror in their eyes. Out of a complement of 1200 men over 800 lost their lives -– 24 officers and 810 men and boys.

By 2.15am, U-47 was out of Scapa Flow and on its way back to Germany, where Prien and the crew of U-47 would be treated as heroes, each of them receiving the Iron Cross, and Prien himself awarded the highest honour possible – the Knight’s Cross.

The next day, another blockship was waiting to plug the gap in Kirk Sound, but the damage had been done. When Churchill heard of the sinking he was reported to have said: ‘Poor fellows, poor fellows. Trapped in those black depths’.

In the course of my work I have met quite a few relatives of the Royal Oak casualty list, from the nephew of Rear Admiral Blagrove (commander of the 2nd Battle Squadron), to sons and duaghters who never knew their fathers. One I remember especially was ‘Uncle Johnny’, a 21-year old from Co Kerry in Ireland. His niece recalled how her mother spoke often of Johnny – how he was the youngest of the family, full of vitality and jokes and fun. Never a family occasion went by, happy or sad, where Johnny’s memory was not invoked with a sad shake of the head and the words ‘Ah, it is sad that Johnny can’t be here’. Johnny’s sister never made it to Orkney, but before she died she begged her daughter to come here and say goodbye to him. The lady in question had brought his photo, and a small bag of earth from his home town which she was going to scatter over the wreck so he might lie in a little bit of Kerry soil.

HMS Royal Oak is a war grave and is covered by the Protection of Military Remains Act. It was not legally protected until 2002, but sensitivity seems to have prevailed before that date, and divers steered clear. One unscrupulous visitor helped himself to the ship’s name plate as a trophy some years ago, but in more recent times his descendants have returned it to Orkney, and it now has pride of place in the Scapa Flow Visitors Centre at Lyness in Hoy.

The only other part of the ship that has been brought to the surface is the great brass bell, taken off the sea bed in the 1980s to form the centrepiece of the memorial inside St Magnus Cathedral. Originally, the Royal Oak memorial was a simple bronze plaque fixed to the wall. Now the bell hangs there, flanked by a white ensign, and a book below. The flag is one that once lay on the deck of the ship. Every year a team of Navy divers place a new flag on the wreck, and retrieve the flag that was left the previous year. The salt-soaked ensign is washed three times and carefully dried, before being presented to a branch of the British Legion, or another organisation or individual recognised for their work in the support of ex-service men and women.

The book of remembrance below the flag serves as a focus for relatives to commemorate their family member. The carefully inscribed names include the rank and number of every sailor lost, from the most senior officers to the teenagers whose official title was ‘Boy’. Every Monday morning it is the job of the cathedral custodians to turn the thick pages, thus ensuring all the names are see equally over the year. But if someone with a family connection visits, then the white gloves go on, the ornate gold key turns the lock on the oak and glass case, and the page is turned to the relevant name.

Until this summer, I was aware of the event but had no connection with it myself. The link was finally made this year by my school maths teacher, Susan. Nearly 30 years ago she had taken my non-mathematician’s brain, beaten it into shape, and convinced me that I was more than capable of sitting the ‘O’ level, when I had a head full of drama and literature and Beethoven. I was also her children’s babysitter and managed to coach her son to his first piano exam success. Earlier this year she contacted me to say that she and her husband were coming to Orkney for a holiday and that they were also on a mission to pay their respects to Susan’s Uncle Jack, who had died, aged 18, on HMS Royal Oak.

Here’s the story in her own words. ‘Dad’s name was Herbert Frederick Pennell, known to his family as ‘Erb and to my Mum as Fred. Later on in life he was known as Jim by everyone in the grocery trade! He was the youngest of five - two older sisters then a brother and then Jack and him. Their mother died when Dad was two and their father had been born disabled so times were tough. The day he heard that Jack had died on the Royal Oak he went to see the Headmaster at school and told him he had to leave to earn some money now that his brother had died. He went to work in a grocery shop and then a bit later he worked as a telephone operator, which is how he met my Mum when he was 16. They married when he was 18 and the rest they say is history…’

Susan had taken her father to Orkney some years ago, and they had both seen the memorial in the cathedral. They also took a trip out to the Scapa Flow Visitors Centre, and when the custodian heard there was a connection with the Royal Oak, he found the relevant Commonwealth War Graves Commission entry, and checked just in case to see if Jack Pennell was buried at the military cemetery nearby. The answer was no, there was no known grave. Jack was, as the custodian put it, ‘resting with his shipmates beneath the waters of Scapa Flow’. Susan’s father had to turn on his heel and leave at that moment, taking himself off for some private time. Later, they were offered the chance to take a boat out to the wreck buoy, but the old man felt too emotional and declined. Now, years later, his daughter had come to complete the task.

With the kind help of Agnes McBarron of The Royal Oak Survivors Association, it was arranged that one of the pilot boats from Orkney Islands Council Marine Services would take us out to the site of the ship. It was one of the only truly nice days of the summer – blue sky, white scudding clouds, waves sparkling on the water’s surface. Susan had brought a bunch of flowers from a local florist who, having been asked that there be no cellophane in the wrapping, had even tied on the card with a piece of nice biodegradable raffia. The sea was calm enough for one of the pilots to hop onto the wreck marker buoy and tie the flowers to it, whilst Agnes said a few simple words of remembrance. It was a lovely moment, and Susan said afterwards that it was most likely the nearest Jack ever got to a proper funeral.

Of course, Jack and his shipmates are not forgotten. Every year, on the anniversary of the ship sinking, a service is held on board a small boat above the wreck, attended by friends, relatives, and survivors – chief amongst them Kenneth Toop, who makes the annual pilgrimage every year from the south of England. Now 89 years old, he has driven to Orkney every October since 1948, to pay his respects. After poppy wreaths are placed onto the water and the boat is back at the pier, then soup and sandwiches are provided at the British Legion, followed by the ceremonial handing over of the white ensign to this year’s recipient.

Tomorrow is Sunday 14 October – 73 years to the day since HMS Royal Oak sank in Scapa Flow. We will be at the ceremony to pay our own respects, but we will also be there for Susan, to remember her Uncle Jack.

Tags: Cathedral, Royal Oak, Scapa Flow, St Magnus, WWII

Test Match Special has never seen anything like it – what is believed to be the world’s most northerly regular cricket fixture took place last Sunday between Stromness Cricket Club and the club on the island of Sanday. At a latitude of 59 degrees, with a brisk easterly wind blowing across the school playing field, Lord’s it ain’t, but The Embers, as the match is known, provided a cracking day out in more ways than one.

The rag-tag-and-bobtail team (including Mr Dragon) assembled on MV Varagen at 9.00am as she set sail for one of the bonniest of the north isles. The clue’s in the name – Sanday, boasting miles and miles of great sweeping white beaches and huge dunes, crystal clear water. And every house on the island (many undergoing renovation of some kind) seems to have a breathtaking view.

On the ferry, the talk was cricket: over tea and Tunnocks Caramel Wafers we discussed the relative merits of TMS commentary. The verdict; Blowers is a star, Boycott’s an ass, and Michael Vaughan knows what he’s talking about. Another cuppa?

I took the chance to quiz a few seasoned players about the origins of the Embers. The idea of the Sanday/Stromness fixture came about 12 years ago, the brainchild of two cricket enthusiasts who wanted to develop the game in the islands. Money was available for kit and coaching, and anything that involved Orkney’s outer isles was viewed with favour. Approaches were made to Westray and others, but only Sanday responded with any conviction. Any truth, I wondered, in the story that Sanday was the only island with enough flat land for an outfield? Nah, came the response, but it might have had something to do with the number of Yorkshiremen living there.

At the pier, several cars were on hand to drive us to the ground, along with the kit, the beer, and a large bag of dog food brought by local Member of the Scottish Parliament, who was there to play for the Sanday team. ‘Don’t make a mess now’, quipped R, as we clambered into a Range Rover full of dust, hair, straw, sundry tools and the odd plastic spoon.

My previous Embers trips have usually involved dropping off the players at the local school/community centre, then zooming away in someone’s car to explore, returning only to sample the fabulous tea and make casual enquiries as to the score. On previous occasions I have walked miles along flawless beaches, investigated ruined crofts, visited Stone Age chambered tombs, and met Master of the Queen’s Music, Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, out walking his dog. This time however, due to distinct lack of like-minded CWAGs* and transport (previous partners in crime having been lured by the sandcastle competition at Evie sands), I decided to stay and watch. Mr Dragon coached me through a variety of arm signals (fours, sixes, wides, no balls, out, byes etc etc), in case I was called upon to umpire. In the event those honours were done by DC, ex-captain who is now semi-retired from the game after several shoulder dislocations. Cricket’s a dangerous game, you know.

Proceedings started with a cup of tea and a biscuit – after all, we had been on a boat for nearly two hours with only a snack shop and a Quick Reads library for company. The pitch was inspected by a largish Antipodean chap who (in the tradition, dare I say it, of his fellow countrymen) fancied himself a bit of an expert. This same fellow earned himself some high-spirited teasing during his innings, prompting the teaser to observe that he didn’t think he’d ever sledged somebody in his own team before.

As Stromness won the toss and opted to bat first, I wandered off to the boundary in the hope of seeing one of Britain’s most elusive birds, the corncrake. Once heard all over the UK, intensive farming practices mean that corncrakes have now all but died out completely in England, but are clinging on in Ireland and the north and west of Scotland. Rarely seen, it has a very distinctive call - a sort of throaty rasp – which led to the onomatopoeia of its Latin name, Crex Crex. The birds migrate from Africa to Britain for breeding, and every year the RSPB in Orkney recruits a Corncrake Initiative Officer to monitor the birds across the islands, counting them and gathering sightings/hearings from members of the public. This year the post is held by Amy Liptrot – she has a Twitter account and often posts beautiful photos of Orkney at 3am, as she travels the length and breadth of the islands in search of the secretive birds.  As I strayed near to the boundary I heard it – rasping away in the long grass, just as the Sanday locals had told me.  My mobile phone came out, in order that I might share my discovery with the world. ‘Guess what I can hear?’ I tweeted to Amy: #crex #crex!

I had decided at the start of the day to tweet the highlights for the benefit of ‘remote attendees’, an idea I picked up whilst being involved in #IslandGovCamp last month. For more information on that event, please visit the blog of my pal, Northern Blethers. The phone signal in Sanday was reasonable for most of the day, the only limitation being the resilience of my battery as I forgot to bring the charger. My tweets about the actual score were intermittent it’s true, but I did managed to mention that the first Stromness wicket to fall was a run-out. Mr Dragon also got a mention for a creditable double-figures performance before being caught at gully.

The bright conditions and occasional blue skies began to disappear, and a very fine mizzle began to fall as Sanday struggled a little to make inroads in the Stromness batsmen. Without boring non-cricket fans with too much detail, the away side scored 165 runs in their 30 overs. At about 1.30pm the innings ended and it was time for the finest cricket tea north of Edinburgh; the Sanday ladies always put on a fantastic Embers spread. Home-made pakoras, fruit loaf, chocolate cake, cream sponge….all washed down with copious amounts of tea. Chatting to several players (including the local nurse, recently moved to the islands, who made two excellent catches and hit the stumps for a cracking run-out), it struck me that for all the banter and friendly chat, they did all take the game seriously. ‘Of course,’ one Sanday player told me, ‘what would be the point, otherwise? We’re all very competitive, and that’s the way it should be!’

The start of the Sanday innings signalled the arrival of the home ‘crowd’, a dozen or so women and children (and a Labrador puppy) came to cheer on the team and ask ‘why don’t they run faster?’ as the batsmen peched between creases. Some spectators sat in their cars and watched through the windows, others produced picnic tables and cracked open the wine. A little cheer went up as Liam the MSP got off the mark with a 4, better than last year when he was bowled out first ball (a golden duck) by Mr Dragon. He hoisted his bat in the manner of a test cricketer acknowledging a century, to further cheers and perhaps a smattering of lighthearted abuse from the Stromness fielders.

The 70-plus-year old behind the wicket hunkered down for the next ball, delivered by A, Stromness fast bowler. A clunk, the ball was in the air….the cries of ‘catch it!’ were immediately drowned out by the cries of ‘First Aid kit! NOW!’ as it appeared that Liam had hit the floor and was in considerable pain. Luckily, his team-mates included amongst their number the island nurse (who had fielded with some panache in the Stromness innings) and a locum doctor from Kirkwall. Within minutes an enormous First Aid kit had appeared, closely followed by the island’s resident doctor: no injured cricketer has ever been so well attended. Liam retired injured and was led away, very wobbly, whilst the game resumed.

The wickets tumbled and at 27 for 5 the Sanday captain was heard to remark, ‘I think personal glory is the best we can hope for, boys’. But the sun came out and the team rallied, cheered by a dropped easy catch. A boundary was greeted with a cheer and a jubilant air horn, which at least shut the corncrake up for a minute. Just as the words ‘it’s picking up’ fell from my lips, a wicket fell – caught and bowled, Mr Dragon – and the end of the innings was in sight. After a very valiant 86 all out, the Sanday team accepted defeat gracefully.

Presentations were made, speeches were given, more cake eaten, the quaich of Highland Park whisky started making the rounds, and Liam returned in triumphant style with a couple of stitches in his head and a few parliamentary debates’ worth of anecdotes illustrating the importance of adequate medical cover in Scotland’s remoter islands. The match had it all, we agreed: blood, sweat and cake (‘there’s the title of my autobiography right there’, said our MSP). As the tremendous tea was cleared up around us, one of the Sanday ladies sat down at her wheel, prompting cries of ‘should have brought on the spinners earlier’. She sells hand-spun yarn, hat kits and lovely things online - link coming as soon as I can find it.

Finally, it was time to head for the ferry. No chance of getting inside the cabin, full as it was of Sanday school kids travelling to Kirkwall for their week’s stay in the hall of residence. However, out on deck the sun was beating down, and everyone was discussing their highlights. ‘That has to be the only cricket match played to the sound of crex crex,’ I offered. ‘Except perhaps one played between Angola and Mozambique,’ countered TD. Trust him to know the migratory habits of a corncrake.

*Cricket Wives and Girlfriends

Tags: cake, corncrake, cricket, Embers, Orkney, Sanday, Stromness