Farewell Mr Puffin

by Paul Heiney

  If Wick had glory days, it was surely over one weekend in 1867 when 3,500 herring lassies gutted no fewer than 50 million herrings. Imagine thousands of pairs of hands, flicking, cutting, gutting. Incidentally, it is reckoned that during these times, when a thousand boats might be based in Wick, 5,000 bottles of whisky a week were consumed. The herring have long since gone, overfished almost to extinction, but the distillery still thrives. I asked a passing young woman, pushing her pram, where I might buy some kippers and pay homage to Wick’s glorious history. She pointed me towards the out-of-town Tesco.

  And then it clicked: there is a theme that defines all these east-coast towns, from where I had started not a hundred miles north of London to here at the very north-eastern tip of Scotland. That theme is the herring. The ‘silver darlin’s’, as they were called, brought life and prosperity to all these places, and when the fish were gone they took the souls of these places with them. They are now the final resting places of a thriving industry that existed on an unimaginable scale. They once ran special trains to take herrings from Lowestoft to Harrods in London, yet now these places fall ever further into history. It’s why they are overwhelmingly sad places, these old fishing harbours. Fishing was all they knew; they had no tourism to turn to, and the faces hereabouts tell of people who are still grieving for the cruel loss of the herring a generation or so back. I know that Peterhead still has huge trawlers aplenty coming and going, but they are now part of an industrial process of catching, processing and dispatching fish that calls for none of the infrastructures that once made these places proud towns to live in. Sitting on my boat, looking at Wick, I could see how the town grew up around the harbour and the whole community was part of the business of catching fish. Every single person. Now, the super trawlers need no one but themselves. They are their own floating societies. That’s why all these places are bust. That’s what they’d tell you in Morag’s, anyway.

  5

  Orkney bound – where the sea can swallow you

  There’s a thing called ‘local knowledge’ that all sailors are told to take notice of. It is precious stuff and best cherished like gold. Fishermen, for example, who have worked their local waters for years, know every turn of the tide, every jagged rock and how to avoid them. It’s as vital to them as bus drivers knowing every accident black spot and sharp bend in the road. Those charts so carefully drawn by the Admiralty ooze authority and plot hazards with geometric precision, and leave nothing to guesswork. But locals go one further.

  Those who have ‘the knowledge’ probably went to sea with their dads and through the generations have gleaned a different kind of understanding, not recorded on paper or in microchips. Instead, it’s all in the head, the soul, like an instinct. It can be a lifesaver. We amateur sailors, who haven’t had the benefit of a proper seaman’s education like theirs, make do with published pilot books, written for our guidance. They’re pretty good, but I was once on a tripper boat crossing between two of the rock-strewn Scilly Isles – the sort of passage where a yachtsman would lose sleep the night before, wondering how the multitude of dangers were to be avoided: shallows, rocks, wrecks, tides, the lot. So I asked the skipper, who was happily and safely taking us from one island to the other with no compass to check, no chart to peruse, or any other aid apart from his two eyes and his sailor’s nose for trouble, how he knew where the rocks were so he could avoid them. He told me that he didn’t know where they were. An unnerving admission for his passenger. He said he knew instead where the deep water was because his dad had told him and he simply stuck to that. It’s an entirely valid approach to navigation, and the opposite of what is usually taught, which is to plot the dangers and avoid them. There’s perhaps a philosophical lesson here: concern yourself with seeing the clear road ahead and give not a thought to obstructions on either side, for they are no concern of yours.

  Local knowledge is of the highest value, especially in these northern waters, and if a fisherman thinks you worthy of the time of day he’ll probably share some of his with you. So when I went to pay my dues and told the harbourmaster, a former fisherman, that I was bound for Kirkwall on Orkney, he more or less ordered me to leave by six the following morning if I wanted to catch the tide and make an easy passage of it. ‘Be gone by six,’ he growled. ‘Did you hear me?’

  I did, and I was not going to disagree, not face to face, not with a broad-chested fellow with a lifetime’s haddock-catching behind him. But I thought he was wrong, quite wrong, seriously misinformed. This didn’t seem the moment to mention it. I’d done a bit of studying myself and scoured all those pilot books and tide tables, a task I don’t take lightly. I had listened to the weather forecast with great concentration and it only spoke of moderate winds for hereabouts. In sea area Tyne, which was not far to the south, they were speaking of strong gale force nine, which concentrates the mind, but is fine for this bit of northern Scotland. Apparently I was close to the middle of a depression, but a good one for a change, nothing depressing about it at all, and I was further lifted by the thought that the passage was only 70 miles, so possible to do in one long day, especially as darkness at night was becoming a fleeting thing. I found I could read a newspaper in the open air here till almost 11.

  I certainly needed some gentle weather; the tides on this north-eastern tip of Scotland are among the fastest in the world. I had to cross what you might call a maritime rat run, a narrowing of the passage twixt Orkney and the Scottish mainland where the North Sea empties itself into the Atlantic, then refills on every turn of the tide, back and forth, made angry by a rising seabed and a constricted flow until it loses its temper and lashes out, usually when the wind blows. This is when the infamous ‘standing waves’ rear their ugly heads. These form when two wave trains meet, one created by the wind, the other possibly by swell. On the point of collision, they cling to each other like ballroom dancers and, instead of rolling onwards, leap high into the air. It looks as though the waves are standing still, when in fact they are combining their forces and looking for a victim. From the deck of a boat, it looks as though you are about to drive into a brick wall.

  My plan was to get north of Noss Head, preferably with a fair tide. Round here, catching a fair tide is like grabbing a ride on a high-speed escalator and you get places fast. Once past Noss, and when Duncansby Head was abeam, I would then strike out to the north-east towards Muckle Skerry, crossing the Sandy Ridge where there would be at least 30 more-than-adequate metres under the keel, according to the chart. It sounds a lot, but that’s shallow for round here and the sea might break into white, tumbling water if there was any swell – standing wave alert. Past Muckle Skerry, I then planned to sprint north till I was coasting along the east coast of South Ronaldsay, where I could breathe a sigh of relief, for I would have avoided the Pentland Firth and its swirling eddies and tide rips. If I could then carry a fair tide northwards, I could turn left towards Kirkwall, where I would be in seventh heaven and good shelter.

  I thought it a shame that a place so stuffed with beguiling names is, in truth, a hellhole. Despite their name, there is nothing cheery about a tide race called ‘The Merry Men of May’ – it’s not something from a comic operetta. The Merry Men are about as beastly as a coastal sea can get. There is another race round here called the ‘Swelkie’, which translates as ‘the swallower’ – gulp – and if you avoid those two there’s at least another dozen waiting to catch you unawares.

  Leave by six! OK?

  Best do what I was told. Personally, I still wanted to leave at 11 at the very earliest, and I would have done so had it not been for the thought that if I was still there the next morning and six o’clock had passed, he’d be along to ask me why. So I went, untied the boat in the dawn, still not convinced I should be doing this at all, and left by six sharp.

  The day was clear, the wind light, the sea flat. Nothing to fear.

  Except that off Noss Head the tide was foul and running strongly against me, slowing me to a crawl. It’s difficult to kn
ow how you sense it, but there’s a noticeable sluggish movement to the boat, and if you watch your progress against the land you realise some mighty hand is holding you back. I might as well have been chained to Scotland for all the progress I was making. Looking at things optimistically, perhaps his grand plan would be to face a foul tide for a little way, only to pick up a strong fair tide later – a generous view of things.

  The Orkney Islands crept clearly into view, lying low, making no fuss, nothing dramatic about them. If anything was going to put on a show round here it would be the sea, and the islands were not going to compete. I kept the faith in his local knowledge for a little while longer, sailing on like the man who believes the timetable and is sure the bus will soon arrive. But the speed boost never came. Progress was only restored when it got to lunchtime and the tide finally let me go. Funny, I’d always reckoned it was around then that I should have been leaving.

  If anything has spoilt the Orkney Isles as far as the sailor is concerned, it is not the oil drilling, the gas exploration or the intensive fishing industry. It was Winston Churchill who did the damage. Contained within the islands is Scapa Flow, a large area of sheltered water safe enough for an entire navy’s fleet to hide. It was the base for the British Grand Fleet in the First World War, and where ships from the German High Seas Fleet were kept captive after their defeat. The Germans scuttled them and the scuba-diving industry has been grateful ever since.

  In the Second World War it became a British naval base again, but vulnerable to German U-boats, one of which sank the HMS Royal Oak shortly after the outbreak of war. Churchill ordered barriers to be built between the islands to prevent the U-boats entering unseen through the narrow gaps. Italian prisoners of war were set the task, which worked. What had once been islands were no more now Churchill had joined them up – what Churchill brought together, no man was going to put asunder.

  It meant that for small-boat sailors it became a lengthy flog to get anywhere. It ought to be a doddle to get from Kirkwall, pretty much at the centre of the islands, to Stromness, not far away in the west. But because of Winston it becomes a major sailing expedition.

  People always ask about loneliness when I tell them that I often sail alone, and I reply in all honesty that at sea it is never a problem. But it is often at the end of the day, when the sailing is over, that a little company becomes a more precious thing. I would feel the lack of it that evening. Once past the island of Copinsay, I bore away to the north-west in failing light and headed for the nearest place shallow and sheltered enough to drop the anchor. I choose Deer Sound, the first bay that opened up, and the anchor settled into thick, glue-like mud. This is good news, for it speaks of a secure night’s rest whatever the weather might do. A cup of tea, a look around at the low-lying islands, the isolated farms, the scattered sheep, the scudding cloud. Then a drink, squeezed from a sour wine box bought months before, a few onions in a pan, then tomatoes and perhaps a tin of tuna. And that is the moment you want to turn to your mate and tell him or her what you think of that harbourmaster and his local knowledge, and what you wished you’d said to him, and where he could shove himself. That’s when it’s useful to have a mate on board. Instead, you turn to the ten o’clock news on the radio but it all seems so far away, so you scurry to your bunk to try and imagine what tomorrow’s vision of Kirkwall might be like, and the flesh pots it might offer.

  But I didn’t make straight for Kirkwall. The following morning the anchor came up with ease, the breeze was manageable from the north-west, and no longer trusting anyone else’s say-so I calculated when the tide would be running fair to the west. We thrashed along, tacking from one low-lying shore to the other, making great progress, enough spray flying for it to be satisfying but not enough to dampen the spirits. Then, when the final tack would have taken us through a narrow passage called ‘The String’ from which Kirkwall Bay would have opened to the south, the almost enclosed bay on the south side of the island of Shapinsay opened up. ‘Almost enclosed’ are the two words that bring warmth to the heart of a sailor looking for somewhere to drop his hook. I headed in, seduced by the promise of good shelter, looking for a spot near the pier that served the ferry from Kirkwall and which would make for an easy landing in the dinghy. This, I read from the chart, was called Elwick Bay and the village called Balfour – as was everything else on this island, I was soon to discover. The anchor sang a happy tune as the chain rattled out of the locker and lodged its flukes behind a convenient lump of rock to hold me in place.

  These are remote spots by any standards, but there is nothing poor or deprived about them. Blessed with a good depth of topsoil, they are fertile. This was recognised by the Balfour family who, in the 18th and 19th centuries, parcelled the land into ten-acre blocks, the outlines of which I could still see and around which I walked in strong sun, noticing that the cattle were skittish, probably unused to the sight of many walkers, while the oystercatchers swooped and cried, protective of their nests. Under the Balfours, the tenant farmers were obliged to improve their land by drainage and so the island became one of the most fertile of the Orkney islands, and remains so to this day. To imagine these islands as bleak is to get hold of the wrong end of the Orkney stick, and I guessed farmers might make good livings here, fattening cattle on the rich grass. Of course, the Balfours left marks other than agricultural, in particular Balfour Castle, built overlooking the harbour in that threatening and austere style known as Scottish Baronial, of which the grey-faced Balmoral must be the arch example. Seeking a shortcut back to the boat after a long walk, trespassing somewhat, I crept through their substantial garden, keeping low in case shots rang out from the turrets. The Balfours were forward thinkers, even if their taste in architecture left you cowed. They even built a gasworks on the island, which ran till 1929, and its circular remains still stand.

  And, of course, there was the herring, the slithery, silvery fish that brought great prosperity to these northern and eastern waters and which, with a swish of its tail, took it away again. There were once 50 herring boats in this little harbour where I now sat alone; yet another community that must have felt the ache when the silver darlin’s fell out of love with them. And I also thought that somewhere amid these islands, where the soil is deep enough, there will be the graves of Suffolk sailors from those little boats of the 13th century that stopped here, bound for Iceland. Bodies left for burial swapped for islanders to complete the voyage. I suppose it’s all trade, if of a different kind.

  The ferry from Kirkwall swept into the harbour with that air of ownership that all ferries exude. It is wise not to get in their way. This one was packed with chatty folk. A confusing sight – all smartly dressed, men in best suits, women tarted up to the eyebrows, and a piper playing. It was a wedding. An Orkney wedding used to be a major event lasting many days, started by a long column of islanders, led by a fiddler, which went first to the bride’s house, took her to the minister’s for the wedding, then to a party in a barn where the festivities would be made to last as long as possible to delay the harsh reality of the next day’s work.

  Merriment was certainly in the air as off the ship they all tripped, walking in Orcadian fashion in a long line, like school kids on an outing. A sign outside the village shop, which stood on the long straight road from the harbour – the road a remnant of the Balfours’ desire to cut the place up into neat squares – offered best wishes ‘To Will and his Bride’, and another just below it spoke of a funeral that had taken place earlier that day.

  6

  Nothing but smiles in the Orkney Isles

  My late brother-in-law, Mike, with whom I have sailed many companionable miles over the years, always said that he kept in his head a list of places of last resort so that were he ever to run away from home, for whatever reason, these were where he was likely to be found. I suppose I have a list, too; perhaps everyone has. They don’t have to be exotic or distant locations, merely places that are emotionally secure. At first sight, I knew that Kirkwall’s Po
mona Cafe would win a place on my list. Why? It was just an ordinary cafe, no pretence about it, smelling of chips and offering deeply ordinary cuisine, actually. But it spoke to me, and intrigued me. Why Pomona? The name of an old sunken ship? Or the town in California of the same name? Or more likely Pomona, the goddess of fruitful abundance – or, in the case of this cafe, the goddess of the frying pan.

  There really is every reason to walk right past it, nothing to beckon you at all. I bet cruise ship passengers don’t come within a mile of it, passing by on the other side where the trinket shops are. It’s the first cafe you come to when you walk from Kirkwall Marina towards the town. Kirkwall, like the Pomona Cafe, is workmanlike. It’s certainly not done up and it’s no criticism to say it feels like a place at the end of the Earth, for that’s pretty much where it is. It’s no criticism either to say there’s a bit too much tartan and a few too many sporrans in some of the shops – but cruise ships stop here now, so who can blame the hard-pressed shopkeepers for shifting as much as they can in a very short season?