by Ann Cleeves
Another unique wedding practice finds its way into the book. I was intrigued to see two life-sized models of people – rather like scarecrows or Bonfire Night guys – lying at the entrance to a croft in North Mainland. The models were dressed and wore masks made from the photographs of a couple’s faces. Although these figures are made in celebration of a newly married couple, they seemed a little sinister to me. And I thought they would be even more sinister if one of the guys was replaced by a dead body . . . You can see straw skekler costumes that were part of Shetland’s guizing tradition in the Shetland Museum in Lerwick, so perhaps this is simply a modern development of a more ancient practice.
Lerwick under a blue sky.
Thrift on the clifftop at Sumburgh.
Marsh marigolds by the ruined watermills at Huxter.
Yellow flag iris.
Red campion.
While spring seems to come in a series of false starts in Shetland, with cold windy days intruding far into the season, the natural world responds to the longer daylight. As the season progresses, the islands become a riot of colour after the greys and browns of winter. The tops of the cliffs are covered in the blue of spring squill and the pink of thrift. The pressure of grazing by sheep restricts the wild flowers to the cliff tops, to fenced fields and to marshy areas. The waterlogged bogs are home to bright-yellow kingcups and marsh marigolds, to ‘seggies’ (yellow flag irises) and to the dark-pink Shetland red campion.
A Scottish lapwing.
Perhaps the first signs of spring in the birding world occur in gardens when the local blackbirds start to pair up and seek out a nest site. By late March ravens have selected their nest sites and are still cementing their pair-bonds by rolling and tumbling in the sky. Further south in Britain, wading birds have been under pressure for decades, squeezed by agricultural improvements and changes in farming practice. In contrast, Shetland still retains a reasonable number of curlew, lapwing, snipe and redshank. By late March curlews are bubbling across the open hillside. On the low in-bye land lapwing are displaying too and their characteristic ‘pee-wit pee-wit’ calls echo around the crofts. Skylarks make their presence known as well; you might not see them, except as specks high in the sky, but you will hear their liquid, never-ending song.
Curlew feeding at the shoreline.
A skylark.
A puffin on Noss.
A wheatear.
For me, spring in Fair Isle means the arrival of wheatears hopping along the drystone dyke that separates the road from the flower-rich marshy area of Gilsetter. The bird’s name is taken from the old English words ‘hwit’ and ‘aers’, meaning ‘white arse’, and it’s the white rump of the bird that we glimpse in short cropped grass or on stone walls. And, of course, in Shetland spring is the time when the seabirds come back to the cliffs, and with their arrival we know that we have almost reached summer.
The tombolo (spit of land) between Bigton and St Ninian.
Sea mist over Noss.
Water Lilies by Vagaland (1909–1973)
Whin da laeves an buds o da water-lilies
When the leaves and buds of the water-lilies
Spread roond da loch dir dark-green frill
Spread round the loch their dark-green frill
I took my tushkar be Lungawater
I took my peat spade by Lungawater
An cöst a bank near Stoorbra Hill.
And cut a [peat] bank near Stoorbra Hill.
Da hill laek a kummelled boat wis lyin
The hill lay like an overturned boat
Grown ower wi moss ida lang Jöne days,
Grown over with moss in the long June days,
An white apo white da water-lilies
And white upon white were the water-lilies
Whin du cam dere wi me ta raise.
When you came there with me to raise [the peats].
Da stack wis beelt an da coarn gaddered
The [peat] stack was built and the corn gathered in
An dan I hed ta geng awa,
And then I had to go away,
Bit I tink o da lilies aft wi langer
But I think of the lilies oft with longing
Noo everything is smoored in snaa.
Now everything is smothered in snow.
I tink o dee be da open fire,
I think of you by the open fire,
As du sits an looks at da golden glöd
As you sit and look at the golden glow
Laek gold ida cups o white water-lilies
Like gold in the cups of the white water-lilies
Whaar I drank sweetness afore I göd.
Where I drank sweetness before I left.
Midsummer in Shetland is a season of long days, and in June there are times when the sun seems to slide towards the horizon and then reappear almost immediately. In midsummer the sun is up for eighteen hours and fifty minutes, contrasting with just five hours and thirty minutes in midwinter. It’s possible to read a newspaper outside at midnight and the birds are still singing then. Shetlanders call this the ‘simmer dim’ or summer dusk. I once asked a young crofter what summer meant for him. He thought for a moment. ‘Singling neeps [thinning turnip seedlings] and clipping sheep,’ he said. There was another pause, followed by a big grin. ‘And partying.’
There can be spells of wonderful, clear weather in the summer. I’ve swum in the sea and enjoyed beach parties and barbecues, and even spent several days in a row without a jersey. There are magnificent beaches throughout Shetland and usually they are empty. But this can also be a time of thick fog that sweeps in from the sea and covers the islands in cloud, when the rest of the UK – and even Orkney to the south – is in full sunshine. The BBC Shetland series has been praised for its brooding atmosphere. Part of that was the result of brilliant direction, but partly it was the midsummer fog that caused a logistical nightmare for the production team, as actors and crew were stranded on the Scottish mainland when flights were cancelled, and there were frantic drives to Aberdeen to catch the NorthLink ferry. The appearance and disappearance of the low cloud and mist must have caused severe problems of continuity.
Fiddlers’ Bid painted by Richard Wemyss. Chris Stout is on the right.
In White Nights I tried to capture the magic and madness of midsummer in the islands. I hope it’s a book about theatre and pretence, and things not being quite as they seem. The sense of performance and showiness is represented by one of the characters in the book, a young fiddler called Roddy Sinclair. Roddy is inspired by (though not exactly based on) a musician called Chris Stout, a Fair Islander by birth, who was a founder member of the Fiddlers’ Bid band. There is a terrific painting of the group by Richard Wemyss in the library in Lerwick, and I used that too as part of the plot of my novel Dead Water – postcards of the painting are found on the bodies and provide a clue to the identity of the murderer. Chris Stout has gone on to work with musicians from Scandinavia and South America and has achieved worldwide recognition. One of his albums is called White Nights and was inspired by the novel. So there has been a circle of influence, and at the heart of it all was the wildness of midsummer.
I hope this extract sums up the joy and exhilaration of the music, the man and the time of year:
Roddy stood framed by light in the middle of the space. It was nine in the evening but still sunshine came through the windows cut into the tall, sloping roof. It was reflected from the polished wooden floor and the whitewashed walls and lit his face. He stood still for a moment, grinning, waiting until the guests started to look at him, absolutely sure he would get their attention. Conversation faltered and the room grew quiet. He looked at his aunt, who gave him a look that was at once indulgent and grateful. He lifted his fiddle, gripped it under his chin and waited again. There was a moment of silence and he began to play.
Sunset over Mavis Grind.
They had known what to expect and he didn’t disappoint them. He played like a madman. It was what he was known for. The show. That and the mus
ic. Shetland fiddle music, which had somehow caught the public imagination, was played on national radio and raved about by television chat-show hosts.
He hopped and jigged, and the respectable middle-aged people, the art critic from the south, the few great and good who’d driven north from Lerwick, set down their glasses and began to clap to the rhythm. Roddy fell to his knees, lay back slowly so he was flat on the floor and continued playing without missing a beat, then sprang to his feet and still the music continued. In one corner of the gallery an elderly couple were dancing, surprisingly light-footed, arms linked.
Eshaness Lighthouse.
I’ve set White Nights in a very different part of Shetland in a fictionalized part of north-west Mainland, known in reality as Northmavine. I call my settlement Biddista, but in my head its location is very close to the village of Hillswick on the west coast. The Pit O’Biddista, where one of the murders takes place, with its deep hole gouged out of the top of the cliff, is based on the Hols o’ Scraada, close to Eshaness Lighthouse. This amazing geological feature is practically invisible from the hillside around it, and lots of people look for it and fail to see it. It was caused when a sea cave collapsed inland from the steep coast. The hole goes right down to water level, and a tunnel from its base leads out to the sea. Watch out for the Hols o’ Scraada in the new series of the BBC drama – the scriptwriter was so intrigued by the place that he set one of the scenes there and it should provide a chilling background to the action. Some of the most dramatic cliff scenery in Shetland can be seen from Eshaness. It’s possible to park right by the lighthouse and walk from there. And for tourists looking for an interesting place to stay when they visit the islands, the lighthouse is available to rent as a holiday home.
The Hols o’ Scraada.
The cliffs near Eshaness.
Ronas Hill.
Northmavine is almost an island in its own right, joined only by the narrow bridge of land called Mavis Grind. Grind (with the ‘i’ pronounced as in ‘inn’) means a gate, though my husband says that Mavis Grind should be the name of a sultry and somewhat sleazy nightclub hostess. The landscape here is dominated by Shetland’s highest point, Ronas Hill. Although it’s only 1,475 feet high, so it doesn’t come close to other mountains in the UK, the severe exposed conditions mean that plants growing here are similar to those growing at 3,000 feet elsewhere. At the top of the hill is fellfield – bare and exposed granite where ice action causes the stones to shift. The plants here are alpine, and only ferns grow in the more sheltered cracks and gullies.
There are a number of settlements in Northmavine; each has an atmosphere of its own and whenever I visit, ideas for stories swoop into my head like the terns that swoop towards people who wander too close to their nests. The people here are proud of their wild and dramatic landscape and are self-reliant. The shop at Ollaberry is a community-owned and run co-op; many of the residents bought into it when the private owners were forced to sell. Hillswick has its own community shop too.
The Drongs lie a mile offshore from the Ness of Hillswick.
Hillswick was the main township in Northmavine from Hanseatic times, and this is the place visitors head for when they come to the region – the St Magnus Hotel provides meals and accommodation and in the summer there is a cafe. I always feel that it has a balmy, west-coast feel to it – but perhaps I’ve been lucky with the weather whenever I’ve visited. Hillswick is also home to the Shetland Wildlife Sanctuary, which takes sick or injured seals and otters and works to return them to the wild when they’re sufficiently fit to survive on their own. Tangwick Haa is Northmavine’s own little museum; it holds tools from old crofting days and domestic furniture, so visitors get a real sense of what it must have been like to live in the area when times were much harder.
I love bringing the BBC scriptwriters to the islands. It’s always a delight to see the place through other people’s eyes and to watch their amazement at Shetland’s very special beauty. By talking to local people and visiting possible locations they can bring a real sense of place to the productions, which would otherwise be missing. And I learn more about the islands too. I’ve spent time in the coastguard watch office in Lerwick, chatted to an undertaker and taken a trip round the waste-to-power plant, all in the name of BBC research.
Summer sunset at Nibon.
On the most recent writers’ recce – besides visiting Eshaness and the Hols o’ Scraada – we went to Nibon on the west coast, not far north of Mavis Grind. The scriptwriters were interested in visiting a remote community, with ruined houses. Here the road leads down a valley scattered with crofts, and ends (as is always the case in Shetland) by the water. Some of the land is still farmed and the houses still lived in, although many have been abandoned. The scriptwriters seemed haunted by this landscape, by the tattered remains of past lives still visible in the ruins. I look forward to seeing the result of the visit on-screen.
Part of the White Nights plot centres around Bella, Roddy’s aunt. She’s an artist who owns a gallery that has been converted from a former herring house. In Weisdale on the west side of Shetland Mainland the Bonhoga Gallery has been converted from an old water mill, and this certainly provided the inspiration for the gallery in the novel. The Weisdale Mill was founded in 1855 to mill barley and bere (a traditional grain still available in the islands), and its past reflects the history of nineteenth-century Shetland. It was constructed on the instructions of the Black family, who cleared the Weisdale Valley and replaced people with sheep. There was little concern for the safety of the people who operated the mill, and there were two accidents during its operation. In both cases it seems that pieces of clothing got caught in the machinery. In one incident the miller, Andrew Lundie, was killed. When he hadn’t arrived home for his tea, his wife went to find him and saw his body being carried round and round on the wheel. Her shock was so great, apparently, that she couldn’t find the strength to go for assistance. Of course, if I were writing the story as a novel I’d question whether her lack of action had some other motive! Ideas for fiction come from everywhere, and the tale of Andrew Lundie would make a great murder mystery for a writer of historical crime.
Calders Geo at Eshaness.
Sheep shearing on Fair Isle.
The gallery was opened in 1994 and is run by Shetland Arts. There is an upper-floor gallery space, a small shop and a very good cafe on the lower floor, built into the hill and looking out over the Kergord burn that once powered the mill. The cafe is very popular with locals for lunch and afternoon tea, and usually when I visit I bump into someone I recognize. The tradition of home-baking continues in most of the cafes in the islands, and the Bonhoga scones are particularly good. If the sun is shining, we like to sit outside and enjoy the view across the burn and down towards the voe. The gallery curates seven exhibitions a year and chooses to display work by local, national and international artists and craftspeople. Short films are shown on the screen in the stairwell. The word ‘Bonhoga’ means ‘my spiritual home’, and on its website Shetland Arts says it intends that the gallery should be the spiritual home of contemporary arts and crafts in the islands.
Summer is the time when hill sheep are gathered up and clipped for their fleeces. I used the annual sheep gather, or ‘caa’, as a device to bring my suspects together on the hill in White Nights. Again it was helpful that I was able to draw on my own experience. All the observatory staff members were roped in to help with the sheep gather when I was working in Fair Isle. This is a task that’s made much easier if there are more bodies on the ground. Besides, it’s a community occasion and everyone on the island takes part. The islanders walk in a line across the hill, pushing the sheep ahead of them. When the beasts reach the drystone wall that cuts across the width of the island, separating the hill from the lower land to the south, they’re funnelled into a pen and held there until they have been clipped. I was given a pair of clippers by Leogh Willie, one of the older crofters, talked through some rudimentary training and told to get on with
it. The most important thing was to try to keep the fleece intact and not to nick the skin of the sheep. Willie was very forgiving of my lack of speed and accuracy, but I don’t really think I helped him very much.
Bonhoga Gallery at Weisdale Mill.
The Knab at Lerwick.
Vidlin.
I know exactly when my second summer book, Thin Air, was conceived. It wasn’t in summer at all, but in February, and my husband and I had been invited to a hame-farin’ in the Vidlin community hall. I’d been to hame-farin’s when I was living in Fair Isle – in fact I was one of the guests when musician Chris Stout’s parents, Andrew and Kathleen, returned to the Isle after their wedding in mainland Scotland in 1975. Neil Thomson, who is now skipper of the mailboat, the Good Shepherd, married in the same year and he and his wife Pat had a hame-farin’ too. If a couple marries away from Shetland, they have another party when they come home: the hame-farin’. The bride wears her gown and everyone dresses up as if they were at the wedding itself.
