Walking is easy. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, and repeat until your destination has been reached, or you’ve managed the number of steps needed to work off that ill-advised Stornoway black pudding breakfast, stave off premature cardiac failure, mental disintegration and, let’s be blunt, death.

Except over the last eight Covidised and post-Covidised weeks, it’s been hard to get out of my Pong chair, and for that matter, hard to get into it. Bed seemed a better option, were it not for Dexter the flea-bitten mutt insisting on his rights to outside ablutions and regular mealtimes. Oh, and incidentally, many thanks to the (mainland Scotland) vets who for £200-odd diagnosed liver issues in the ageing Dex and failed to notice the poor wee mite was being bitten by giant bloodsuckers who had gleefully transferred from a passing, very slow-moving greyhound.

In my own case, creaky knees, general fatigue and a deep-seated, apparently immovable cough added to the creeping autumnal sense of asthmatic doom, keeping me fastened to computer, phone, records and books as I descended inexorably into an Incredible String Band obsession (first four albums, counting Big Tam and the Wee Huge as a double). More of that at another time, once I’ve finished spiralling off into their various influences, finished Robert Graves’ The White Goddess, emerged from immersion in the Bahamian world of Joseph Spence and pondered ordering the new Davey Graham box set. Long Covid has cost me a fortune on eBay and Amazon. And don’t mention the ill-advised vintage Levis or that Silvertone guitar…

Finally, I decided I had to go for a walk. A walk where I could justify a flask of coffee (I retain a sense of magic and wonder concerning Thermos flasks and Trangia alcohol stoves) consumed in a site of scenic wonder, examples of which fortunately abound in our neck of the bog. Not, however, a West-Highland-Way-stage kind of presbyterian punishment walk, as I wasn’t at all sure how far I would get without falling over.

Our house  sits at the edge of the Hillswick Ness, a promontory which boasts an Access Shetland circular coastal walk way marked, gated  and stiled but still, it must be said, spectacular, and very rough in places. It also has many a sheer drop onto inaccessible beaches or into waters patrolled by nasty flesh-eating otters and haughty killer whales (eating humans is beneath them). Normally, a full circuit would take about two hours plus stops for slurping; aching, spluttering and groggy as I was, I decided just to head for the Lighthouse steps (marked ‘Pier’ on the map) consume my coffee and head back home. Vodafone 4G is available throughout and my wife had been warned where I was going so the coastguard could come looking if necessary. And no Dex, as he has no idea how cliffs work. As local blacksmith and erstwhile rock climber Bruce Wilcock once told me, it’s not the height that kills you, it’s the depth.

Anyway, coffee brewed and vacuum-flasked, off I set, into a day that looked, well, variable. Sunny with patches of dreich, in a typically fast-moving  Shetlandic way. Jeans and a cheap eBay ex-community service fleece would do, I thought (I only discovered they were ex-community service fleeces when they arrived from the online surplus store, smelling of hash and hopelessness).

Hillswick Ness is used for sheep grazing by the folk at Findlin’s Farm these days, but pre-Clearances in the 19th Century it supported several families. It’s replete with ruined crofts and much more ancient settlement sites. There’s a  solar-powered automatic lighthouse at its tip and the circular walk is popular. In winter it’s great for otter spotting. I’ve kayaked around the eastern side and there are caves and inlets aplenty to explore. Abandoned sheep fanks (pens) and dizzying drops.

At first, groggy, creaky and pursued by rainbows, I felt terrible. Sore and stiff and tired, it really was a case of lumbering along, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake. Gone are the days of whizzing around the Ness and heading up to the St Magnus Bay Hotel for a few pints before lunch. I plodded along da banks, through the squelching mud left by this dreadful summer, trying to be in as much of the moment as I could while unable to get A Very Cellular Song out of my brain.

And the rainbows kept coming, chunks of them, arclets shimmering in the approaching or departing showers. They didn’t look like God’s promises to Noah, or me – thin, seasonal affairs, flickering with the weather’s changeability. But gradually, my spirits lifted. Gloom doesn’t withstand rainbows, or bits of them, for long. Raibows don’t last long either, though.

It took an hour to reach the Lighthouse Steps, all that remains of the pier once used to supply the lighthouse when it was a cast-iron tower running on paraffin and maintained by local men. There I consumed a Tunnocks Caramel Log, the best biscuit in the known world, along with my magically still-hot coffee. I sat in the ruins of the lighthouse store as a fierce squall brought icy northern rain whipping into my teeth, and I pondered the way Asian influences permeate Robin Williams’s singing and guitar playing on First Girl I Loved; also whether Mike Heron’s solo album Smiling Men with Bad Reputations is the most underrated record in the history of rock. A few tourists wandered past, annoyingly. I glowered and thankfully none tried too speak to me or worse, ask for some of my coffee. At length the questions arose: did I have the energy to get back home, an hour or so away? Did I have the energy to actually get back on my feet?

I did, and as I slogged past the Loch of Niddister the pain in my knees began to recede. Tunnocks and caffeine. And into a golden light, because the low hairst sun at last started to oust that hellish sideways rain. By the time Hillswick appeared once more past Tur Ness, and I passed the sparse ruins of the last factor’s house. I knew the coastguard would not have to be alerted and I was nearly home, the last rainbow left far behind me, the low sun setting

.

In the house, I removed my soggy shoes, my other less-than-technical clothing having dried to dampness in the fading day’s sun. And there was Dex, wagging his flea-bitten tail and wanting to go for a walk, right now, this minute. Immediately.

Who can say no to a dog? Right, it’s just a case of putting one foot in front of the other. Isn’t it?

Standing down as a councillor

As mentioned in previous posts, I’ve been carrying out something of an audit on my various activities, and have decided to stand down as a Shetland Islands Councillor from the end of this month.

All I’m saying publicly at the moment is that “I am unable to commit the necessary time and energy due to other professional and personal commitments.” Once I’ve ceased to be a councillor I’ll write and speak more here about my past two and a half years in local politics.

For the moment I’d like to thank the local Labour Party members who have supported my candidacy, and the council officials who have responded so effectively to my requests for information and help.

I’d would also extend my appreciation to fellow councillors and the many local folk who have voiced support, privately and publicly. I wish my successor all the best.

Ballad of the Unfaithful Shepherdess

Wool Week has just finished, the annual ‘shoulder season’ event which brings hundreds of knitters to Shetland, home of all things wool-related, be it dyeing, spinning, weaving or gansie-making. Oo, Shetalnders call the stuff that grows on the back of sheep.

Wool Week is – excuse me – a real money spinner, for everyone even tangentially related to tourism. I was told this week that the majority of those attending were American, but the knitting fraternity is global.

So we’re grateful to the sheep, the shepherds and the shepherdesses of Shetland. Unless, of course we’re sick of the unfenced animals that cause motorcyclists to swerve and topple, motorists to claim insurance for ram-related damage and (literally) sick of those purls (excrement) that spread disease to unsuspecting picnickers…

Still, I forgive the sheep. Nothing tastes as good as seaweed-and-heather-fed Shetland mutton. And a good Fair isle gansie is a treasure to out-fleece the most expensive piece of Polartec.

This song really came out of the rhyme ‘sheep/Bo Peep’ and represents a sentiment which is, to be fair, unusual in this neck of the bog…the recording was made in our kitchen using an Ovation 12-string guitar. Forgive me, guitar purists…