Andrea Paterson travels to Orkney and encounters “a wind-swept land that speaks to my very soul. I wonder about places in the world that call to us and reflect our own natures.”
To the north of the Scottish mainland, arising from the thrashing sea, are a series of small islands collectively called Orkney. I grew up listening to Loreena McKennitt singing of the “standing stones of the Orkney Isles” and I have always imagined it a place of deep magic and even deeper history. I finally got a chance to travel there during my honeymoon to Scotland this past October and the islands turned out to be more enchanting than I imagined.
October is not tourist season in Orkney. The winter storms start rolling in during the early fall and most people who don’t live on the islands permanently retreat to more hospitable climates. My husband and I thought we would chance the weather and we were rewarded for our bravery with five glorious sunny days interrupted by only brief patches of rain. But while our stay was dry we did not escape the infamous Orkney winds that rip over the islands like a demon flattening the tall grasses until the land looks like the rippling surface of the sea.
And the sea itself is never far away. Frothy waves bash against the cliffs of Orkney causing devastating erosion and leaving behind monolithic sea stacks that stand at phallic attention along the coast. The locals note that the erosion has been alarming over the course of their lifetimes and they worry that the islands will soon be claimed by the violent North Sea. I almost wept to think of this beautiful place with its hardy sheep and mysterious Neolithic stone circles disappearing under the waves like a modern day Atlantis. And yet erosion is part of this place. The threat of its disappearance adds to its allure, makes it feel at once immediate and ethereal, like a land that stands poised at the brink between this world and the next.
As I walked among the standing stones, alone except for my husband in the howling wind that made my ears hurt, I too was subject to the erosive forces of the islands. The gale tore at my hair, and when we stood on the cliffs overlooking the ocean at the Brough of Birsay the salt spray coated my skin and my glasses until I was seeing through a hazy veil. I felt myself breaking down, becoming elemental, reduced to the very essence of myself. The world shifted and howled — a wild creature with a resounding voice that called my name over and over again. I had a distinct sense that I had come home to a place that resonated with my very soul.
I think we all have such places: tiny sections of the earth that reflect our own natures and captivate our imaginations. Orkney was such a place for me and it called up feelings of exquisite freedom and unrestrained joy. The deadly cliffs didn’t scare me and when I walked amongst the ancient ruins of Maeshowe and Skara Brae the past was suddenly superimposed on the present, a palimpsest of ghosts and stone.
In Orkney I imagined myself a poet. I wanted to reach out and touch everything on the island and turn it into words. I read the work of George MacKay Brown, an Orkney local who spent almost his entire life on the islands with his finger on the pulse of life there. I wanted to feel that pulse too and taste the salt air. Five days did not satisfy my hunger for the place, but it was long enough to have Orkney pounding in my veins. The place is in my blood and I think it will always be there. It was my most secret dreams made real, a place that made me feel more myself than almost any other place I have yet been.
Are there places you have visited that have spoken to you? Have you travelled somewhere that has awakened parts of yourself that you didn’t even know were there?
Photo Credits
“Ring of Brodgar” © Andrea Paterson at Amaranth Road Studio. All rights Reserved.
“Cliffs of Hoy” © Andrea Paterson at Amaranth Road Studio. All rights Reserved.
Thank-you for this,
I took that boat across to the Orkney’s many years ago. It was nearly the last of the season (late September) and the seas were wild. Most of the passengers stayed inside and were sick but I stood my ground on the deck, arms wrapped in the ropes there. It was elemental. I will never forget my time there with the wind and the stones and the rainbows. A truly transformative place.
Shannon
Hi Shannon,
Thanks so much for sharing your boat journey experience. Elemental is exactly the word for Orkney. It’s so strange to find that it has had a similar effect on a number of people.
Your photograph of the standing stones is so beautiful: a little sinister and a lot inspiring – a road well travelled and clearly marked out.
Since I’ve been following the Orkney Library on Twitter I’ve been longing to visit it – a sixth sense kind of need. You have fuelled the need 😀
Hi Elaine,
I would definitely recommend making the trip. If you’re really brave you can take the boat from the Scottish mainland to Orkney. People who have made the long boat journey talk about it like a rite of passage (many people seem to get sick on the rough seas!). I flew to Orkney but I imagine that the boat ride is both trying and wonderful. It would be incredible to see Orkney rising up out of the sea and to pass the Old Man of Hoy (the largest sea stack on the islands) as you approach.
Evocative piece Andrea. I must put this on my list of places to visit when I eventually make a trek back to my maternal homeland on the Hebrides. It looks like my kind of place (which most folks will find a tad weird).
Have you read A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland? About solace and the sole in a remote house in the north of the UK.
Hi Lorne,
I haven’t read that book by Sara Maitland but I’ll definitely put it on my list of things to read. Thanks for the suggestion!
It was over thirty years ago when I made the crossing from Scrabster on the mainland to the port of Stromness. Andrea, your piece brought back the sea spray and the whisper of the Man of Hoy as the voyage carried my body and soul to the spirited islands of the Orkneys. I remember clearly the sense of location and connection that was beyond a simple arrival. The calling, the understanding, the evidential calm I experienced was deep within a body memory. This memory might be compared to the annual migration of Snow Geese, that takes them from their nesting grounds on Baffin Island to the Gulf of Mexico. Or by watching salmon reply to an unstoppable silence that leads them back up to a steam they have never before seen but awaits them. A book I would invite you to read is The Snow Geese: A Story of Home by William Fiennes. Cheers.
Lorne, someday we should share a story and pint at the Velvet Olive. Richard
Hi Richard,
This is a stunning recollection of your own time in Orkney and the metaphor of the Snow Geese is a perfect one. I’ll look for the book you’ve recommended. Thanks for reading!
Richard, I’ve added Snow Geese to my list. Based on your description and the preview on Amazon, it looks wonderful. Discussing it over a pint sounds even better. Cheers.