Isle of Iona

A ferry took us as pedestrians across to the tiny holy isle of Iona. Us along with  hundreds upon hundreds of others on non-stop ferries going all day, every day, over and back from Mull. Amazing how many people crossed. A little like Lourdes. All seeking to find out more about St Columba, who set up a monastery here, and, in doing so, changed Scotland forever. 

Columba was Irish. He was born in County Donegal on 7 December, 521, the great great grandson of Niall of the Nine Hostages, king during the fourth century. So, his family was royal, with connections to the King of Dalriada, and it was this kinship that allowed Columba to use Iona as the place for his mission and great calling. 

Trained and ordained in Ireland, Columba and twelve of his priests headed from there in a wickerwork currach covered with leatherskin, and landing on the shores of Iona on the eve of the Pentecost, 12 May, 563. Here, they set about building their church, their accommodation cell, and their refectory, using the wattles and rude timbers that were available. 

From this quiet and contemplative spot overlooking the gorgeous rose granite coast of Mull Columba set about on his mission: to convert the pagan people, the Picts, who occupied the north and west of Scotland.   

Over the waters and in the great glen he and his priests traipsed, right to King Bridei's royal residence at Inverness, where he was refused entry.

But, at the sign of the cross, the large bolts on the castle doors slid open, as did the heavy castle doors, and Columba entered. Bridei was in awe. He had never seen the like, so became very amenable to what Columba came to say. He listened and was soon baptised and his castle kin quickly followed, and for the next thirty-two years the Iona mission men traipsed all over Scotland, baptising the Picts, helping them build churches, and resisting the influence of the pagan Druids, who had held sway until then. 

So, now, instead of Druidic standing stones, Celtic crosses began to mark the places of the dead in Scotland. A big change. 

Columba's Iona complex became a great Christian centre. He was hardly able to become a hermit there: not that he wanted to. His wish was to help people. And people travelled far and wide, o'er land and sea, to visit him there on pilgrimage. 

He and his bishops were the thinking Christians at the time, and their influence was great. Purgatory was a concept introduced by the religious at Iona and remains a guiding belief to this day. As do many of the ideas of Christianity, which were once thought to have stemmed from Ireland, but many, now believe, were born on Iona. 

Crosses were big, and began to mark the spot: of burials, borders and barriers. Soon they were everywhere. Kings came to Iona to be buried. It was the place to be interred. All the Scottish kings are buried here, right up to Macbeth. And, even kings from the Norse kingdoms. Masons were in demand decorating them with celtic knots and celtic symbols. So many brought their kin to be buried that overflow cemeteries had to be built on Mull to cope with the demand. 

Crosses, the sign and the symbol, became a feature of Columba's calling, and even today, the 1200 year old St Martin's cross, marks the tiny restored chapel believed to hold the remains of St Columba, who died on Iona a little after midnight on the morning of the 9 June, 597, saying his last prayers at the altar during the midnight service.

Relics of Iona have been ransacked by the Vikings, long past. Some glorious pieces, like the exquisitely illustrated and painted Book of Kells which was started on Iona some time after Columba's death have survived. It was spirited away to a sister monastery in Kells in Ireland, but is now in the Old Library at Trinity College in Dublin. 

Columba's influence, and Iona, still remain: as he predicted it would. 

Not Columba's monastery, but a more modern one. A place of pilgrimage still.  

A view St Columba would have seen every day
across to the pink granite of Mull. 

St Martin's cross has been casting its shadow here for 1200 years

 

So many Scottish kings were buried on Iona

Farewell, Iona

Where St Columba is thought to
be buried

Lessons on Mull

Mull might have fallen off the Brittany coast and floated here to the Western isles so similar to that part of France are the rose granite rocks and pure white sands that line many of its shores. 

Mull is smaller than Skye, but grander. Is central mountains are higher and cast a long shadow, from the top of the island right to the bottom. And, to Aussies, Mull is famous for being the home of Lachlan Macquarie, the first Governor of New South Wales and the 'Father of Australia'. 

On the island, one of our favourite characterful places so far is the brightly-painted Tobermory village, built by the British Fishery Society late in the 18th century, at which time the government was attempting to kickstart a fishing industry along Scotland's shores. And typical of governments this happened at the very same time that the herring stopped running. So, as a result, many of these ports amounted to nothing, but, Tobermory still has colourful crab pots and fishing tackle a'top the harbour walls, jostling with billboards offering wildlife and scenic tours, and it all looks busy enough. 

Down one end of Tobermory is a whisky distillery which has been there since the birth of the village. At the other end is a smoke house. In the middle there is a dark smoky inn from the Victorian era, looking for all the world as if the bar still props wizened old pipe-smoking sea captains blown in from the briny. A few steps further on is a delightfully informative local museum, cluttered with village tales, legends and photographs. 

A perfect little village. We spent hours there. And its picturesque harbour carries its own tales. 

In 1588, a graceful galleon of the Spanish Armada moored here to reprovision during the conflict, but when the local chief, Donald Maclean, climbed aboard to collect the money owed for supplies, he was imprisoned in the magazine. Just as the boat was leaving the harbour Maclean managed to escape. But, before safely jumping ship, he lit a bomb which exploded on board, blasting the Spanish galleon to smithereens right there in the harbour.  Buried in the mud. Along with the alleged 30 million ducats it was said to be carrying. 

Lesson here is: Don't be cheap. Furthermore: Never cross a canny Scotsman. 

On a headland, near Craignure, jutting out into the water is the stocky Duart Castle which tells another absorbing tale. One night in 1497, Lachlan Cattanach, the 11th MacLean chieftain, decided his marriage was at an end so rowed his wife across to the deserted isle, Lady's Rock, and left her there. When he returned to the island some time later he found her gone; then assuming she had died he informed the head of her family, the Earl of Argyll of her plight. Not long after he was invited to dinner by the Earl. There, sitting at the table was his wife. Nothing was said. Dinner was eaten. Daniel MacLean left. Thirty long years later his body was found in an Edinburgh hotel room. 

Lesson here is: Never, ever, cross a canny, and sophisticated, Scotswoman. 

Still in Tobermory, at the old church, converted to an eating place for the summer, our lunch was local seafood beautifully arranged on a slate platter: smoked and cured salmon, crab claw meat, sweetly smoked herring and home made seafood dips of the most delicious kind. As is the seafood everywhere in Scotland. And the berries: raspberries and strawberries particularly. And, the famed smoked haddock, potato and leek soup, Cullen Skink, which is on offer everywhere, not just in Cullen. This is the season to be eating. The seafood is so delicious. 

Tonight, we ate at Craignure in the south, at a lovely old inn, around since the 18th century. Drovers used to call in here for a quick pint as they herded their cattle past. 

Our langoustine entree was pulled from the sea just four kilometres away, we were told. And the chef sent out a message that my main dish, a whole mackerel, was caught just an hour before, barely 100 metres away on the jetty, by two young local lads who regularly bring their catch to the hotel kitchen for the chefs to buy. If the boys don't fish, the hotel does not offer the mackerel dish. Oven-crisp, with lemon butter, it was divine. Food heaven. 

But, in truth, the food in the rest of Scotland has not all been good. If we found ourselves staying two or three days somewhere, we soon noticed the offerings at the village store deplete a little more each day. many of them only have two deliveries a week at the best of times, so,  some days, there is little choice of even the basics being available. The locals really put up with a lot to live on these islands, as days-old buns and breads are often all that is available, if that. 

With all its water: its inlets, coves and lovely lochs, Mull is a very photogenic. The roads are crammed with wildlife photographers, and the many wildlife tourists and tours Mull is famous for -- hunting down red deer, minke whale, dolphin, seals and otters along the shore, as well as the famed bird life, especially the great golden eagle, flying way too high to really see. On one lay-by, alone, we saw a at least a dozen vehicles filled with photographers, laden with heavy duty lenses and tripods the size of cannons. Expensive cameras everywhere. 

Fish farms, growing mussels, oysters and salmon, are dotted around the island's protected waters, and there are boats moored aplenty, even rusty old lugs waiting for a rebirth. 

So, the island looks prosperous and has large numbers of cattle and sheep as well, which are regularly moved to market, and an extensive forestry industry which uses heavyweight logging vehicles. And there are endless ferry loads of tourists bussing each day across the island to Iona, along with an extraordinary number of people renting 'Cottages to Let' all over Mull. Practically every house on the far side of the island is occupied with holidaymakers, it seems. Yet shops and facilities are few and far between. Which makes one wonder, how many hours some of these holiday makers must travel on these roads just to buy a bottle of milk, if they run out. And heaven help them if they want to go out to dinner one night. 

The roads are hairier than on Skye, and as well as having the usual single lane with passing place restrictions, Mull adds another dimension: Weak Roads, all over the island. Thanks to the trucks, the busses, and the extensive tourist traffic. So, everywhere, the roads are crumbling. But not too many are being resurfaced. Which makes it tough if you are a local and regularly pay your road tax. 

Lesson here is: Don't let too many people play on your turf if you don't want it spoiled. 

Rose granite, just like Brittany

Vast mountains all over Mull 

Pretty, colourful Tobermory

Salty old sea pub at Tobermory

Duart Castle 

Seafood on slate.  

Local langoustine

The store at Pennyghael.  The next is an hour's drive away.  

Wild deer on Mull.  

An expensive sea vessel coming in to berth for the night

Picturesque old boats on Mull 

Good bridle path - tho' even horses would
have to go single file

Weak roads on Mull 

Even the gorgeous sign dates back to 1897

These icons of ages past still exist all over Scotland

   

A Patch of Skye

We came to Skye past Eilean Donan (ay'lin don'en) a castle built as a clan stronghold in the 13th century by the Mackenzies and their allies, Clan Macrae, but bombed by a ship after they supported the Jacobites. Today it has been reconstructed and is in such a pretty setting that it looks as if it could be featured in every movie ever made about Scotland. It is gorgeous. 

But, the longer we are in Scotland, the more we are surprised that the clan allegiances, between chief and clan members, lasted as long as they did. The poor clan members were little more than poorly paid servants for the most part. Even if the chief was benevolent, and not many of them were. 

No doubt the clansmen had to be at the ready to dig in and help build, extend and repair these castles after each clash, too, as well as their own little bothy. Then they had to grow all the fruit and vegetables on the side, for market. And supply all the meat and dairy. And be part of the next clan war in Ireland, or wherever. And hop, skip and jump. It's difficult to see what their payoff ever was over some of these harsh generations in Scotland. They seemed to have to keep on giving. 

Still and all, Eileen Donan is a picturesque entree to Skye, which is needed, as the early part of Skye is a bit of a jumble of shabby grass-tufted fields crowded with smallholdings which seem to have yard junk all over. But the further north you go on Skye the coastal scenery kicks in, and the tales of Skye entice. 

Skye does not have the gentle pastoral charm of the Orkneys. Its central core of mountains, the Cuilins, which rear and buck, baring jagged teeth, often veer straight down to the water: a stunning backdrop for the many white houses dotted all over Skye. 

Houses in Scotland are rarely painted. And rarely pretty. They are, more often than not, a dun earth colour: the colour of the stone from which they are made. Or, the dreaded pebble dash, left unpainted, so this white paint on Skye is cheerful.  The island's rock features have become tourist attractions: Old Man of Storr with his large pinnacle rising, and Kilt Rock, neatly pleated like a kilt, folded all the way to the sea.

Much of the inner part of Skye is moorland, inhospitable to anything other than heather, bracken, bogs and sheep. It would be bleak in winter, and as he fled across these moors, Bonnie Prince Charlie was heard to say : "Even the Devil shall not follow me here."

The density of the housing is surprising, particularly on the Trottenish and Waternish peninsulas, especially after the space and the solitude we have been experiencing these last weeks in the more northerly  sections of Scotland. And the traffic is a shock. The island is, literally, crawling with tourists. Almost every wee white house is a bed and breakfast, and German, French and Swiss number-plated cars troll slowly past, all searching for a bed. Yet the signs all say: No Vacancy. Business is clearly booming on these fine summer days. 

Consequently the roads are suffering the strain in many parts and could do with a coat of hot mix, but that does not appear high on anyone's agenda. 

The island is a big draw card for hill-climbers, cyclists and walkers, and, no doubt, the one or two suitable bathing beaches attract families. And, mayhap, the island's heroine, Flora MacDonald, draws many others. She has certainly captivated us, this young Skye lass, foster child of one of the chiefs, who helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to France after his loss at Culloden. Then went to jail for it. It is a very romantic tale, and the island makes the most of it.

We drove down the narrow little road to an inn at Flodigarry, a hotel of faded elegance in an exceptional position on the Trottenish Peninsula. We'd read that Flora had once lived in a cottage near here, and thought to take a look, having assumed the cottage would be long gone. We ended up chatting to the owner of the hotel, who was Dutch, and very new: she had only owned the hotel for seven weeks. When she heard our tale she beckoned to us, and had us follow her into the grounds at the back of the hotel. 

Another unexpected and impromptu tour. She took us to a white washed cottage tucked behind the hotel, marked Private, which had been Flora's home after her release from prison for being a traitor, in 1747. Her image is all over the cottage. Very clearly, the local heroine. 

Soon after her release Flora married Allan, a local, and another MacDonald, and had five of her seven children in this very house, before briefly migrating to the Carolina's during the War of Independence; then, finally, coming back to Skye to see out her days. 

Further around the headland is Kilmuir cemetery and here, high on the land with the most beautiful view of the sea, is Flora's grave, marked by a large Celtic-style headstone. Though, this replaces the original which was carried off chunk by chunk by souvenir hunters over the centuries. Here, so the tale goes, Flora lies wrapped in a bed sheet that Bonnie Prince Charlie once slept in. Flora died in 1790, just two years after the Prince, remembering him even then. 

Skye is rich with tales. Just around the point from Flodigarry, a babe fell from a Duntulm Castle window to be smashed to death on the rocks below. The babe's nursemaid was promptly put out to sea in a wee boat, ne'er to be heard of again. 

The Duntulm site, overlooking Tulm island, is believed, originally, to have been a Nordic stronghold at the time the Vikings ruled supreme over many of these western isles. But then the MacLeods built here. Then it was taken by the MacDonalds of Sleat, but fell into disrepair in the 18th century. Then, the rocks from the castle were used to build Monkstadt House, just a few kilometres further south, from where Bonnie Prince Charles's escape plan was hatched by his supporters. 

Further on is the port side village of Portree with its painted inns and houses. It was from the Royal Hotel here, at the end of his five months of escape from the English, that Bonnie Prince Charlie took his fond leave of Flora, as he headed back to France by boat. 

We drove over much of Skye, and some roads we shouldn't have gone near, as, again, we found ourselves on a crumbling road on a crumbling hill just to the north on the Sleat Peninsula, after the hamlet of Tarskavaig, caught on the edge of a cliffside track which had no passing lane, at the very time that two oncoming cars were wanting to pass on the narrowest thread of a road. A bit of a crush. But, fine for us as we were on the inside against the safe, solid rock wall of the cliff face. But, scary for the others, I fear. 

But, the scenery, for the most part, made up for it. And the tales.  

On the lonely Sleat moors late in the day we found a man walking, and stopped for a chat. As you do in remote parts when you see a lone man with a pencil and a notebook. He turned out to be an academic from the Gaelic College down the hill, who had a passionate interest in the Sleat peninsula and the Clearances. We could have talked to him for hours. He told us that four settlements have been found on Sleat from the time of the Clearances, and each would have had about 150 inhabitants, all of whom were eventually moved.

There are mere stones in those areas today: close to the T-junction where the Gaelic College now sits overlooking the beautiful Sound of Sleat. The settlers relocated to other parts of the island, he said, tho' many migrated abroad, while others went to the mainland. All up, some thirty thousand people were cleared from the various peninsulas on Skye. Yet, today, with its population of ten thousand, Skye seems crowded in comparison to most of Scotland.

From Skye we caught a ferry across to Mallaig and pulled up at a raggedy campsite on a near perfect white beach which had the most stunning sunset we have yet seen it Scotland. Where children built a bonfire and charred marshmallows on it before they slept.

Eileen Donan castle 

Eileen Donan from afar

 

Waterfall 

Cuillins in the background

Old Man of Storr

The loch, here, makes these moors look beautiful 

A romance between Flora and the Bonnie Prince is hinted at

Where Flora lived for a time with Alan, on Flodigarry. The marriage did not last. 

Flora's cross at Kilmuir. The original was removed piece by piece by tourists

Duntulm ruins on the deadly rocks

Portree - where Bonnie Prince said goodbye to Flora

This was a good road on Skye.
We could never stop to take a shot
when the roads became atrocious.  

This, again, is a museum croft

Malaig ferry 

White sand, golden sunset, blue sea, our site for the night  

Brown bears and smoked fish

The north and north-west of Scotland is scenically spectacular. Much more so than the east. Mountains of rock rear up out of the blue blue Atlantic, and it looks much like the Rockies in many parts. Which is not surprising, as way back, aeons ago, before Scotland ever collided with the land mass that is now England and Wales, it was part of the continent that we now call North America. Related. 

Even skeletons of brown bear and reindeer have been discovered in caves at Inchnadamph, just north of Ullapool, if ever more proof than the geological similarities was needed. Which makes it so much easier to understand the similarities between this part of Scotland and Canada. So, we keep hoping that these similarities, these delights, might have been some consolation to the Clearance folk who were forced to relocate to Canada. 

Unfortunately, the sad tales of the Clearances do not stop on this side of the country. A large chunk of this northern shore is still Sutherland holdings, which wraps itself around a bit of land to the north east called Caithness, then heads on over to the west. We have been driving in and around Sutherland land for weeks now: it is vast. And mostly inhospitable. 

The 'A' roads, the main ones, are single lane, for the most part. With pullouts every couple of hundred metres for Passing Places. And the signs everywhere warn: Slow Lambs.

Despite its spectacular beauty, the land is all rock, peat, bog cotton, bracken and boggy heather underlaid with running water. Everywhere there is water. You can hear it like a symphony: waterfalls, lochs, lochans, and stone-running streams and rivulets constantly grooving out this harsh beautiful landscape.  A Welshman, at coffee yesterday, told us that there are 31,000 lochs in Scotland. And that is not hard to believe. 

Just down from Durness, along the western shore of Loch Eribol, James Anderson, during his Clearance improvements, had a harbour built at Rispond. He paid his workers in tokens. These tokens could only be redeemed at his store. His harshness didn't stop there. Anyone wanting or needing to fish, had to pay rent for the use of the seabed. And to land their catch in the harbour they had to agree to this form of extortion to do so. Every which way they turned the Clearance folk could not win. 

And all the while James Anderson was enlarging his personal fortune based on fishing and the harbour: better developing the smoking and salting techniques to suit southern tastes; creating markets for the crab and langoustine catch; expanding his harbour so that his growing fleet of fishing boats could take his salted fish to the Baltics. Building an international trade and reputation in Scottish seafood. 

Mind you, even today, the tales of woe for the local fishing folk who live in these parts, continue. 

As you drive this land you can't help noticing that there are hardly any facilities this side of the country. Not many of the clusters of homes for hundreds of miles even have the luxury of a village store, for instance. Even petrol bowsers are few and far between. 

Some householders still warm their homes with the peat they carve, and dry, from the Common lands. We last saw peat harvesting in Ireland, thirty years ago, but haven't seen it there since. 

Given the deprivations it was rather a shock to come across a massive large construction on the harbour at Lochinver, then to discover from disgusted locals that it is a monster Fish Market, built with development money from the EU. But, not benefitting the locals one whit.

The boats who use this extensive facility are mainly French, it appears.  French fishing boats lie in the harbour resting, when they are not on the far side of the Outer Hebrides, fishing. 

When the boats do bring in their catch it is loaded from the floor of the Fish Market directly on to massive refrigerated French lorries, ready and waiting for the haul to be unloaded and reloaded.  Within hours of being pulled from the sea, the catch is on a Channel ferry, then just as quickly offloaded and displayed for the early morning fresh fish markets in France. 

But, it doesn't stop there. 

The very same trucks which collect the fish from the seas off Scotland's islands bring to the fishermen left on these remote Scottish shores all the French food and French delicacies that they need until they bring in their next haul of fish. Along with bucket loads of French wine. In stainless steel vats, in the back of the lorries. 

The little man, the Scottish fishermen for whom the fish market was built, had smaller fishing boats which could not go out to sea as far as these French boats. Now, the French draglines mean that fish don't make it into the waters where the Scots' fishing boats can reach. 

So, local fishing industry is all but dead. And the French buy virtually nothing locally as they go about emptying the seas.

Beaches as beautiful as any in Australia

One of the 31,000 lochs in Scotland.

These lambs were drinking in the puddle at the side of the road before we rolled along

Drying the peat stock for the winter

 

French fishing boat in Lochinver port

Lochinvar scenery

Our coffee spot at Lochinvar 

And then there was stone

We took a one hour car ferry ride north of John O'Groat's to the Orkney Islands: a low slung group of green islands covered in a patchwork of pasture painted every shade of lush and fertile green. 

There are no trees: the salt and the wind put paid to them. 

And the wind is merciless. Relentless. And when we remember the Orkneys we will remember the wind. 

We lived for a time, in Lethbridge, in Canada, where the wind blew bitterly, and the suicide, depression and divorce rates increased with its severity. This feels, and sounds, exactly like that wind. 

But, if there was ever a day when the Orkeys were wind free, these islands would be idyllic: a place where you might find rich fat milk and cheeses dripping like butter. Even the bulls in the fields are enormous, and look placid, and utterly content. 

We came to the islands via the waters of Scapa Flow: a sheltered harbour created by Italians during the war. They were prisoners of war, located in the Orkneys after they'd lost battles in North Africa at Benghazi. The British used the waters of Scapa Flow for their fleet to retreat after combat in the Atlantic, but, in 1939, a German U-boat breached the bomb wrecks previously sunk to protect the waters, bombing a British ship and killing over 800 men. 

Churchill immediately determined that there needed to be better protection, so the Italian prisoners of war were talked into contributing their time and effort, laying giant concrete causeways between the Orkney islands, joining a string of them together like a long green tail of land, stretching down towards the mainland: a physical barrier to enemy intruders.

Everywhere there are Nissan huts used as barns or out buildings. They nestle into the rolling land gently, and suit the place. They are likely remnants recycled from the war, which seems possible, as the Italians who were building the Churchill Barrier, as the concrete causeway came to be called, were given two Nissan Huts to build themselves a church, which they did, joining the huts end to end.

They did not stop there. They created a thing of beauty from scrap, which is standing still: a lovely monument to their efforts, ingenuity, and faith. 

They spent their free time salvaging usable materials from the old buried hulks to decorate their church inside and out, and they hand-painted the tiles, the frescoes, and hand built the wrought iron rood screen. So attached to the Orkneys did these Italians become, that their descendants still visit the island regularly. 

One of the Orcadians told us that if you but scratch the surface of the Orkneys you will find archaeology, and this is so true. The Orkneys hold one of the finest collections of archeological sites in the world, telling the tale of prehistoric man: all World Heritage listed and carefully protected.

There are so many visible, and still so many to be uncovered. There is Maes Howe, one of the finest passaged chamber tombs in existence. And there are circles of large angular standing stones, the Rings of Brodgar along with the massive collection of Standing Stones of Stenness. We visited them all. 

Then there is Skara Brae, the unique prehistoric village that was buried under a dune, and only uncovered when a high tide washed away ancient layers of sand and turf, revealing an entire stone age village, that had been inhabited for over 500 years.

Started around 3,100 BC. Before the pyramids were built. Before Stonehenge was started. 

Skara Brae has revealed a wealth of finds the like of which have never before been discovered, including homes filled with stone age furniture: stone wall dressers to display household objects, rectangular stone box beds likely covered in skins over soft bracken mattresses, and stone fish-bait boxes for preparing and soaking bait, along with beautifully fashioned and polished stone tools: all encircling a central open hearth fire. Their homes look cosy, close and comfortable.

These finds had only been speculated about before. Now archeologists found similar pieces, in similar homes, all over the village. 

Skara Brae village is set into a huge mound of decomposed midden over the top of an earlier site that was reused. The midden compost was moved to the site, load by load, to offer support and insulation for the stone-built homes. All was then covered with an earth and turf roof, and the homes made secure underground, each reached via a low interconnecting passage, with a lockable stone or wood door for privacy, many still in situ.

Mind you, if the wind blew across the Orkneys then, as it does now, underground homes makes perfect sense. 

Though, finding wood was rare, even then. Fallen trees, floating on the tide, used by the Skara Brae folk, have been found to have come from as far afield as North America. Amazing. 

Another extraordinary site we were lucky to experience on the Orkneys was the Ness of Brodgar. We arrived at the Ness site to find it filled with a vast team of working archeologists, on their 6 week annual dig from their universities, uncovering what they currently think might be a vast temple complex which, already, is challenging existing beliefs and theories about how primitive man lived and worshipped. 

With our usual dose of good luck we arrived just as one of the Professors offered an amazing talk about the site, the theories, and the finds of the Ness of Brodgar. He said that many of the academics are beginning to think that these Orkney sites might be interlinked, interrelated: hypothesising that there are sites specifically devoted to the living, and others apparently devoted to the dead, with what are possibly long processional routes between each for important rituals and ceremonies. 

It is vast. It is unusual. It is fascinating. 

But one thing is apparent, even lightly scratching the surface of the Orkneys, there appears to be decades of research remaining for archeologists in the Orkneys: doctorates to be written, theories to be promulgated, spectacular finds to be made. 

Our time, there, with stone age man offered us a break from the tragic tales of the Clearances on the mainland. 

To which we now return. 

And leave the Orcadian wind to blow. 

As we approached we saw the bunkers from WW11 

The milk, ice-cream and cheese were like King Island off Tasmania -
soft, fat, buttery

Churchill Barrier - Italian made causeway in the Orkneys

Nissan Hut Italian Church

Italian church - everything hand painted and hand made

Standing Stones of Stenness

Stone furniture - nothing like it has ever been uncovered before

Skara Brae village with turf covering

Stones of Skara Brae

Prof showing finds at Ness of Brodgar