nordicblackbird.com

roosting time

2012-02-05T19:07:00.000Z

where do you stand?

Tonight I heard the blackbird's Braille and caught our Moon in eastern sky. We, islanders, have endured gales instead of snow. Morning downpours led way to light. The air was as freezing as our wild North Atlantic. The Westerlies feel so bitter, as sun ventures across our sky. February, the coldest, harshest month with a desire to make you feel its sharpest claws... Raw, incisive, as wolf fangs through the flesh of a buffalo, and yet as invisible as a dream, snowless winter grips you and turns you blue. I could have felt on some shoreline in Hudson Bay; along the coast of Labrador... Those cold deserts, tundra landscapes, where permafrost still dreams of warmth and waders' calls, feel just like home. Each tongue of land holds its secrets.

Mine stands so proud in-between North Sea and Atlantic. Battered and constantly windswept, the island withstands anger from currents, rotating blades of each roller, ending their race on sculpted sand or against rocks, stacks and natural arches. Earthly Rodin. They shape our shores like a sculptor... They carve through basalt and Old Red Sandstone without shame and carry the world in their bellies. Every pebble locks its nomad's tale.

And yet I grab those precious stones, as I retrace my steps back home.

Birds unfolds wings to brave currents and reach heavens.
Sweet freedom, flowing in my heart.

By sunset time, I watched gardens fill with our most common visitors. Since we planted trees in not such a distant past, they have now grown to perching springs, well above ground and feline eyes. As soon as I opened the door onto the sliding sun, the sky unveiled earth symphony, as starlings, sparrows and blackbirds hovered around barren branches. So many voices filled our sky.

Wintersong,

gathering on top branches from June's secluded garden and fly off for roosting time.

Life, a constant flight for survival.

Another night, morrow or year.

I wonder if they too stick to almanacs.

Draco dans les étoiles

2012-02-01T17:55:00.003Z

time to reconvene with fire

It has gained in stature. It is now known around the world. It leaps from island to island... It fills our sky with sparks and light and parrafin lingers in our hearts forever.

Each last Tuesday of January, fire fever sparks off all around town. The dragon's back around our walls, and with it, hordes of boys and men in starting blocks for merriment. In my night sky, Draco awaits curtain of night to show the way.

On this last day of January, young islanders turn warriors and invest corridors inside their own institution. Everyone gathers to applaud and marvel at shiny helmets. The atmosphere is bon enfant, as staff and pupils play the game until our squad of young Vikings join their elders by the harbour. It is indeed a special day for those young men who represent our school. They too have their own galley to set on fire and walk in footsteps of elders.

Fire fever animates hearts throughout the day. It kicks early and will demand another day to recover from party time! It culminates with the now famous procession. In the meantime, boys and men have to endure a much accepted marathon by visiting schools, hospital, care homes and whoever wants to see them before sunset.

The procession well after dusk shines as highlight. Folk from the world come to marvel at boys & men ready to march and turn their boat into ashes. Impressive prints left in your eyes. As night progresses, the guizing men will engulf halls where women wait to serve and feed with tattie soup (or reestit mutton) and other liquid concoctions until next dawn... For those of you familiar with the opening scene from the movie Beowulf - mind you, minus Grendel and treasures! - the allegory won't feel too strong. In our depth of winter, Up-Helly Aa feels so welcome as light begins to override night in a much more assertive way.

February born off ashes

This year, Imbolc follows so close to Lerwick's Up-Helly-Aa.
Imbolc, the Earth's true beginning of Spring, and with it, the very first and timid steps to renewal.

Our dawns have become precocious - our afternoons linger longer... Sometimes sunsets turn pink and blue in pastel style and this precious nordic light carve smiles in eyes and hearts. It gives us time to wander ("stravaig") around our shore.

Long-tailed ducks mingle with Eiders & Goldeneyes, common Scoters, kittiwakes and selkies... Little auks have been seen. Ravens re-started their acrobatics, as courtship begins on roadsides at breakfast time. Ravens, once captured by Vikings around the island to be used as scouts & seekers of land beyond seafarers' horizon... Starlings and sparrows filled this morning's sky with calls and chirps, so quarrelsome can they become. Even if the land feels desolate, precocious signals are noticed. Our path to the Vernal Equinox looks now lit. And until then, we shall keep our beacons alight, watch out for ice at every dawn and salute Draco in our sky.

The hearth is keeping us warm. Candles bring smiles when all feels dark. And when our sky feels generous, the entire universe fills our eyes. In moonless night, we can enjoy our Northern Lights. Without a doubt, 60N is a magic place!

Today, prolific day at the wordbench. So here, a string of fresh haiku :-)

Nuit de feu -

dry wax & ashes for Imbolc,

we have been burning wood all night.

Haiku fae 60N

Stravaig -

in-between ditches & potholes,

follow rock doves & hooded crows.

Haiku fae 60N

Parrafin -

elixir to sun worshippers

that lingers through depth of winter.

Haiku fae 60N

day of sun

2012-01-22T23:05:00.000Z

day of sun, day of light

my fleeting soul, as Bertie sings. It all felt aerial, so ethereal and magical from dawn till now. The Met Office application on my iPod had somehow whispered to make the best of our Sunday... Dazzled by blue from dawn till dusk, the island weighed its mass of gold. Fuelled by might of our Nordic light, I packed my heart with adventures found on the shore of the South End - its very tip made of white sand.

West Voe was littered with uprooted kelp forests tides bring to rest on silver shores after each storm. Warmth on my skin, as I stepped out of the motor and began my first wandering. Whereas folk made it to the other side of arch, I followed the song of the waves and scrutinised the very edge of my own world. Life comes and feasts on rotting kelp,
from wading friends to the tiniest!

What better spectacle but watch waders - turnstones and purple sandpipers - mingle with lace made by the surf. Each one looked so mechanical every time they got their feet wet! I soon sealed time in a bubble and let my eye play through the lens.

And yet, behind me, the magic of our elusive jenny wren that too made the most of earth bonanza and played hide and seek in boulders. Magic moments.

A drive around Spiggie led us to geese - greylag, white-fronted and bean - scattered around the loch and the lush fields in-between Spiggie and Bigton.

Bigton, la voie royale to Arcania! So I went to salute my dear sandbridge for the first time since Yule and found new rocks on its shoreline... We shall never underestimate the power of water. Oceans and seas carry the world in their currents. We came to find shells of all kinds. And so we did... As spray flew high half-way though the tombolo and tide was high, we found happiness at its base. I marvelled at the game of light through marram grass... Like angel hair all around us. When the world sounds so loud, I always come back to the shore and listen for its earthly song. And love the island in such light.

By mid-afternoon, I reconvened with my troupe in the town, as theatre needs rehearsals. Dusk draped Sunday without a word. This epilogue back inside night - somewhat distracted by a glow of Aurora in the evening - hovers like a silvery cloak of a day more than well spent.

And I want to remember how it all began,

here it is, immortalised, inside a triptych of haiku.

Vol de nuit -

des oies sauvages en escadrille

par delà tuiles dans bleu de l'aube.

Night flight -

wild geese in a squadron

beyond tiles in blue dawn.

#haiku fae 60N

Cri de l'aube -

des fers de la nuit,

merle noir se déchaine.

Cry Dawn -

from night's shackles

blackbird unchains itself.

#haiku fae 60N

Chant du monde -

au dire du matin,

les étourneaux en rang par trois.

Earth song -

to what morning whispers,

starlings in rows of three.

#haiku fae 60N

With everlasting thanks to my other half for his precious shots of geese :-)

Stravaig is out!

2012-01-16T21:34:00.000Z

Geopoetics in motion

Feel free to click. The Scottish Centre for Geopoetics, led by Scottish poet & essayist Norman Bissell, released Stravaig online. Issue 1 has found freedom inside the cyberworld and its content is exciting! Friends, poets, writers, essayists, artists, photographers, designers and filmakers creatively mapped, chartered inside one world. It's... Exciting! There is a place for everyone who practises the discipline of intellectual nomadism.

I still remember a friend who once asked me, "what is Geopoetics?" My poetic heart & mind attempted to describe something like "the natural art of opening to a world, finding our place within it and celebrating our connection with this very world within the realms of every rock, mountain and shore... This natural, real world, in which every rock, shell, sandgrain, snowflake, birdsong, flower counts. Not somebody's delusional mind - but the very cross-disciplinary movement to this world in which our human intelligence interacts. The widening of our knowledge to cross-cultural bonds, just like the crossing of continents via the ancient (now submerged) land bridges... Kenneth White speaks of walking away from those motorways of western civilisations in which too many generations of our ancestors met a dead-end by keeping their scope on one-way roads. Geopoetics offers freedom to wander whilst embracing a world intelligence, the human spirit and creative genius, irrespective of civilisation. This international movement has found many adepts over time, and The Scottish Centre for Geopoetics belongs to this Archipelago of current, practising intellectual nomads for our region (and beyond), which remains, White's native homeground.

Stravaig, this wonderful Scot word meaning stroll, wander, will cross your way, I hope.

Place, culture, world, in the words of Kenneth White.

catapult

2012-01-08T20:46:00.000Z

from rocket sky 2 rocket cat

That sunset on the second day of the first month...

felt like a dream.

Rocket-red, winter blue or B&W.

I loved the cloud movement that gradually clads our Nordic sky on a crisp day. It was awesome. For a moment, I thought this sole image would encapsulate a glorious end of holiday...

Until the unexpected strikes!

He's not a cat, but a pirate. I won't forget my last two days of holiday. Peewit The Cat gave us a fright on the third day of January, as he retched, hid, and vocalised in a strange way. He even refused his favourite, cuddles & food. We did not wait long to jump on the handset and called the Feline A&E. The Vet on call had a somewhat familiar accent, which I first thought South African. Errare humanum Est! We put our feline in his box and rocketed to the Westside in a bleak end of afternoon - Peewit mimicking a diva in every kerb, as tarmac took us close through gales and rain. I suspected he eventually developed a secret love for the veterinary surgery! Little did we know we took him on time. He was awaited by a young Veterinary Officer, who quickly diagnosed feline bladder as the main culprit. Not South African, but Flemish, with beautiful French! This time, Peewit would taste emergency surgery with full board till he would be fit to go home. The hut felt strange without him, even though our two other feline pirates, Babooshka and Tystie, amused us till his return. Peewit came home yesterday with a shaved butt and many more loving miaows. I was ever so grateful & thankful to the devoted staff at the surgery, especially to Cathy (the Vet) and Kaye (the Nurse), who took so much good care of our muggy. Our hearts felt so lighter. Oh, yes, that first week of January will not be forgotten! I never saw classroom re-start, as days vanished like stones projected by a catapult.

Now, with the weekend came thrills and smiles! If yesterday, Saturday, was devoted to retrieve our loving feline, Sunday would take a twist none would suspect. As Peewit re-gained his gargantuan appetite, tuna chunks concealed his daily antibiotic mini-nugget. I first found Babooshka on the kitchen worktop foraging for any crumbs, just like a food hoover - or now nicknamed as "Googlegrub" - as she still thinks her grand age would let get away with anything... Tystie remains the only reasonable one. All three were tended with love and care.

By late morning, a series of Tweets alerted us of island fun in our inshore waters. Orcas, Killer whales, were spotted and, although I had to be in Lerwick for drama rehearsal in early afternoon, the chase began. Grutness, Levenwick, Hoswick, Broonies' Taing, Sanick, Noness. Magic placenames that rhyme with breathtaking seascapes and opportunities to enjoy not only seabirds, but cetaceans when the conditions are united.
A first attempt to Broonies' Taing led us to the bay at Sanick, where dorsal fins were playing so close to the shore. Magic moment! Watching those wonderful beasts in the wild remains a formidable spectacle. Folk flocked to the roadside that leads to the headland of Noness, as the pod of orcas - one bull and two females, from what I could see - swam along. I felt like a child in a toyshop just before Yule! They were magnificent. Again I forgot time and sent a quick tweet to my Serpentine actors, for I knew I would be slightly late for the afternoon. I shan't forget my weekend either.

Life on the island is never dull!

With renewed thanks to my other half for photography :-)

AND grateful thanks to Helen Moncrieff & Magnie Shearer for keeping us on the right track! :-))

first sun

2012-01-01T15:35:00.002Z

2012 awakening

I love to wake to Nordic sun. A cold wind blows across the island. Last night's Réveillon at our friends began with a bang, as Andy lit that single rocket in black sky at the back of Midnight. We hung our last hour of 2011 on Monica's coat rack and gathered by a warm hearth for Hogmanay. We wished Cameron "Happy Birthday", smiled, kissed and toasted to a brand new year. Merriment de rigueur as we swung towards brand new dawn...

I love this isle from this point of elevation. Brand new year, the wanderer walks through heather and looks for now bathed in pale blue and brand new sun. Kate Bush once wrote & sang, "stepping out of the page, into the sensual world..." This simple phrase sticks through my mind, as I stood still and felt this crisp first day against my skin. At around noon, my northern realm was so dazzling.

from blue to grey

But then light feels like trapped inside Pandora's Box as clouds gathered as if to signal end of gold... Birds hasted wingbeats and prepared for roosting time. But first, feast wherever it is offered to them. Inside willows and on feeders, before they switch to sleepy sky...

The wind still bites after sunset. And from the comfort of my hut, I celebrate this brand new year graced by a generous first sun.

inspiring world

first sun -

pioneer's fire through new year,

January begins with pale blue.

#haiku fae 60N

happy new year fae 60N :-)

wishing well

2011-12-31T14:18:00.000Z

To each&everyone,

Reader,
dear friend,

compagnon de voyage, you have walked with me through many paths, earth, heather, peat bogs, sand & marram grass - stood at the edge of sea lace, and shared in world foot prints. As 2011 will soon belong to ice, let me wish you all the very best for the forthcoming year. May each new day be engulfed with fair winds in your sails; may 2012 help you realise your dearest projects and wishes.

looking South to Sumburgh Head

I love to walk the very top of my favourite hill on New Year's Day. As you know already, the view is breathtaking, but it also helps me to enjoy a very special moment, which, in turn, will fuel my spirit for the twelve months ahead.
Already some projects are now well under way. 2011 fulfilled some of my dearest wishes already - 2012 will continue to help them reach fruitfulness. And I wish you all the very same, happiness above all.

Happy New Year!

Bonne et heureuse année!

prost Neujahr!

ath bhliain faoi mhaise!

godt nyttår!

feliz ano novo!

szczęśliwego nowego roku

С Новым Годом!

bliadhna mhath ur!

gleðilegt nýtt ár!

feliz año nuevo!

mwaka mzuri / heri ya mwaka mpya!

unyaka omusha omuhle!

high tide

2011-12-29T19:15:00.000Z

right of passage

Come to Arcania at high tide. Each side of the sand bridge acts like oracle. Oracle to the side of our own wandering. This afternoon, I wished to return to the shore and took this path so familiar. From the top of the brae (hillside) I watched as silvery the horizon glowing in my eyes. My heart filled with salt water, as I realised the mighty ocean would not be granting such right of passage. Tide was at its highest.

Rollers looked as that hue of jade-blue as the final days of December. Not many souls were in my sight. At least I thought at first. However, as I parked the motor, two other black vehicles flocked by the edge. Dog walkers. They too must have been mesmerised by the cloak of silver over the sand. So little patch of gold at our feet. Still a good hour till till dusk and I tossed my luck in pale blue sky to come as close as I could be from the edge of my world. The walk to this oceanic lace was littered with pebbles, shells, as well as a few signatures of humanity. Baltic air reached fingertips and still I advanced towards the very edge of flooded bridge. I felt the white lips of winter. I watched with awe the mighty power of each wave, roller, crashing and covering it with grace and anger. Already the island had been battered with so many hissing gales... This Nordic sky began to darken once again.

High tide would deny us.

Impressive, moving and so powerful in action. I will try again tomorrow.

Etat d'esprit

2011-12-29T11:13:00.000Z

frame of mind

in
one
world,

in one song.

And now the storm has gone, let's wander to the shore.

in between silence and whistlers

2011-12-28T19:02:00.003Z

Tongue of winter

I still remember beginning of Yuletide... The sky was kind to earth and folk. Our three felines, like clockwork mechanical toys, were sunbathing behind the glass of the kitchen and ate their saucer of tuna without raising an whisker... Rare moment of contemplation... We seized Yule light to pay homage to the many dwellers of the marsh, mire and loch. The island's rich in winter wildlife. Geese of many kinds and origins adorn hillsides and fields. Golden Plovers, Redshanks, Moorhens, Purple Sandpipers, and other waders grace our sky. Seals, all year round pop their heads at the surface of water... Winter visitors have arrived too. In addition to Redwings, Fieldfares & other thrushes, Long-tailed ducks & Goldeneyes paddle around.

I love wild geese. To my heart, they epitomise winter on this latitude. They're scattered in small or large gaggles everywhere. Yesterday again (27 Dec) Greylags (as pictured here) mingled with Barnacles at Fleck. But light came to end so abruptly I even did not try to capture them through the lens. Another time :-)

All was quiet till 24 December. Yule celebrated within the comfort of the hut, with candles and delights, as night covered the many homes on the island. Peaceful and joyous, it was later shared with friends till very late in the night.

December 25 December belonged to hurricane winds that wrapped homes day and night... Dancing tiles and incessant hissing gales always sound both impressive and terrifying, when the wind gusts at giddy speeds. Anyway, reprieve was felt yesterday and we seized the opportunity to check hut and garage for structural damage. So far, we resisted to the anger of winter... So we went out and spent the early afternoon at East Voe and Ninian's Sands in search of shells and adventures. And this we did. Our love of the natural world includes the shore, and what better place than an island? Among the few treasures brought home, I found a broken specimen of arctica islandica, which used to be on the menu of islanders in a non too distant past. Will have to submit my record to MarLIN... They might accept it.

Ninian at dusk looks so blue.

Hmmm, each day has its own adventures and I hear more whistlers may hit us again. Argh weel, so is the fate of the island. A day of light and silence from the sky remains a treasure, just like wood, rocks and shells.

Solstice

2011-12-23T11:58:00.000Z

longest night

I never saw sunrise on Solstice Day. Not even chirping birds managed to disturb my slumber. On the first day away from bells & timetable, I just slept away happily.
I occupied my eyes and heart around the hut from mid-morning till dusk. Yule is a time when gift paper wraps up surprises to be shared and carve new smiles. In the garden, squalid showers and heavy rain obeyed winter sky's metronome. Sunset begins early. By 1450 our world darkens. By 4 o'clock, the island has sunken in black.

eerie world

Yuletide lights adorn the spruce Norway gifts us at Market Cross (as well as around a couple of other landmarks) in the town. They seem to defy the anger of the hissing gales, hail and malevolent spirits...Yet, on Solstice Night, all feels quiet. Maybe too quiet for the time of year. It's just gone five. A good number of the shops on Da Street remain open late on Thursday nights and yet the town feels deserted. Its many dwellers have already made their way home. The bus shelters, filled with laughters, will soon be haunted with footprints at The Esplanade.

The harbour looks serene. The Leirna's left for one of her daily crossings through the Bressay Sound. The nearby pub, Thule, welcomes its daily intake of sailors & workers. Neon lights glow behind the blinds. Bar tenders will fill night with beer...
A few passers-by hurry to the light wherever it glows.
The town's main streets and arteries have now returned to Yule spirits, as they recovered freedom of the world.

The island prepares for the longest night.

Yuletide haiku & micropoetry fae 60N

Tic-toc -

origin of the universe

shelled deep inside dry seeds of time.

Nordic sunrise -

tone, tone, tone, tone, tone,

splash!

A high moon lights end of night,

winter feels like a humpback whale -

unpredictable to our eyes.

Lune d'hiver -

cet imprimé d'argent

dans les flocons de neige.

winter moon -

this silver print

inside snow flakes.

Yule upon us

2011-12-18T22:57:00.002Z

Time for reflection & celebration

Yule, upon us. Most of the day was devoted to reflect upon loved ones, far and wide, scattered around our world, as well as those who changed world and follow us from the sky. Since I have the silly habit of missing out postal deadlines, wishes have been flying around via the internet. So practical and easy to reach out in such a way. Trees remain treasures, time is precious and however wishes come to you, it comes from the heart.

Snow & ice have returned to the island. Days continue to shrink and this Arctic maritime air drifts everywhere. This morning, Peewit the cat hesitated to get his paws wet again, and walked on ice as if he would on eggs (!) The garden, once frozen in ice, attracted our regular squadron of starlings that have learnt to avoid our felines.

We are getting accustomed to a pale sun on Sunday morning, so low in our Nordic sky. Soon, it will dip even lower. Yule, which coincides with the winter solstice , signals both the longest night in our northern hemisphere and a rite of passage for the gradual return of the sun. Yule light, so precious on our high latitude. Sunrises and sunsets will stagnate a little before precious seconds are regained. Meanwhile, the spirit of Yule has entered our home. Pine, holly, mistletoe adorn our walls & front door. More candles are lit on the chimney mantelpiece. The hearth glows on a daily basis and our larders are stocked for the festive season.

Peace in our hearts,

2011, a year of change & adventures

with a few highlights, a summer packed with a myriad of smiles, eyes, languages through The Tall Ships & visitors setting foot on the island; a flash visit to the home of Humblyband at Carbeth Guthrie, new eyes & pens through Serpentine Drama & Writers... And current creative projects in the making, including podcasting. Joining in talkwildlife.com has enabled joint showcasing of photographic portfolios as well as connecting with the natural world further and making new friends. (See 4 December entry below). Our profile page grows with grace.

My Nordic home feels peaceful, as night unravels serenity. No hissing gust or gale tonight.

My wish to you,

thanking you for following, leaving feedback this blog and wishing you, each & everyone, a peaceful & joyous Yule, Christmas, Weihnachten, Navidad, Noël, Nollaig Shona Dhuit, Yul, Natal, Nollaig chridheil huibh,

with all the very best for 2012.

New Addition

2011-12-04T20:41:00.001Z

talkwildlife.com,
Part of WILDLIFE WHISPERER, was only a matter of time as well as a natural progression, for all the time my pal & fellow nature lover, Paula, was talking about it so passionately in front of her laptop at Girlsta!

Here, our joint Profile page, fresh from this evening, as snow engulfed our world! On this occasion, I included my other half in this adventure, as it is a formidable opportunity for him to showcase his work as an avid natural world lover & photographer.

Already connected with two known fellow Wildlife Whisperers and making new friends.

With renewed thanks to Paula Moss & Michael J Wood

for introducing us to this network.

waiting for white

2011-12-04T15:04:00.001Z

ice inside grass

It's barely 3 o'clock, and light is vanishing beyond the great sub-arctic lid that settled in our sky. The wind might have died by morning, but winter's claws now in firm grip of the island. We have been warned, a strange-shaped yellow bubble engulf our shores by the Met Office... So we've nailed apples on the edge of the composter and scraps litter the iced grass blades since mid-morning.

Latest tale from the Far-far-north

The garden never quite sound asleep,

Long-Eared Owl, photographed
at Hoswick - Dave Hall

Last night alone, at 0026, a Long-Eared Owl graced our sight, as it perched for a while on June's tree, just opposite our kitchen window. I lit the garden for a last check of the grass when the nocturnal predator flew into the spruce. Its silencers makes it a ghost. Magic moment! I just could not really believe my eyes, as the bird landed so gracefully and turned its eyes towards the lit backdoor. Majestic.

Earlier on today, Mr Robin was visible again, as it played around June's drystone wall and our fence posts. It whizzed and darted around stones and long grass, as elusive as a kingfisher perched on the bank of some river... Starlings and blackbirds made a meal of the half apples well before dusk. Precocious roosting time, de rigueur on this latitude.

The zoomed-out view from my kitchen door pedestal did not look too dramatic this morning. However, hailstones littered the garden and white dusted the nearby hill NW of us (not visible on the photrograph). I heard a gaggle of wild geese, very possibly Greylags, calling from Brakefield, as starlings gathered on my neighbours' ramskull and washing lines, June's and mine's. Such a familiar sight. Light remained dimmed through such short days.

If winter, as a season, selects the fittest of survivors, a hand from our part helps to limit the damage through this yearly carnival of death. Mother Earth and Father Sky have their way in dealing with the natural world, and many plant and animal species have adapted to cope with the gradual or sudden change of temperatures. For those who stay in one place all year round, they have no choice but face the perils of sedentary life, or rather, survival.
Like many thousands of us, friend & local wildlife photographer, Paula Moss, based at Girlsta, north of the town, invests in her local patch by feeding her local birds. Although she confessed she was "plagued" by over some "forty pigeons" (mix of Collared & Rock Doves), she found so much delight in mixing sheep fat with seeds & nuts. Her avian friends certainly appreciate her generosity, as they depend on such helping hand! Such gesture is now embedded in our hearts, and nature gives back in beauty what is so graciously offered to it.

Each solstice and equinox make

the very fabric of our world.

Meantime, we prepare for whiteworld as much as we can.

Coal, bagged and stacked against one wall,

the hearth now glows till late in the night.

Fat water-filled roasting dishes provide a little bit of goodness to our avian friends when left around during the day. Now night has overridden dusk, it will be emptied, washed and re-used for tonight's dinner.

Still keep an eye through the window, with a thought for my little feathery friends roosting in the trees of the nearby community garden, as well as those, such as wrens and robins, tucked in between stones of walls. Daily survival has its price.

Late night fun for new project

2011-11-29T23:45:00.001Z

Nat Hall,
nordicblackbird

after the blog,
myspace, twitter... the blackbird now sings on soundcloud.com

thanks to a pal, who posts as well and inspired.

The first two tracks were recorded just a little while ago, at a time when poetry was turned into sound. We were then experimenting with the spoken word as narrative inside a song when the words were not sung altogether...
Some never made it to the project. So they now have a new home and purpose.
More will follow, as material fills folders.

I still remember poet, editor and performer, John Hudson, telling me that my voice was my brand when performing poetry. There, you go, John - I have found a nouveau souffle through this platform.

And I intend to have fun with it.

Have added the site in the "HOMEWORLDS" Section on the right hand side of the blog.

And now to the kindred spirit who inspired,

You find him here:

Alastair Cook

Thank you, dear Al :-)

glimpse of light

2011-11-27T17:17:00.001Z

in between gales

sequence

a triangle of light appeared out of the gloom grey...
Not much at first, from SSE. It's just past noon. A NNW gale blows, overriding storm force winds from earlier this morning.

Contrasts belong to cardinal points.
A few minutes, as I look west. That gale wipes clean-crisp back to blue (oh, not for long). I love the old manse against that less dramatic background.
At its zenith, our star's elevation barely reaches 7.34º - temperatures have plummeted since gales have ravaged the island.

Looking SSW.
By lunchtime, light shines without shame,
but soon low clouds regain position by the hill! Our afternoon light last about three hours...

Still from SSW

As soon as our sun begins to set, I need to seek shelter once again,

as cold rain beads slash the double pane of my window.

A grey-filled sky darkens my world; only a tiny glimpse of light acts a rebel.

I am day-dreaming of first snow, as dusk settles.

A mix of rain, slush and hailstones crashed on the glass, so why not now. And when I look back towards west, an angry sky begins to show... Welcome to the claws of winter, just as those from the wolverine that dwells inside the boreal forest.

In time for night, the wind still howls through that gigantic megaphone, though its triads lose frequency. Somehow it became a little bit more Wagnerian!

And speaking of the boreal world, I shall leave you with a more seasonal string of haiku.

Wings of change -

raven at north junction,

in search of excess carrion.

#haiku fae 60N

Déshabillez-moi -

when first frost starves gardens from sap,

they yield to the wind in a nude.

#haiku fae 60N

Lean times -

wolverine paws in single white,

the raven has to be patient.

#haiku fae 60N

Around the eye of the storm

2011-11-26T18:56:00.001Z

Precipitated re-entry in winter

Just like a dream.
Inside this great universal cycle, I somewhat lost sense of November. Somebody said there was nearly something wrong with the system... African air filled November. The island warmed, for a moment, to suspended meaning of summer - the very one we never felt on the island!
Last Sunday felt so weird when I stood in the middle of my sand-bridge. Warm air currents flowing around as if they ignored the meaning of winter...

And now it's time to re-enter the spirit of winter.

Entrance to the Café, with terrace
in summer.

I first felt it when I jumped off my car on Friday morning... Gale-force winds turned so ferocious raindrops mutated into hail. And by the time dusk overrode day, we gathered for a hot chocolate at The Peerie Shop by the old harbour, the air turned cold. For a minute, I thought we might be christened with a flurry of snow.

Now we really feel back in winter.

Stormdays follow storm nights.

The sky turns black by mid afternoon and empties itself in horizontal style. Tucked inside my oilskin, I haste each pace. Roof tiles dance without shame - the marine forecast reads hideous. I pray our local fishermen moored their vessels in safe havens until wind speed recedes and blows a moment of respite. We are accustomed to the gales. They come, hiss and go. The island turns a ghost rock. The safest place remains by the hearth. So little light lets you glimpse though the edge of the storm. Our avian friends, wren, robin and blackbird, remain tucked in between the stones of our neighbours' wall. They sometimes perch on the ramskull that crowns Richard's totem, as if they wished to defy each outburst of the storm. However, their act of resilience does not last long. Safety on the ground prevails. The forecasters issued an Amber alert for wind for tomorrow with brighter skies... I keep an eye on the windsock. Rain remains rain as long as winds blow from a southerly direction. Should they veer N or NW-N, I will salute the first snowflakes of the season. My heart's puzzled. They're late this year.

The shipping forecast reads back to more seasonal expectations.

Let's go back to Kate's Words for Snow. "Flegme des neiges, Mistral despair... Terror blizzard - creaky-creaky"

Pirate

2011-11-22T23:11:00.001Z

Changement de pavillon linguistique

Le nomadisme ne connaît pas de frontière!
Cela me chatouillait depuis quelque temps... A bon traducteur Google, salut!
C'est en surfant sur le blog copain québéquois de La Taversée que je me suis dit,

"Eh bien quoi, pourquoi pas un petit détour géopoétique SPECIAL FRANCOPHONE POUR UNE FOIS?" Après tout, cela ne fait de mal à personne!
Que mes lecteurs se délectent dans une langue qui fait le bonheur des deux côtés de l'Atlantique Nord :-)

Pour toutes celles et tous ceux qui ne connaissent pas cet atelier de géopoétique, allez donc surfer sur le lien suivant (que vous trouverez également sur le côté droit du blog sous l'inscription: "Constellations")

La Traversée - Atelier de géopoétique québéquois

Benoît, Victoria et les amis de La Traversée, bonjour du milieu de l'Atlantique!

Mr Kenneth White ne cesse d'agrandir son archipel et regarder le monde à partir d'une île se révèle à la fois fort agréable et aventureux, puisque la longue vue vous permet, à partir d'une péninsule, la vision hyper-grand angle... Une longue vue, voire un télescope! Quel bonheur de se trouver balayé(e) par les vents, maquillé(e) par les embruns tout en se disant que, de toute façon, mieux vaut les odeurs d'iode et de kelp pourri que celles des abattoirs ou des longues queues aux embouchures d'autoroutes... Ha-ha, la vie d'insulaire sur cette latitude a le goût de sel!

Chers amis du Canada, et du monde francophone,
je vous suis sur vos blogs respectifs, et j'aime vous lire quelque soit la langue choisie.
Ce mode d'expression reflette assez bien l'esprit de Kenneth White, qui se plaît à converser oralement ou à l'écrit dans ces deux langues, que je considère "jumelles".

A bon voyageur, salut, et bonne traversée!

Hissez haut, hissez haut!

from Crafty Green Poet: Oceans - a film

2011-11-22T14:04:00.000Z

http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com/2011/11/oceans-film.html

Le(s) Peuple(s) Migrateur(s)

2011-11-22T12:49:00.001Z

Migration

We, who follow the sun.

For millennia, or at least, since our homeworld became inhabited by animals, most species (including our own!) have endeavoured such perilous treks across the vast expanses of continents, across oceans, via ancient land bridges. Man has invented rafts of all shapes and sizes to defy the even larger expanses of water. New lands, from atolls to entire continents, have been colonised in such ways. If only a few nomadic tribes still roam the most remote parts of our world, the vast majority of us have become sedentary. The invention of farming has turned the page forever, as settlements began to appear. Kingdoms, duchies & principalities later reinforced the trend; the concept of nationalism, nation-states & the invention of the passport ultimately sealed the fate for many of us... However, and as man invented imperialism, newer forms of migratory movements began to appear. Today, the concept of globalisation regulates (as much as it can) human migration according to "economic" needs. The old European & North American continents have turned into fortresses, an El Dorado, to many men, women and children, either in search of a better life or persecuted in their own homelands, whilst the Asian and African continents providing incessant and cheaper labour... (Mind you, within our own continent, the masses act as such in their own way). Migration, either within or from one to another island or continent, forced or voluntary, continues.

Fish, sea mammals and other dwellers of the great big blue do so solely for survival & natural life cycle purposes. Birds, on the other hand, as members of the avian kingdom, have, just like butterflies and moths, wings. No creatures need passports. They follow the cycles of our homeworld in the most natural ways. The only thing they are bound to is life.

Now, and just as I enjoyed reading Juliet Wilson's blog entry about her reaction to Oceans - the film - earlier on today (please click on link post above), I cannot help but add my stone to the edifice.
Jacques Perrin is as passionate as Sir David Attenborough when it comes to the natural world. He is a French actor and producer, with a formidable and poetical eye for the world he lives in. Together with partner in crime Jacques Cluzaud, he has signed tremendous wildlife documentaries, including Microcosme (Microcosmos) and Le Peuple Migrateur, or Winged Migration.

Here, Le Peuple Migrateur, for pleasure.

Oceans remains to be enjoyed :-)

50 Words for Snow

2011-11-21T00:09:00.001Z

Revealed

It's just past midnight and it feels like Christmas!
All the reviews read unanimous,
Kate's ten studio album, 50 Words For Snow, is her latest masterpiece.

A formidable tour de force, Kate releases not only one, but a second album in one year! Director's Cut revisited a patchwork of old songs revamped to suit her taste as fully finished work... In its footsteps follows a mystical album, fresh from her world. For your pleasure: Kate's home site: Fish People

It is a seasonal hymn to joy, as much as Aerial in its very own right.

It is currently downloading in " my little black box" (iPod's) iTunes... It is already imprinted in my heart. And if you want to give it a first listen before you order it,
please visit: 50 Words For Snow

Thank you, Kate, for a wonderful

album. Wild Man was a magical hors d'oeuvre!

With all the very best wishes, Kate & The Fish People!

With grateful, very grateful thanks for the photographs,

they are wonderful!

océanne

2011-11-20T16:27:00.001Z

oceanic

They call you wild sand. Something told me too many footprints come and gone, erased by tides, so many rounds of lunar lightyears...

I made a promise to my heart. Too long I waited to be re-united with your magic. So I walked through your marram grass and found sleeping dragon right at the edge. The light was delicious at lunchtime. I began to listen to you. I love your rocks and boulders clad with seaweed and limpets. There is something about you that reverberates on wet sand. I remember you clad in ice last winter. Now we're back in November I feel summer. No skelping wind against my face, warmth by your side. Indian summer pushed to the edge.

The edge. That very line drawn by your surf, the earthly seam of a curtain we dare not cross for fear to drown in the unknown. Not long ago, men feared to reach edge of the world - the uncharted, twisting, white-out, reckless void... Too many boats never returned inside their minds. To stand by the edge is to defy our very fears in the face of the horizon.

Change of Light

As I wander towards the centre of the sand-bridge, low clouds change everything.

Our bountiful November sun begins to play that very game of hide-and-seek. Silhouettes, rounded in gold background, seem to shiver a little more. I will not turn, so determined to feel at one with Arcania. Breakers sound so earthly metronome. Every pebble turns an island, every limpet shell, a mountain.

I can feel angels around you.

Closer to the shore,

I see you.

As I walk back towards the mainland, I feel the claws of the darklands. Low clouds engulf your every hill, like a hungry gigantic mouth. My world darkens further as I drive north. Too soon we shall revert to dusk and today's sunset's deleted...

I still hear you inside my heart.

Each wave, each return of the tide...

yesterday I whistled to two selkies south of your bridge, today I walked along your edge, double bladed, synchronised song. Mist may swallow the last hours of my Sunday, my prints will remain on your sand.

selkie whistler

2011-11-19T18:25:00.001Z

sunset spirit

Arcania shines in November. Cobalt blue skies adorn a sun low and yet still bright. The island harbours an ice-free world few dare to fret.

Whereas geese and fieldfares grace winter fields, the other side of the loch, much closer to the shore, attracts the eye. Sunset is approaching. Every starling still mingles in lukewarm air, as our star begins to slide behind a front. Its every moves dictates our world how to behave. That horizon distracts my heart. I jump over the fence to join him by the shore.

He is whistling to the north Atlantic. From the distance, ripples, one and then two dots appear at the surface of the ocean. He tells me to walk slowly closer to them and keep whistling. He walks away as I begin this selkie song. My steps feel light, as I reach the nearest boulder to sit. Time has vanished. Crouched on my rock, I watch their every movement. My whistling arouse their curiosity. They disappear and re-surface a little closer...

Immersed in this strange musical game, our closest star begins to glow a little more. Our Nordic sky turns honey gold and I wonder if they will return after dusk and shift into our shape for a night... I leave my two sea mammal friends and watch starlings gather in a sky of fire.

My island world has little time to prepare for darkness. Four moorhens swim away on the shallow loch. Swans and geese feed franticly. A closer look towards the croft and starlings melt inside the sky. Roosting time.

The urge to reach new altitude is shared as eyes turns towards honey. The narrowness of the island allows grand views from my favourite hilltop. However, a quick look around a semi-derelict croft by the roadside lets me capture two orange eyes with tufted ears. Yes, one silent hunter rests on a metal gate... Or is it resting? Its head turns like a lighthouse beam after sunset. It is looking at my lens and it knows I am here, hiding in one corner. I will not go closer. The air turns crisper as crimson is far too eager to wash the sky. It feels a race against night.

From my hilltop, I gaze at Ninian in lost blue...

Too soon, crimson has filled a perfect moment. It is just 1545 and, by the time I am back home, dusk has settled in the island. Am still thinking of those selkies inside that bay, and feel their spirits in darkness.

Will be dreaming of ocean folk and maybe walk on my sand bridge tomorrow...

seasonal wonders

2011-11-15T22:50:00.001Z

My idea of Saturday afternoon

I spend my workdays in the town.

Five days a week, as soon as dawn vanishes, my mind is set for tarmac and corridors, a blue office behind thick glass. As a general rule, weekends belong to the island - its barren hills and elliptic bays, when I do not end up at a friend's for a slice of life in tête-à-tête... I try as hard as I can to replenish larders and shelves some time between day 1 and 5.

Now, last Saturday broke the rule. Yet, and since am not bound by timetable, I took my time and involved my other half in the expedition. A simple thought would create twists for such a chore... The town usually bustles as soon as the week is about to end, as busy shoppers wander around Commercial Street and the two local supermarkets. To add to the "island mayhem", a local craft fair & food festival were housed at Clickimin...

Some twelve miles (around 20km) separates us from the island's only urban centre. A North-South stretch of tarmac, slightly sinuous in places, allows us to reach it in some 20-25 minutes... Yet we went off the beaten track to peep at meadows filled with life, as we left our hut in mid-Afternoon. Magic places, Aith Meadows, Fladdabister... Patchworks of colours during summer - teeming with life & breath taking scapes. In November light, autumn visitors land and find shelter around pastures, ditches and fields.

European White-fronted geese graced part of the afternoon as we meandered along Aith Voe, that long and narrow inlet of sea that serves as a local harbour & safe haven for seals, waders and seabirds. So soft in mild November light. Their pink bills differs from that of their counterparts from Greenland, that come in greater numbers around the island... Scarce treasure :-)

As we pursued our way northwards, the sea was bashing the coastline.

By the time we reached the town, we pit-stopped at Clickimin Loch to try and find an even scarcier visitor, a Great Crested Grebe. The last one recorded on that expanse of fresh water dates back to 1976 (!) How happy we were to find it as soon as I stopped the engine. Exotic fellow just before sunset...

Funny how a single food shopping trip can turn into a wildlife adventure...

All bird photographs courtesy of my other half,

with grateful thanks :-)

in memoriam

2011-11-11T22:09:00.001Z

culture of peace

Né sous une bonne étoile.

I still remember my maternal grand mother who hammered in my heart how fortunate I was to be born in relative peace time. "Relative" in the sense no bombs fall on my head in spite of fears incessantly generated by some politicians backed (or pushed) by their generals. So far in my lifetime, I witnessed extraordinary events: the Fall of the Berlin Wall, German re-unification, collapse of communism pre-seeded by glasnost - in other words, historical steps towards peace between nations tarnished by blood over centuries. Peace secured all around fields our ancestors fought in the name of their rulers... We all have a poppy to wear. For centuries, families have lost loved ones in the name of political madness.

Since early childhood, I have learnt to remember those who fell in the fields of northern France and Flanders. On every 11 November, we were led to the monument aux morts by our teachers. Wherever I stand, I remember all men who were sacrificed in a name of a war, irrespective of nationality, since nationalism was invented to elevate states to extreme competition and human carnage . Nobody asks to die in such ways. In the name of politics, propaganda glorifies any conflict. Nobody plasters Dulce et Decorum Est on the door of their parliament, hospital or court of justice. And yet war poetry is studied at secondary level. Pupils learn and forget the messages of brave young men, like Wilfred Owen, who dared to denounce the true face of war and condone its illusions.

Earlier on at school today, I attended Armistice Day Ceremony within the walls of the old institute. Our Lord Lieutenant stood in full regalia, together with officials & other dignitaries to celebrate forty nine pupils who fell during WWI. Poignant moment, as wreathes were laid under the framed list of the boys, and selected pupils read out their names after the reading of In Flanders Fields . Two minutes ' silence were observed on the eleventh hour in the entire establishment, as the rest of the island and at national level. Our local piper & final words from the local history teacher closed the ceremony.

My heart warped through time as I remember the picture of my great grand father, a stretcher-bearer, gassed at Verdun and at Le Chemin des Dames and think of all men and women embroiled in all recent conflicts. As if human flesh was still regarded as a "commodity"...

By celebrating Armistice Day, we remember all those who have been sent to nothing but reckless butchery.

I wrote a haiku this morning before I left for school. It read:

Coquelicots -

pinned on the tartan of your scarf,

explosive red in foreign fields.

#haiku fae 60N

spirit of the grasshopper

2011-11-07T22:01:00.000Z

chanson de mer

Boarding a boat to cross a stretch of water, however wide and wild, leaves you with a taste of adventure in the very first place. It even feels like a game around the island. Opposite "the bay of mud" as it was once christened by the Vikings, the only urban settlement on its east side, lies another, far less populated island, that seems to call you from afar. Dominated by its Wart, (main hill), head-dressed with two TV masts, it shelters the island's main port. No wonder why men have used the Sound as a fantastic anchoring, rendez-vous point as long as man can remember... MV Leirna was waiting quietly on Sunday morning. Her earliest crossing on Sunday begins at 1030. The very first weekend of November, draped in shameless blue crowns my grasshopper (or should I refine it to waterhopper) spirit. What a day for it! Islanders cross and meet with their inquisitive eyes, always looking to recognise you on either side of the Sound. There are two smiling at me as we briefly meet. We exchange a few words of friendship and go our ways - theirs, in the town - as my impatience to be re-united with my friend on the other side grows.

Only fifteen minutes separate us.

A few grey seals play hide and seek around the boat before we leave.
Earlier on, I watched the lifeboat leave its base on the other side of Victoria Pier.

Its skyline somehow melts in that sea of blue. The SW'lies only whisper in the middle of the Sound. A guillemot in winter plumage paddles happily in the harbour. The craft slowly moves away from its urban terminal. My adventure is set. The town looks impressive from the water. A last look over my shoulder before my eyes look to the much coveted side... The sun shines on my face at 2 o'clock and refracts warmth on the water. Soon I recognise this friendly shore and man-made rocky breakwater that shelters the "home" terminal. I know my friend waits for me by the carpark.

I have an affinity with that small island; it seems to be one of those cradles of precious connections. Within minutes, eyes and smiles meet and a short drive to a well-kept secret garden begins. My mission for the day will begin after a cup of tasty coffee (or rocket fuel, continental style!) and a tour of the estate gets under way. I love the place. It has its own shore, pier, boat shed and fabulous greenhouse around the family home.

As soon as we gaze at the old stony pier covered with barnacles, redshanks and ringed plovers fly off in a flurry of high-pitched calls, flushed by our voices. A well camouflaged common seal, somewhat oblivious to our presence, turns its head to meet our eyes. It does not stay dry very long.

My imagination begins to run wild. what if stones really speak? They might tell you those ancient booths once served as fishmerchants' stores where trade in kind took place... They would take you back maybe as far as the hanseatic times, when islanders would trade in fish for gin or tobacco - socks for bread and linen... Wool for pistol or gun powder. Any dwelling with a first floor was called a Haa - a laird's (landlord's) house, a place with stature. A blue kayak lies on the grass by the gate. Others are locked inside the shed.

But what mission might you think?

Yes, I crossed the water with a precise mission in mind, that of helping my friend with mending a small dry stone wall. Locally, we call this stanedaekin. Little did I know of the size of the job... Restricted to a flowerbed, I smiled once I was fully explained. Although it did not look big at all, stanedaekin requires patience and time among other things. I was taught the art by Jim, a local stone mason from my part of the (main) island when I was connected with another island, Mousa . There, I took part in the reconstruction of an old daek (dry stone wall) blown up by a shipwreck... Two years were necessary to complete the job. Grand learning curve whilst falling in love with such art. Stones are amazing, as well as the main building material since man eventually over-exploited the local wood beyond beliefs... Did you know fuel poverty dates back to the time of the late Stone Age on this old rock? From the moment man began to burn peat (turf) as a substitute for wood, he had already reached a point of no return... Walking back to the house filled my heart with spirit. My little job occupied us for a good part of the day. Resilient in the face of a challenge, I endeavoured to give it my best. A dry stone wall reminds me of a 3-D jigsaw. Each stone must sit without wobbling. Its shape and size determines its choice of position. So we turned them round and round. My critical eye became fussy as afternoon overrode morning. A good puzzle if you know what I mean!

In any case, my friend served lunch by mid-afternoon, as I was still fiddling with the quasi-finished work. By the time we sat at table, satisfaction filled my heart. A definite improvement to the flowerbed was achieved, we giggled, as we sipped our soup.

Sunset kicks in early on this latitude in November.

I would return with the 1600 ferry slashing through the Sound at dusk.

A day well spent on an island filled with warmth and friendship.

My friend drove me back to our morning meeting point. A stronger SW'ly breeze would meet me half-way through the stretch of water. At this time in late afternoon, curlews fly low above water to reach their roost. The air turns crisp and much saltier... Lights from the town begin to glow. The urban settlement turns a ghost place. Time to go home by the hearth.

I love island hospitality. My grasshopper spirit grows from strength to strength.

post scriptum 2 "celebration"

2011-11-05T22:59:00.000Z

If you are interested in

Remember, remember, the 5th of November...

celebration

2011-11-05T22:39:00.002Z

In every garden, a bonfire

Now Samhain has come and gone,

the United Kingdom celebrates Guy Fawkes' Night by lighting bonfires in every corner of the island group.
Folk gather around fires on the 5th of November, crack and/or marvel at fireworks, and share sausage rolls among themselves... That famous rhyme is hummed and remembered. I guess it is an opportunity to gather and share a moment in the blackness of late autumn... Yet I wonder if Guy Fawkes' rebellious spirit has evaporated in all that smoke...

My bonfire took place in a sensational sky earlier on today. Galactic one that refracted on the North Atlantic in amazing hues of gold and pastel pink... Unforgettable moment, as I walked the bay of West Voe with Dave and Paul, two keen birding souls in search of a November visitor, a Grey Phalarope. The great white sandy beach was littered with sugar kelp - feast for starlings and other birds, such as sanderlings, red shanks and other waders - and rollers crashed gently in turquoise colour. Idyllic scene. We walked the length of the white sand to find our curious visitor, as tame as its counterpart, the Red-Necked Phalarope, that breeds on the Island of Fetlar every summer. Joy was as pink as our evening Nordic sky. What a treat to end a magic Saturday!

The day had begun in a morning of Shetland blue, as I joined in a time warp walk back into the past - very distant past, Bronze and Iron Ages - at the Clickimin Broch with a group of [other] friends. Time stood still around old stones. We congregated by the ancient causeway and made our way around the ancient sites of settlement. Two footprints tattooed on a stone... A blockhouse guards the old Iron Age structure some Gentlemen of Lerwick remoulded as a strange jigsaw some two centuries ago. Amazing walk. We walked around the King's footprints and connected back with a share heritage, that of Dalriadia ...

The more we wandered around them, the more questions came to our minds. I was told stones talk. They certainly keep amazing secrets, to which we must bow. We meandered in and out of the broch in awe and respect. Its entrance is not aligned to the East, but to the opposite cardinal point. However, the site's alignment to the ancient causeway via the blockhouse remains equally puzzling... When we think "broch", we think tower, like a medieval dungeon. Now the folk who built those complex structures had communities in mind, as opposed to feudal lords, who sought prestige and delusion of grandeur in a castle only they could inhabit. Brochs were erected for a different purpose, even though other round structure with less status were also constructed... Fascinating world!

As the afternoon unfolded, my appetite for the natural world led my heart back to the southern tip of the Island, Dunrossness - the magic of the South Mainland. A hazy sky was just about to explode in honey with such precocious sunset. My primal idea was to salute the swans and other wildfowl at Spiggie Loch - however, the trip was cut short by a trio of long-eared owls roosting in a sycamore just opposite the Spiggie Hotel. As soon as we stopped the motor and grabbed our cameras, Paul drove up the single track road, stopped his engine and watched the owls with us. A quick beep from his mobile signalled the curtailed trip and diversion to West Voe for the Phalarope. Argghhh, I shall marvel properly at the sunset tomorrow, since the forecast remains optimistic... Meanwhile, the southern tip of the island is currently home to thousand of thrushes, including the handsome redwing and fieldfare.

Delightful Saturday.

I did not have sausage rolls by the bonfire tonight., but roasted duck & veg in the comfort of my nordic hut. My bonfire belongs to the magic of our world dazzled by a pastel end of day. I leave religion and politics to the artificial world.

All bird photographs courtesy of my other half :-)

post scriptum to "new writing adventure"

2011-11-05T21:06:00.002Z

This much anticipated adventure with The Serpentine Writers/Drama Group has begun in earnest!

...Am back into Theatre.

Happy poet :-)

New writing adventure

2011-11-01T23:41:00.002Z

Am really looking forward to joining The Serpentine Writers' Group this month, as this will enable further creative growth, which I take as a new challenge. I humbly accepted friend, poet, playwright and actress Jane McKay's invitation earlier on in the summer and am now eager to share with the group. Jane has kept a critical eye over my verse (haiku & other forms) for some time now and may this new association allow my work to find a new élan & flourish in a new environment.

Serpentine Writers

Our very first gathering is scheduled for this Thursday (3 November) at The Shetland Library. New material is ready. Joining a new group is always exciting, as I still remember the very first steps into Shetland Arts (Trust)'s writers groups, South, Lerwick and Westside.

New eyes, blood and pens.

Tales of Mystery & Terror

2011-10-31T21:53:00.001Z

Calling to the spirits

A warmish breeze blows around the walls of my home. Not a living soul wanders at this time in the night. Sweeties await all those who dare knock on my door. A small army of Trick-or-Treaters usually brave wildest of gusts.

Strange, as the final night of October usually feels crisper. Have lit candles around each room, carved my pumpkin just after dusk... Nightfall so precocious now clocks reverted to Nordic blackness. It is a time of reflection as flames follow dance of shadows. Tonight, we celebrate spirits of all our departed loved ones to the Other world.

Tonight, my heart welcomes Samhain , the autumn's farming festival, with warmth and compassion.

Three nights ago, we were applauding our Shetland Librarians, who put a show in full spirit and regalia. Led by Karen Fraser & her gang of intrepid colleagues, actors, poets and musicians entertained a gathering of fine folk for nearly two hours. Shetland Library 's Second Edition of Halloween Night, Tales of Mystery & Terror, starred local based Serpentine Drama Group among other troubadours.
Kat(astrophe) Brack opened the ball with accounts of chilling short stories, a poignant war poem and a wacky rap! Her very first attempt in the (third) genre she confessed on the night! The Hellish Fiddler kept everybody on their toes (and ears) in-between each act...
Then entered Serpentine , with a chilling tale entitled Three Brides,
led by writer, playwright & actress Jane McKay. The troupe of formidable amateur actors kept the audience on edge till the very end.

Jordan "Ogre" closed the curtain for Part One with a string of sombre, ghostly songs acoustic style. Our Hellish Fiddler, as pictured in the background, behaved herself till our hostess invited the whole assembly to potions and elixirs during the interlude. Her shrieking fiddle remained silent, as Jordan struck the final chords on his guitar.

Nat H(orrid), the Blackbird from the north, as introduced by Miss Fraser, opened the second part of the evening's entertainment... Two poems, acrostic Halloween & The Ferryman, especially written for the occasion, were shared among two other characters, The Ghoul, by American poet Jack Prelutsky and The Hag, by English poet Robert Herrick.

Serpentine's masters of speech, through Debbie Nicolson & Peter Ratter, delighted the audience further with delightful performances in their own style and verve. Peter even had to drop his fangs for more palatable enunciation! But then, Morag appeared on stage with a chilling & true account of horror based on her ancestor's involvement with Yell's most horrific (and world famous) spooky home, Windhouse. The tone was now firmly set in red tarnished darkness!

"Milford The Malevolent" (usually so reserved around the library...) closed the night's catalogue of Tales of Mystery & Terror with un certain je ne sais quoi of light-heartedness and savage guitar riffs, which kept the entire assembly in effroi and laughters - that is, once he plugged in his Gibson and let it resonate in utter amplified horrid style! An impromptu technical contre-temps was so delicately filled by our dear Hellish Fiddler with a certain delight, as she was eventually let loose for some serious deafening solo triads whilst Milford was getting ready! ...What a night! Until next October, Our dear hellish Fiddler will remain an angel.

My grateful thanks for your invitation, dear Shetland Librarians.

Performing under your roof remains a pleasure.

Now, over one hour has passed since I began tonight's entry, and not a single set of knuckles resonated on the wood of my front door. Spooky, as my pumpkin still signals my will to treat. maybe they will appear later... Maybe they met with the spirits and decided to play elsewhere. October's final gusts sweep this evening's hours and makes way to November.

Here's to you all:

Halloween

Hailthe spirits

Aroundtrick-or-treat

Lollipop,candy, sweet death,

Lemon–

Openyour door to Jack,

Witches,ghouls, free that night,

Evencarved pumpkin smiles at windows…

Ecstasythrough the eyes of ravens,

Nacaraton long sleeves of scarecrows.

©Nat Hall 2011

TheFerryman

Welcometo the Gates of Hades,

wheresailors throw coins to the gods,

adriftbetween heaven & hell,

knellof blue swell

onwooden hulls...

Don'tlook for the Isle of the Blest,

noneed to bribe the ferryman.

Listenfor silence from shadows

whowander through dark-dreary land;

nowthrow your flowers

insidehell,

knellof blue swell

againstyour hull,

payyour due to the ferryman.

Holdon to the side of your boat,

wherewater bears so many names:

riverof woe, fire or hate,

lamentation,forgetfulness...

Nowraise your glass to the raven,

heavenor hell,

knellof blue swell,

one-wayfare to the ferryman.

©Nat Hall 2011

Happy Samhain, Happy Halloween!

pictorial

2011-10-19T23:52:00.000+01:00

...Can you hear it, can you hear it screaming? Oppressive, with shafts of madness, burning white. It holds bolts of hailstorms; unleashes ice, surgical blades, beyond belief and darkens wings of all angels... It holds hostage our precious sun, and will not beg for redemption.

screaming skies

2011-10-19T00:24:00.000+01:00

all in good time

Standing in the midst of the island, bare and battered by autumn skies, Atlantic rain and double-bladed rainbows, I look at the grandeur of Arcania in-between two disproportionate seasons; that ephemeral summer tail-gated by the harshness of winter.

What if, in between, autumn lingered in summer blue? Wait for your turn on the side of the track, where you can find a passing place and see if that screaming sky can reveal the remains of a better blue... Only days ago, it felt that way. A generous sun dazzled our eyes , as we explored the Eastern shore, where otters and starlings find pleasure by the kelp. One would never pray for better afternoon. Luminous Arcania, unafraid of the faintest breeze, offered perfect reflections of herself in each firth, burn and bays.

By the end of the afternoon, a generous star lit the small fishing harbour, where men gathered to share the load of their labour. It is the time of year to keep boats off water and mend their hulls... Dancing spirit in a honey sky in the name of the painter's dream.

Many a folk call such autumn gift, Indian summer.

But then again, I always listen to the wind. And when it wakes, this clement sky begins to scream and unleash gusts, as clouds empty themselves in a shameless and unreserved manner. It is a time when we look up to this two-faced October. Double-bladed rainbows arch on a semi-water clogged land, void of colours, since heather bells, cotton grass and bog asphodel burnt through cold snaps. A SW gale has given way to a NW fresh breeze.

And in-between two squalid showers, wild geese land in lush fields; golden plovers perform airborne ballets as stunning as those by starlings above the marsh... Lapwings and gulls chase a juvenile Pallid Harrier around meadows; swans feed in the shallowness of a maritime loch alongside a plethora of ducks - wildfowl galore! ...Hello, Earth - hello, Earth!

And I wonder how far away winter can be. The air turned cold within days. Hail and thunder slashed a warm dream... I sometimes stop at passing places, watch and listen for earth and sky. And when my world begins to speak, I feel the spirit of hairst, autumn, as the light changes all the time. Wood and coal, bagged, line up to the side of the hearth. Daylight shrinks like nylon to the flame. Provisions have been made for the lean months ahead. Most of our summer visitors turned into poltergeists and gave way to their visiting winter counterparts, as Redwings notably invested our hillsides in place of skylarks... Many exotic avian wonders also fall from a sky charged with howling powers, and find themselves stranded on this part of the world. That juvenile Pallid Harrier is a fine example! Men come to find them from afar... Amazing migration.

Until the end of the month, light still prevails over darkness. Fine respite...Until I find prints in the snow.

selected haiku string

October -

wreath of gold leaves on hedgehog's trail,

essence of hairst.

#haiku fae 60N

Coeur de la terre -

triads of starlings' strident tales

in-between calls of flushed redwings.

#haiku fae 60N

Tucked in -

go through a gale,

feathers against stones.

#haiku fae 60N

Song of the moment:

across edge from the dark jade sea

2011-10-02T17:25:00.001+01:00

just past high hairst

Everything lies on the edge of the dark jade sea.
I am listening to Donald Munro Graham's recorded collection of verse, entitled Red Donal's March Across the Atlantic, so rich in passion and Scot. Carbeth's bard takes me back to this landlocked haven, as am about to walk my shore.

I barely noticed our rite of passage through the equinox, even though night has begun to duel with light. Now seven days away from wandering along the edge of the island without a watch, I can now photograph sunrise, which coincides with waking time.
Colours at dawn, dusk or at night begin to glow. Last Monday night alone, did we stand still inside stillness of our garden to marvel at the Northern Lights. This Nordic sky was filled with them! I love high hairst (or mid-Autumn).

Everything turns equidistant.

Still overgrown, in spite of early air frost that turn leaves gold and brittle, the remnants of summer still shine within our own garden.

Late flowers, rose hips and self-heal add to the lushness of a bountiful second day of October. Exceptional and surprising at this time in the year, that Shetland Blue I love to sing lingers around my very northern latitude.Warm days ended September with a plethora of constellations so visible last Tuesday night... I kept a vigil till my eyelids turned too heavy, as I was hoping for the magic of Aurora Borealis to repeat their showcase. Since our universe remains so Wagnerian, I recorded a portion of it , sheltered from that warm S wind.

And

if morning dew lingers through our gradual shortening days, those beads of water seem to preserve precious moments on each leaf blade.

The island looks so majestic in dimmer light. And as our closest star begins to fade behind my hill, I shall sit back close to the hearth until dusk knocks... I shan't forget this first Sunday of October.

corrugated way of thinking

2011-09-18T22:56:00.000+01:00

in the name of the wood.

We tend to forget where we're from.

However glamourous cities may feel - tinsel-style glow from out of space or simply concrete-convenient - magnets from the material (artificial) world somehow distort perspective from a realer world.

The notion of a simple life - off motorways, double-glazed, lockable windows and other peace of mind security devices - closer to the world we can feel, see , touch, smell from dawn to dusk, as vibrant as a dawn chorus, sometimes feel like a distant dream.

In the name of money making, we lock ourselves in our own jails and lose sight of a richer life.

Before man became a city dweller, he was a woodsman and he belonged to the world of country folk.

However precarious his place in this world might have been, his sense of wealth was not much different to today's urban world.

He knew the meaning of red;

could read danger in what he collected from the woods for survival, and build shelters in harmony with his surroundings.

Glasgow erected by the Celts.

Carbeth, only some fifteen minutes from today's town centre, has kept this sense of living among the grandeur of the woods. On my very first visit in early September, I fell in love with, not only Carbeth Guthrie, but the entire estate - hutters' world.

Hut, cabane, that currogated way of life, of thinking, has always inhabited my heart. I still remember my very first hut, in the backyard of my grand parents' rented accommodation, Rue de la Libération in Gisors, Normandy, was nicknamed by my maternal grand mother as "la cabane au Canada". A simple shed turned into a cosy hut by my Mamie, with my grand father's help, enchanted my early childhood. It was a place where imagination could roam free and safe at will. During summer, we would spend all our days... Countless lunches, afternoons and early evenings behind the high walls of our secret world. Safe from the incessant traffic and other urban chaos. A safe haven, in which we could smile and live as ourselves.My grand parents were tenants and lived at No. 18, just underneath the attic of a building that had survived Nazi bombs from WWII. Every spring, swallows would return to their respective nests just under the edge of the slate roof. At dusk, I still remember the blackbird calling and performing its majestic song... To walk around the Carbeth Estate with my friend and boat builder, Ruth Macdougall as my guide, made me reconnect to this notion of currogated world.

Simple life, Thoreau Style

A hutter's way of thinking and lifestyle is by no means an easy one.
American essayist, poet, philospher and individualist, Henry D Thoreau, has devoted his sense of geopoetics around a pond and wood near Concord, Massachusetts. To be a hutter is to accept a more modest, close-to-the natural world. Thoreau was a "pirate" in many ways, notably by rejecting the comfort of the urban life for a comfortable socio-economical member of a society dictated by so few through money and laws... He belonged to a league of men who saw their place in a world free of artificial frills so very few folk actually enjoy. The faces I met on the Carbeth Estate were those of happy common folk with smiles. Some huts look really trendy and cosy, whereas others, dilapedated... To live inside the wood is not necessarily a priviledge exclusive to a few in our day and age.

To be a hutter is to accept our place in a material world in which rocks do not need to shine in terms of monetary value. My material world is full of rocks, shells and pebbles, I usually encounter when walking the shore of my island. To be a hutter is to accept that the wind can whistle through the walls of your home, or shake floors during a storm, or even a leaking roof. To live at one with the world as it is known free of monetary mirrors... Ten years ago, I fled the fever of the city and came closer to this less comfortable way of life (as this may be perceived by some). My wealth is my freedom as well as my hutter's way of thinking, as taught by my maternal grand mother initially when I was a child. My "cabane shetlandaise" remains my castle. Such way of life has brought me closer to the natural world, the real world as well as a simpler life. I am proud to be a hutter on my island and feel at one with fellow hutters from Carbeth!

Haiku string

huttersworld (1) -

in every corner of the wood,

free to live at one with the world.

#haiku fae 60N

huttersworld (2)

magpies' delight,

Chinaman's hat shines inside wood.

#haiku fae 60N

huttersworld (3)

not quite the barn or the byre,

currogated way of thinking.

#haiku fae 60N

view from the side of the boat

2011-09-07T21:45:00.002+01:00

In the name of the blue

I do not leave the island very often.

I like to smell dry rotting kelp along my shore, watch hog-weed dry in evening sun and catch rollers splash in light blue. Yet I relish raw adventures every time I flirt with sand! One year ago, I met a girl in a carpark, who loves to tame water and waves. So we gathered at The Marlex and began to share boat stories... One year ago, she spoke of yowl and coracle. Too easily new ideas fashioned in my head.

One year on and her new nomadic craft takes to water.

Miss Macdougall can be proud of her achievements. With the help of her mentor, John Miles, and surrounded by curach lovers, she learnt to tame oak, deal and red pine; the best nails and pure calico to fashion her curach o Carbeth! Oh, yes, and tar!

Launch o the Sunfish 3 Sep 2011

Within twelve months, she packed her bags to the shore of Lake Victoria, where she pioneered the very first African-style coracle with Ugandan visual Artist, Sheila Nakitende of @rtpunch studio...

Returned home to work on her boat; flew south to Norwich for a Conference, where she brought in her coracle and spoke about her Humblyband. And as avid as she is with her world adventures, she visited Ireland to learn about this Irish maritime tradition, through the wisdom of experts. In between Check-in desks, the boat shed sheltered her dear nomadic craft.

Within that year, I fed her e-box with poems as a direct response of boat building stages. That creative flow of words, from my shore had somewhat turned in a lifeline! Sometimes geographical distances can hinder many things. Our geopoetical one closed such distance. From North Atlantic shore to shore of Carbeth Loch, there is only one flight! So, on the 3rd of September, I left my edge of the island and joined in the celebration. She named it Curach & Candles. What a weekend it proved to be! Ruth and her clan opened me their door with such open heart in the grand tradition of Scottish hospitality. Within seconds, I felt at home among such uncharted surroundings. Carbeth Guthrie, on the very edge of huttersworld, felt somehow so familiar...

By the shore of Carbeth Loch, we gathered and celebrated the beauty of Sunfish - her sheer elegance on water and shared poetics in action. At Ruth's request, some selected verse was shared at this great gathering. Poetry specifically written on my side of the shore, and, from Donald Munro Graham, aka Donnie, Carbeth's own local bard. Wordsmiths gathered for Humblyband. Ruth Macdougall smiled and jumped on her boat after she unveiled the golden letters on transom! Her eagerness to hold both oars has now become legendary!

I first came to Carbeth with my Moleskine and standard lens. Among this forested new world, I forged new bonds, met with Lindsay, our remaining crew member and re-united with my friend & boat builder. There I have found a bit of my dear Arcania.

bound by one world

2011-08-13T18:31:00.002+01:00

below leaves and petals

Today I woke to dancing rain.
I took my time to stretch my limbs. Against the pane of my window, that incessant knocking of drops and devil wind. The hut felt cool at ten o'clock. Tystie the cat shared body warmth on patchwork quilt. On my last Saturday of freedom, I would not rush hands from the clock.

strange summer

Funny as we need to accept chaos.

Here, in my world, where life bows to whims of the wind, I take full advantage of light days. Yesterday belonged to the sun. The island looks industrious. Meadows still dazzle with colours. Scabius, autumn hawkbit and buttercup.... Bog asphodel, eyebright and angelica; the land has proven generous. Swallows still slash our August sky. I pushed my wander to Clumlie and found mischievous animals; pirating arctic skuas and their cousins (great skuas, aka "bonxies") on a raid to a common gull... Avian behaviour sometimes matches that of humans. Nothing shocking, you might think there, since we belong to the same kingdom order.

Last week's social unrest in another part of the world, where I once lived and taught in a previous life, so far away geographically, rekindled mixed flavoured memories. Communities tied to tarmac, and firmly kept inside bubbles by an elite, have to make-do with a code that keeps everyone in line. But when the artificial world (money, greed-led order) pushes some to a precipice, I see bonxies roaming around cliff ledges in search of an easy snack, or orcas playing in the surf with their own preys. I still have sentimental ties with some of those affected areas and my heart goes to all who have crossed my path, as well as the communities so resilient in the face of fear & adversity.

Here, on the island, I watch filtered news snippets from the distance, as my marked aversion for that wheel of news was already amplified years earlier... Below leaves and petals, nobody's spared from the laws of chaos. We just prepare for leaner days. Soon the autumn equinox will balance night and day... And as my northern hemisphere slides back in to darkness, I need to remember that our world has more than one facet - faces that are regulated by a greater order, that of our universe. To walk outside that artificial bubble is to set ourselves free and walk to the edge of an ocean, at dawn (or dusk)! It is called awakening.

Nocturn - Movie, courtesy of Burgeois, illustrates my final argument. Enjoy the ride! (And yes, it illustrates Kate's masterpiece, Nocturn.)

from one roof of the world

2011-08-11T23:43:00.001+01:00

elevation

My immediate thought leads me to Baudelaire's Elevation, as I reach the top of one of my favourite headlands, Compass Head. From this altitude, I contemplate the majesty of the southern edge of the island. Today, shameless blue defines both sides of horizon. Tall grass in full bloom bows to a cool wind and feathers glide among eddies. There isn't a single dry stone wall; only a fence to save sheep from obliging to gravity... Those quadrupeds do not seem daunted by running so close to the edge, fenced or not. From this angle, Sumburgh Head Light soothes my heart. It feels so safe in the distance. How I savour this moment of plenitude. My avian companions defy the whims of the wind through dare-devil acrobatics; a shameless sun warms my epidermis. All feels at peace in this chaos. To feel at one with my hillside, I lay the length of my body and listen to the wind.

What a lovely afternoon... Kate's Sky of Honey crops in my head, like a very natural leitmotiv. My North Atlantic resembles le coeur de la mer and shines like a thousand sapphires. In the distance, two islands rekindle happy memories - Fair Isle to the SSW and Noss, NNE. Both "big rocks" are home to a myriad of feathers. Both dominate the horizon, as they tower up in this Nordic sky. And I feel somewhere in between... Breathing out and breathing in. Serenity fills my heart. I love the view and find my place in the tall grass. Time has become irrelevant, here, as the universe synchronizes my earthride. This code of chaos reigns all around the peninsula in sheer splendour! ...Up, up,up on the roof! In the sun.... Aerial

Drinking from the blue cup of both sky and Atlantic can only connect us with the world and generate happiness to the point of giddiness! Such moments may not last days on end, hence their precious status! On my way back to the magic line of latitude, Foula ("Bird Island") smiles at me from the West. I love the way monsieur Baudelaire elevates the heart; he would feel home on this island.

Cloudbusting is now playing on the computer, as this walk comes to an end. Kate's 1985 anthem remains tattooed in my heart every time I go uphill. Not Oxfordshire's Dragon Hill, but a headland I sometimes reach to touch and dream. Hmmm, on such subject of mythical place-names, I have Dragon's Head at Ninian, The Drongs (Dragon's Teeth) at Eshaness and Dragon's Leg on Bressay... Though I promised myself to re-visit Dragon's Hill on my next trip to Oxfordshire!

Triptych of haiku on the subject of chaos

Scientist's dream -

look at branch of the old birch tree,

chaos fashioned from gentle breeze.

#haiku fae 60N

Laws of Chaos -

on arctic shores, kamikaze lemmings

oblivious to man's equation.

#haiku fae 60N

Black sun -

starlings' ballet in orange sky,

rule of seven neighbours.

#haiku fae 60N

from blue to blue

2011-08-07T18:30:00.002+01:00

Light refractors

On a wander around my favourite hilltop, I can easily marvel at the magic light produces when refracting on water... Light cobalt from a clear day all around. And if I peep towards the edge of the picture, this ocean blue surrounds the southern tip of the island. From this altitude, I stop and stand - enjoy a view on the same way a great skua or a raven need to survive... Breathtaking moment as my fingers comb the sky.
The other side is a treasure. This water-clogged world of mires is home to elusive merlins,
the smallest of the falcon family on this side of the Atlantic. On arrival, one whizzes below eye level. Such encounter feels like an earthly privilege and I wonder if this individual was not the one who caused so much havoc among a gang of starlings a few years earlier! This impromptu thought takes my heart back to a thrilling moment, as I once found a trio of starlings seeking refuge inside my car as a merlin performed a last minute L shape stunt before my eyes in order to avoid collision! (Yes, it was a boannie day and my car window on my side was wide open!) ...I had come to my hill with a poem in mind. It since ended published in NorthWords Now under the title Horizons. It tastes like Proust's madeleine in my heart.

Feathers aside, I descend the hill like I descend into night. This glorious blue I like to celebrate so much turns indigo on such light nights. A last look at the top from mid-range in late afternoon lets me believe I could be witnessing a wonderful celestial spectacle as evening clads my horizon, and maybe look for those magic light refractors that are our stars in a clear night.

I love night.
As a poet and a photographer. Last night proved a perfect one to record it through the lens, as I stood at my kitchen door that leads to the back garden. My field of view is impressive. S down to Compass & Sumburgh Head; SW to the township of Levenwick... West to Rompa, my nearest hill behind Hoswick, with the Old Manse and kirk in the foreground... And when night comes, water refracts lights like the sky! It feels serene. As the tide turns, the earth provides background music - as birds settle in nearby fields, this homeworld symphony can only enchant each moment.

from blue 2 blue

At around 2120 GMT, my nordic sky blended cobalt blue with honey. Our nearest star would slide through the horizon with great taste...

The final embers of crimson did not take long to come and go.

Blue remained light, as we began to descend into dusk and then night. Each moment captured on my memory card felt a treasure as well as a precious time capsule... Further, further down into night and to the very first light refractor! My eyes searched through the universe. Cobalt turns eventually indigo, as clock hands tick and waltz on the wall...

There, indigo night. In the distance, across the sea, my eyes are drawn to the neighbouring township.... Life refracted inside the bay, and around us through secluded man-built windows. I elevated my eyes to the sky to discover Arcturus in my Western sky. Draco and Lyra soon followed, with Ursa Major in one corner of the sky. One by one, familiar constellations danced in my northern hemisphere. I peeped at Perseus in the hope to catch its summer bounty of meteors! ...Just like sparks from a flint of a gigantic Zippo lighter! That takes me back to another piece entitled The Whole of The Sky, written in 2009 and published last year at the following Blog entry: night, 14 August 2010.

Hmmm, will need to keep an eye on the Perseids, cloud permitting, and be patient.

Hairst, harvest time...

2011-08-05T18:28:00.000+01:00

Walkabout

In between two patches of fog, I walk the shore to a headland. The sun may smile at wild flowers, a curious wind ruffles feathers... To the many dwellers of the island, hairst - harvest time - has begun.

Through the great eye of the ocean, one bows to generosity. Fishers return with glorious tales; gulls flock to share scraps from the loot, as they linger in the harbour... To the impromptu visitor, none will vanish empty handed.

Today's catch of haddock, cod, mackerel and whiting will bring many smiles. Summer belongs to fishermen, who dare to brave tides of the sea. Even selkies come to this feast!

Higher ahead, where currents reign, gannets flock well beyond the Roost, this area where the North Sea and North Atlantic
come to clash for a mighty tidal embrace! On breezy days, the great headland turns into aerial motorways, as they and fulmars whiz like wacky racers without fears. At 45 meters above sea level, they come to check the visitor on their way. As I wander further inland, swallows grace my late afternoon sky. It is still summer as long as they stay around old barns, byres and haystacks!

The land taints itself in purple; silage is cut, gulls fill furrows from an old plough... Night has returned. Hairst - harvest time - every flower bows to the wind.
I hear skuas from the distance. This land of heath is home to many earth dwellers, birds, man and sheep. The great peatlands clad in low clouds feel so soft under every step. Between mires, where the ground feels like a mattress, the wanderer fulfills a dream and feels at one with each moment.

To embrace this feeling of plenitude is to dare walk till the edge. On my way to my favourite geo (a long, narrow steep-sided cleft formed by coastal erosion in a cliff) birdsong and calls colour my day. Northern wheatears, terns and shalders (oystercatchers) still animate those August days. Soon they will wander further south. Needless to add, the great migration has already begun!

To the great eye of the ocean, I have reached my destination.

As I retrace my every step, I feel my place inside this home; listen to the song of the wind across my sandbridge and the land. Hairst - harvest time - in Arcania has just begun.

haiku string

Oceanic -
salt-filled wings
caught in holographic sunset.
#haiku fae 60N

Equation -

throw a pebble in the ocean,

look for the missing universe.

#haiku fae 60N

Northlore -

launch a raven high into sky,

look for your island universe.

#haiku fae 60N

Tall Ships Races Lerwick 2011

2011-07-29T16:22:00.003+01:00

spirit of adventure

To me, it seems they never left. Forests of masts, rigging and flags clad the island every summer, and yet the only town hosted some of the world's most beautiful crafts and courageous crews from 21 till 25 July. To witness their arrival in the Bressay Sound and then alongside quays and wharves was emotional enough... To hear the myriad of languages, eyes, smiles and joie de vivre was a different kettle of fish!

We, island folk, put all our hearts in welcoming some 53 ships and endeavoured to live to everyone's expectations. We may be a small community, however, we are accustomed to world events. Lerwick rekindled its own glorious past with so many tall masts visible from the the other side of the town... An early arrival at the carpark by Market House did not guarantee space... An army of devoted liaison officers were already at work wherever they had to be. Key buildings were turned into Headquarters for crews, captains or the media. Each day began with a briefing. Each day defined new adventures!

And then the world began to smile.
Locals, visitors and participants. So many faces all around! Shetland Showcase unveiled the very best of islands' art & crafts; food stalls alongside Alexandra Wharf unveiled world tastes for everyone. Ships open to the visitor; all felt like kids in a toy shop! The Crew Parade from Victoria Pier to Holmsgarth added colours and animated many hearts.

And colours were needed as skies darkened with a biting north wind. A depression over Denmark even delayed the Parade of Sail and start of Race 2 (Lerwick-Stavanger) by 24 hours. However, we all held to the helm and extended that world famous sense of hospitality. Artists returned another 24 hours on stage, craftsmen back to their booths, traders back to their stalls, liaison officers, guides and all other volunteers back to their respective duties! The atmosphere remained intact till the end of The Parade of Sail.

Project Manager Fiona Dally and her Team can be proud of their achievement.

thank you Lerwick

I shall never forget those five days of magic.

So many cultures inside one harbour; you may think it's normal... I do!

So many smiles - humanity on one island,

the true spirit of Sail Training International!

Remember, follow the fleet! Tall Ship Races 2011

...And if you liked the pictures,

please visit: Tall Ships Races Lerwick 2011 - the portfolio is in progress!

Tall Ships Races fever around 60N

2011-07-18T12:54:00.002+01:00

electric dream

There has been a strange atmosphere around the island for a while. Folk heard of it, and then, giant placards with the very same symbol began to be hoisted in strategically selected places around the shores inside the island's only town.

By last Friday, it became clear that we were only days away from an extraordinary event; even if all seem to be appearing as normal. Visiting sailors, moored at Victoria Pier sharing stories and advice, folk enjoying a cornet of ice-cream or delving inside a book on a bench along the Esplanade... The bustling so familiar to our eyes and hearts remained as Lerwick-style as ever.

But then, as we are now two days from this year's great event (as far as Lerwick is concerned!), we need to think about changing habits and, although we are accustomed to welcoming the world during summer (as well as during the rest of the year for that matter!) with thousands of visiting sailors and adventurers, the capital metamorphoses itself into a succulent honeypot where bees come and taste its many nectars!

Venice of The North

Not quite Venezia or even Stockholm as far as size is concerned, however,
"the bay of mud", Lerwick, as so romantically christened by our Viking ancestors, was built along that very very sheltered stretch of water, Bressay Sound. That very long stretch of North Sea that is about to welcome some ancient maritime tradition: tall ships, square meters of sails, kilometers of ropes, as floating pontoons have been added here and there... The boys from the harbour have been busy like bees ensuring all ships will be able to moor in the right places (a bit like a jigsaw), whilst The Tall Ships Races Lerwick Headquarters, under the management of Fiona Dally, aided by Louise Cluness, have been orchestrating the entire project. Lerwick is a fabulous venue for such a maritime event.

Tall Ships Races Lerwick

To give an idea, last Friday was clad with two visiting liners - Europa, from Germany (a.m.) and Gann, from Norway (p.m.) - in addition to our mooring regulars from Europe and America. Visitors are welcome with that very gentle notion of island gentleness, as it is so felt on this latitude - but also with traditional music, either live from the Pier or recorded and then broadcasted from Brian's High Level Music shop on da Street.

Sometimes, the Lerwick Port Authority will gently ask craft owners to move around a bit during a same day to ensure everybody has a place to tie their ropes around those much after sought bollards... But it's okay and everyone understands such necessity.
I notice that little detail, as I was meandering along the old waterbreak in order to capture a wooden marvel from Aalesund, Framstig. This Norwegian floating gem comes every summer to our shores and her beauty carved in wood and rivets (Viking-style) automatically caught my eye. After complementing her skipper in my best norsk, I stopped time and imortalised her through my lens. Within minutes, my heart was transported back into my all-time favourite novel (so ardently written by R.L Stevenson!) and then, at some point, that friendly Norwegian asked my assistance to untie her from that bollard. I quickly obliged and waved, as she was to sail away, only to realise she had found a new bollard near Alexandra Wharf! Ha-ha, I smiled. This is not the first time...
And I wonder what would happen when 56 tall ships will find themselves inside the Bressay Sound and crews landing among an already bustling harbour packed with tourists and folk alike! This promises some cases of déjà-vu in 1999 and before that, long before that, as herring fishing attracted thousands of folk alongside wharves and around bays!

This week could be crowned as pleasure mayhem, though I must not forget to add it has already begun in Scalloway (15-18 July) and continues in the islands of Yell (16-19 July), Unst (12-19 July) & Whalsay (16-19 July) before Lerwick (21-24 July) and Fair Isle (today & tomorrow)!

I have always loved our maritime heritage and am looking forward
to mingle among those glorious festivities ida toon!

FOLLOW US LIVE FROM YOUR ARMCHAIR!

SHETLAND WEBCAMS

Happy Birthday M/S Nybakk!

2011-07-10T20:30:00.002+01:00

Nordic world connection reunited

Just over a year ago, I was introduced to my "West Norwegian Connection" whilst being invited on board M/S NYBAKK as part of a first celebration of Norway Liberation Day on 8 May 2010.

Budding friendship burgeoned and began to flourish over time, as we kept in touch and the ship's return on our side of the North Sea promised to reinforce the bond we began to weave in 2010.

Such return coincided with the 50th Anniversary of M/S Nybakk's Venners - the fishing boat being restored and used as a floating museum under the Nybakk family & friends - which graced the harbours of both Orcadian & Shetland shores. ...Old (Viking) habits die hard! However, M/S Nybakk's Venners also wished to use their boat as a symbol of renewed friendship between Måløy and Lerwick.

To this effect, open days were orchestrated on board the ship between 24 June till 1 July. A formal meal and official evening was also organised on the final day of June. M/S Nybakk's Venners

Officials from the Shetland Islands Council, Shetland Museum, UHI Nordic Studies and Swan Trust were notably invited on board to carve that Nordic connection further in stone and a traditional dish of lytefisk (Ling) was served with great smiles. Toasts were exchanged throughout the evening.

This reunion was very well celebrated through that gentle Simmerdim night...

On the following day, Nybbakk's skipper, Per Kåre Nybakk, was presented with the Shetland Crest by SIC Convener Sandy Cluness. M/S Nybakk's crew and Shetland friends were extremely proud of such honour.

To celebrate such achievement as well as our friendship, a BBQ was organised on 1 July night.
Norwegian & Shetland hospitality mirror one another.

Another great feast was shared that night and such moments remain precious, for this friendship is cast in stone :-)

See you again soon, Nybakk's Venners!

It was so good be re-united this year :-)

tell me summer boreal style

2011-07-03T18:40:00.001+01:00

...So many faces,
just like a meadow of scentless sea mayweeds facing the sky!

So many colours...Pristine magic!

Even painters could take our world for a palette in Panavision!

And when one walks on this sandbridge at St Ninian's, we lose our feet deep inside blue...

And when sky turns to titanium...

Life continues its festival!

Monsieur Giono called it "le chant du monde" (worldsong) - here, on the island this song becomes a symphony.

This world anchors, moors around us; the island turns a honeypot.

Then, back to blue.

Blue of the day delves into night. after sunset.

This shade of blue darkens slightly for a short while...

Universal game of colours!

As our world rotates closest to the sun, shades and hues stick to dreamers' dreams and through the lens!

Back to petals...

Like ballerinas in the breeze or summer rain. Shameless yellow of the iris; scented lilac of sea rocket...

Or danger red of the sundew!

Van Gogh would be dazzled by the game of light on the island!

Uplifting, ascending, overwhelming sense of joy as Arcania unveils itself in sheer splendour.

Haiku companions

Flûte à bec -
baroque blackbirds bare to north breeze,
in this great summer symphony.
#haiku fae 60N

Monkey's fist -

guillemot chicks bounce off white stacks,

adrift in this great fishers' world.

#haiku fae 60N

Crepuscular -

nothing can stop light hemorrhage,

in auto-reverse, spinning sun.

#haiku fae 60N