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adventures from hill 2 shore

windows' stories


April never deceives. From hill to shore, my two weeks of freedom have opened single track roads around the island.

Photo courtesy of R. Dornås

Last Monday, I shared a slice of Sumburgh & Compass Head with a young lady from Bergen, whom I met on a coach on the previous Saturday... We befriended and, in no time, we spent Monday  between tarmac, mud and laughters! The view from Compass Head is fabulous. We spoke the magic of our respective worlds, conservation and drivers' tricks... We exchanged e-addresses, and Bergen lies on the other side of the North Sea - all I need to do is look eastward. More connection with our Scandinavian neighbours & friends :-) ...And talking of Norge, I felt far too happy to hear from my Norskie connection: NYBAKK returns to my side of this wild North Sea next month, just in time for Norway's Constitution Day. We have something special in store for celebrating our bond with our Nordic heritage - the grand opening of Scalloway's brand new Museum. Scalloway, toute une histoire! 



And this morning, looking through a window that was not mine, I woke up under a dusting of snow that melted at sheer speed of light - this arctic blue in which we bathe is still raging. However, my window was amazing.

I spent the last precious hours with my Serpentine Clan in a fantastic setting - Voxter Centre, just off the settlement of Brae, a little north of my 60N latitude. And what a slice of life!
We gathered in the old manse and invested each room with 
pleasure and passion. It is a magic place, for it harbours comfort and joie de vivre - it has a walled garden, in which trees turn into gallions for all kinds of pirates! ...A plantation to please the eye and warm the heart by the hearth after dark. Our little troupe made it home for the weekend. Effortlessly, since freak snow showers never stopped us. 


Actors' delight 

we spoke, we wrote, we played and read...

From Jonathan's little family of adventurers to the keenest Thespian, Voxter - that translates as  a good place for growing - offered a playground and a home. In between two workshops, some of us dared to venture out to the wood and, closer to the porch, the walled garden. Jane, The Matriarch,  gathered dead  wood for a perfect log fire and fed the hearth with passion. Then, she led part of her clan within the dry stone walls where the world's safe for them to play  in harmony with their whole world.


And as the day drew to a close, Louise and Wendy had concocted us a dinner fit for a night of role-play, entitled "The Brie, The Bullet & The Black Cat" - a game of murder mystery.

We were given a few hours to turn into our characters. One after the other, we reconvened to a table that reeled to the sombre 1940s. Inspector Jacque LeClue would make us question our motives... 
As each clue was revealed, we grew nervous, dismayed or afraid. All would be revealed in due time. Actors' magic - we spanned our lounge into 1940's Casablanca. The night ended in the retiring room, by the log fire. Joy or horror, I discovered my character to be the naughty one - the murderer, or at least, one of two. For a nano-second, repulsion filled my heart... I did not expect it. Together with my (then) unknown accomplice, I had to hide the deed. Confusion filled the room - and then, shock, horror! Hahha, for a first time, the game was fun. Just by the hearth, we laughed and played charades till late.



From hill to shore,
my fortnight of adventures is coming to an end. And left Voxter & friends with a great sense of happiness - happiness for such great moments that I will treasure forever. The drive through da Lang Kames was magnificent, as Nordic sun refracted on snow-dusted hillsides. But pushed the door of my dear hut to be re-united with window panes dear to my heart.

Thank you, dear friends, for such a great string of adventures!

land of extremes

Iced fisherworld


The further north you go, the icier the island. I did not want to believe it, but, I left home in a glorious sun. By the time I reached my friend's crofthouse on the eastern headland, the sun had already vanished. Cold rain was threatening as we picked up A at her home at the T-junction... Heavens began to darken and by the time we travelled along da Lang Kames - this corridor of gales fashioned by the last great ice age, which ridges (the very meaning of "kames") are eroded by the long labour of the elements - trillions of snowflakes wandered as free as poltergeists... Surreal, we thought, and then we retracted the very thought, since we all knew spring on the island feels and behaves as wild as it wants. Yesterday was a classic example. Today confirmed how volatile the sky can turn.

Ronas Hill, on approach to Urafirth

Eshaness, the edge of the (dormant) super volcano, was to be our destination. On our way there, blotches of snow littered the vast peatlands from Brae to Urafirth. Ronas appeared a gignatic whale before our eyes. The rounded giant took my heart back to Glen Etive for a second, as we stopped the car for a moment. The road twists and turns so frequently it does only leaves one speed choice to any driver. The many lochans,  on each side of the single track road,  were scanned with care, although I did not expect to discover a lone rain goose (red-throated diver) so early in the season. As lunchtime loomed on the horizon, we relished the idea of a nice hot plate at Breiwick en route to the edge of our world, only to find the café closed on arrival... The view onto the Drongs, or Dragon's teeth, leave an iconic memory in your heart. Surprised though undefeated, we turned round and drove southbound, as unknown to me till we reached Tangwick, P had to deliver a fire extinguisher to a friend of her's. Lunch would wait a little longer, as P proposed we take a loop to Haylor, on the shores of one of the most impressive mini-fjords, Ronas Voe. 


And the magic began again.


I love that road in any season. Lushness of summer, bleakness, eeriness of winter,  though majestic at all times. The old fisherman's booth by the pinkish beach remains a magnet to any visitor,. I call it a gem well hidden inside the treasure chest.  By that time, cold rain overrode wet snow showers and we pushed it to the very shore. Closer to the old bod and boat. P once parked her caravan just by the beach in some past summer. I guessed the place would always turn very popular due to its sheer beauty. The old stony pier caught my eye. So many fishermen must have landed on the shores of this deep voe to download their cargo of herring and other fruits from the North Atlantic. Tens, if not hundreds of hands must have toiled to gut and pack the very fish into barrels filled with flesh and salt... The local folk from the parish must have traded wool, knitted socks, shawls, hats and gansies (jumpers) for basic commodities (bread, butter or alcohol - if not anything slightly illegal!) Today, the stones remain silent and mussel farming has changed the face of the long & narrow inlet of water.



And where did we have lunch, you may wonder? Well, we ended up inside the warmth and comfort of The Mid Brae Inn in the settlement of Brae. Although we arrived late, we were not refused a table and delicious food. Highly recommended to anyone eager to explore the northern parts of the island, together with Frankie's Fish & Chips, Busta House and The St Magnus Bay Hotel in Hillswick, should you be unfortunate enough to find the Breiwick Café "closed". 

Rain might have washed off icicles, 

it is a day to relish and treasure :-)

from merrie dancers to the haar

Not a same spring blossoms the same...  

This year's is a precocious one.


A wander round the the eastside of the island revealed not only celandine, but unexpected primrose in bloom at Fladdabister. 
Our greylag geese still grace our world, together with a plethora of summer visitors in search of a great pedestal for courtship display. The fertile pocket of lushness that is the Tingwall Valley was littered with shalders (oystercatchers), common & black-headed gulls in full regalia... Summer's definitely on its way! 

And on the theme of green...

Two nights ago, we still marvelled at auroras in much calmer conditions. Oh, not the draping, shimmering ones in my Sandwick sky, but a green glow in this late March starry night. Wonderful moment, for northern lights do remain one of my favourite earth spectacles, together with sunrise & sunset, and storm petrels trading places on the isle of Mousa during the Simmerdim. 


tied a'da noost


The Haar, as this maritime natural phenomenon is known in Scotland, has come early as this year's spring buds. Today, we reverted to summer time in white, as seafog veiled most of our shore on the eastside of the island. Every building turns a ghost shape, every silhouette, a spirit. Yesterday, west and east were heavily shrouded down. The drive to Weisdale proved an eerie journey from start to finish... Today, the Haar turns in to mist, and as I type, begins to lift around my township. 

Magic, mystical, as our world gradually warms up, we watch in white; listen for birdsong, calling gulls  and the sea in a cullen skink sky... I redesign the horizon. 


Kiss of life from our cold North Sea!


We can only hope for a sun that is strong enough to burn it. My friend Debbie, who lives in Aith, on the westside, recorded a morning of sunshine. Mind you, the Haar is a trickster, for wicks and voes vanish and reappear at will.   it wanders around each bay, and engulfs long narrow inlets of water at amazing speed! It could be called Loki... I much prefer a more feminine persona, as Lady Mist. 

half & half world

Beyond the stars, light, equinox


Nothing prepares us for such cosmic rite of passage. Not even the dazzling displays of aurora borealis that filled our sky since last summer's dusk... As we wandered through February, the island began to display precocious signs of revival. Strangely, our trees began to share so early buds... Winter bowed out without complaint, as milder air filtered through March. Not ice, but rain dominated our Nordic skies. March, month of rainbows and wild hares!

Revival, renaissance, a promise of return
From Imbolc to Ostara, our earthly calendar of life feels more than generous.
Celandine popped up with a good fortnight in advance... Avian movements have turned our skies into fantastic motorways! From wildfowl to waders, via blackbirds, skylarks and common guillemots, the island gradually welcomes back its summer visitors. 

And wherever you decide to walk, Greylag geese feast about everywhere! Their sound and sights slash days and nights. I love to listen to bird calls in a crepuscular sky. Geese make the best use of stars for night navigation. Somehow, I think of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Vol de Nuit.


Night. The one that weaves solace and fears  through a curtain of love & hate... 


Yet night will shrink even further as we jig with spring equinox! What began from late January will now accelerate at some amazing speed. So until then, I shall make the most of our stars and walk through spring till they faint away past Beltaine - enjoy a walk through the meadows and re-discover my world's palette of colours, though quite timid at first, when petals open to the sun. On Sunday morning, I heard my first skylark. Now I can truly welcome Voar, that wonderful dialect word for spring.

Voar haiku string 

Voar -

wind of spring in rattling blind,

distant echo of wheatears.

#haiku fae 60N

Let it out -

March, month of rainbows, ghosts & angels,

my grief still tattooed in grey sky.

#haiku fae 60N

Les choristes -

in their chocolate & white suits,

on every corner of the stack, guillemots sing.

#haiku fae 60N

venus & the crescent moon

tales from our sky


If you don't look, you'll never see. Saturday night and all is blue. Well, at least till dusk...


 The land is waterlogged. Peatlands,
 ditches, roadsides. That snow remains a memory. And from the roof of my marshy world, I felt water beyond the edge of hiking boots, as I walked around my hillside. In search of the first song of the skylark, I found some early visitors at its bottom: orange-billed, pied, beak inside earth, foraging hard in search of grubs hiding in mud... Yes, our dear shalders (oystercatchers) can dine in style! Saturday bathed in this springlike air and I could not resist making the most of such moment. The Lush fields around Spiggie (though waterlogged too) act as magnets for geese and farmland birds. And geese graze about everywhere! In a game of "catch me if you can", ravens stayed high when they were not hopping around mangers among sheep. Common gulls made me grin from one to the other end of field edges. Shelducks , Red-breasted mergansers and Tufted ducks (now in their pairs) kept well at bay... Redshanks & Ringed plovers patrolled the loch's edge. Whooper swans fed in their usual position (tail up) and large rafts of gulls and maalies ... I later saw a Slavonian Grebe at the southern end of the loch. My Saturday sky filled with feathers against blue. 


I love the island in such light. 
raw, majestic, it shines through the eyes of deep space.
The sky speaks many tongues in a myriad of voices. It learnt to whisper and to shout... it cries and smiles without reasons. Today it unveiled the colours of late February.
And when you wonder to the shore, birds walk the length of ocean's edge. 


And when we begged goodbye to the day, dusk settled its trillions of treasures. I love our sky at those moments. 


Blue, orange, indigo, crepuscular, and still so calm.

 And Venus shone left to the Moon.

february & ravens

LOVE YOUR HEADLAND


February remains an extraordinary month. It is a time when life returns, even if only through whispers. For every journey through the land, familiar sounds add to the light. If gales still prevail through most mornings, precocious signs of renewal become more flagrant after dawn. One hears excitement through the bare trees of my garden. 
Blackbirds, sparrows, gulls, corvids of northern kinds... Geese in gaggles or above heads. All so more noticeable now. It is a hymn to early spring.

That main trunk of tarmac that links the island from north to south. 
My daily run to the town means a good opportunity to watch one of my favourite birds: ravens.
February draped by their early aerial display, those majestic jet black flyers defy laws of acrobatics. Now they come to perch by the roadside for breakfast. Tarmac offers free restaurants for them and all our local gulls that come to feast on carrion. Some unusual and strange way to survive... Yet their success for survival depend on our rate of road kills, mostly rabbits that plague the land.
Ravens have learnt to tame tarmac. Usually found perched on fenceposts, they reconvene every morning in gangs of three, four, five or six and clean the roads of fur and bones...
They've learnt patience and great timing on the approach of vehicles, and will get aloft as headlights become too near to their feathers. As morbid as it may sound,  those muckrakers have turned such formidable opportunists, and their dare-devil flying skills have made them one of the most successful species in our world.


Fascinating species that inspires tales of all kinds.
From folklore to music, their jet black wings do not cease to amaze and awake musings of all sorts. According to culture, they turn devil or gods... In Native American realms, they bring change and  allow you to travel between worlds. In Scandinavian history, Vikings came to our land to collect young ravens as means of GPS - by launching them at sea to find land ahead - on their travels westwards/north-westwards.  
They are present in so many folk tales, songs and omens!

In Music, as here:

And There, the tale of The Three Ravens, Germanic style.

To my humble heart, ravens remain fantastic birds that symbolise freedom in flight.
Every morning begins with them.

Arctic Sunday

back to whiteworld


We have been warned. That exotic (anything above zero Celsius) air would not last long... Kate's 50 words for Snow is playing inside the hut, as am I'm savouring a bowl of warm porridge. The island once more caught in some Arctic spell, with a thin, though icy sheet of snow, has clad every meadow, garden and geo. Our three felines ventured fully clawed on the icy blue.


Peewit the Cat clambered over the crab basket and watched geese in mid-morning sky from his post. He looked a sphinx in this ocean of ice.  Frozen garden in glorious light on Sunday morning. Overnight gales let us enjoy more magic from our Nordic sky, with yet another luminous display of aurora. Mirrie Dancers delighted eyes late in darkness. So cold though through this Arctic air. If at the start of February, I felt on the shore of the Labrador, today makes me think of Svalbard, or somewhere near the horizon of South Georgia, South Shetland or Orkney Islands, or even Iles Kerguélen...  A short walk around my patch transports my heart to those desolate freezing realms. Scott, Charcot and Shackleton  belong to this catalogue of famous polar explorers, and yet, other names, no so well remembered, adorn this list. No leopard or elephant seal, just common and grey ones can be found all around my shore. Each print of snow boot has its rewards. I heard a snippick (snipe) in the nearby field, and geese calling above my head. So was the theme of my stravaig before lunchtime.


Everything belongs to the ice.

In defiance to eyes and claws of February, sparrows and starlings sang during snowfall on Saturday. So eager to chase this spell of desolation, they stood and chirped all around us. Every tree began to feel the weight of winter. Sticky snow whitened our world. But still, birdsong filled in sound this myriad of snowflakes. My Nordic world sounded so light. 

Such desire to feel alive and sing in Saturday's bleakest moments...

June & Richard's Old Manse looks so romantic clad in white. The old stone walls harbour comfort and secret worlds fit for a starling, gull or wren. They too feed birds that come to shelter from harshness. Among bits of twisted branches and frozen garden, tubes of peanuts hang from bareness. Birds know it so well. later they will find a suitable tree to love and fare for their offspring... In the meantime, they have to make do with whiteworld.

Recent haiku & tweets from 60N

Morning distorted by raindrops that could crystallize by Saturday - will have to tell curlews & wrens... #Geopoetics  

Magic words -

 inside book of incantations, 

one spell for snow.

 #haiku fae #60N #Geopoetics #flâneur #snow #dérive

Garde-barrière - 

sur le rebord du monde, 

deux étourneaux attendent la neige.

 #haiku fae 60N 

Now found your footprints in the snow - echoing round the 

whole island!