A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 97. One for the pot!!.
Today shooting is not so accepted as once it was but these were the times we lived in long ago. The old phrase “One for the pot” applied to many things, a salmon from a river pool, a deer off the heather hill, a pheasant out of a tall tree on a dark night. Pigeons were one of them but they were, though not domesticated, to some extent farmed.
Most farms and all large houses had a doocot for pigeons. At Whitehall it was at the far end of the sheaf loft, partitioned off and with a small door for entry. In the gable end were an array of pigeon-holes with a series of nest boxes inside along the walls which you can still visualise if you look in at any Post Office sorting office. The word will stay with us forever in daily usage though few might now know its origin.
Pigeon lofts, or doocots, were a feature of most farms and most large houses. In Caithness there is one at Freswick Castle but I believe the roof has now fallen in on this historic old building. The last time I saw it there was a wonderful heap of very old organic fertiliser inside. That must have been made good use of in bygone days in the Castle kitchen garden. There is one at Brabster House well away from the rest of the buildings, one at Dunbeath Castle just to seaward of the main road South, one at Stemster Mains up from the House. There is one on Stroma at the old Cemetary in the upper part of the famed Kennedy Mausoleum, beautifully built in stone. There is one at the Mill at Westerdale where I have shot pigeons as they escaped from the doocot. Fast work too while it lasted. There are many more scattered round.
At Cleat in Westray our Uncle Bill had a doocot, part of the farm steading. We had an adventure there. Our cousin Dave was home from studying Medicine at Edinburgh University. We were visiting and we had an evening after dark catching pigeons for the pot. A herring net was let down to close off the pigeon holes, then with tiny torches we caught our dinner. Today I would not, but this was how we lived long ago, and it should be recorded.
We take a different view now of these birds, they are not with us in the same vast numbers and we farmers have much to do with that. Modern farming has become much more efficient as we feed ever-growing numbers of people. The grain that sustained pigeons among so many other birds is swept efficiently up by combines and immediately into vermin-proof containers so the stooks and stacks and weed seeds that fed so many birds in my early days is long gone. There are some who would have us go back to the binder and stook, indeed there are schemes existing to be paid to grow grain and not to harvest it, to leave it for the birds. And there are people who are deadly serious about it, would have it increased and would indeed make it obligatory.
At Isauld in days long gone away we had flocks of blue rock pigeons sweeping across the Bay from Sandside Head on their way to feed on Upper Dounreay, or anywhere else. On occasion there would be one white one among the throng. They ran to their own clock, a predictable time in the mornings and a certain time in the afternoons on their way back to the Cliffs of Sandside where they dwelt in the caves. Called rock pigeons but just the same kind as the homing pigeon we still have. Or cluttering up Trafalgar Square for the tourists to feed, and adorning the adjacent buildings and Nelson’s Column in the usual manner!!! Fast fliers.
There were similar flocks at the back of Holborn Head, unfortunately featured in a really bad accident some years ago when three men I knew lost their lives on a pigeon shooting expedition into the caves with a boat. It was thought an unexpectedly big swell lifted their boat up against the roof of the cave and smashed the cabin with fatal consequences. The pigeons are no longer there.
We had our own litttle window on the pigeons. In the Whitehall straw barn pigeons at times would nest between the couple legs. There they laid their two white eggs which we would watch until they hatched. The chicks grew rapidly under our eyes till fully fledged and then out into the wide world. The pigeons were quite tame and not easily disturbed though we did not touch the nest nor come too close nor touch the eggs. Our vantage point for viewing was the sheaf loft looking out at a partition opening into the straw barn.
We could make friends, well, sort off, with a few pigeons. There was often some recognizable touch, a bit of white here, a mottled wing, a red or pinkish anyway pigeon or some other indivdual characteristic.
There were the ones that stayed close with us in winter, usually in the straw barn. A few grains of oats or some small titbits of bread were enough to make them quite friendly. Not to touch but to come down and pick our offerings off the ground. We tried to get them to eat out of our hands but, close as they came, we never quite succeeded. One would appear at the back door now and again for a few crumbs or to pick at a bit of stale bread thrown out for it, strutting proudly around with one eye cocked towards us, the other on the cat.
General feeding for the pigeons in winter was the stack yard. Blue clouds would descend upon the corn stacks, particularly when there was snow. Equally they descended upon the steadles after a stack had been taken in for threshing, cleaning up with many other birds, particularly blackbirds and sparrows. They would cluster on the barn roof, quite happy to share a bit of space with us. They would descend upon a field to pick up I know not what. They did not like the turnip field though an abandance of weed seeds were usually there. Landing among the turnips shaws I think was not to their liking.
Clover was, and both the rock pigeon and particularly the wood pigeon would take their share of the sweet leaves. The wood pigeons from the woods at Achvarasdal were lethal to young turnips at Isauld, sitting on the field dyke before swooping down for a good bite. Thankfully the young turnip plants grew fast and were soon beyond too much harm, though the headrigs took a battering.
There were some who had homing pigeons and now and again one would go AWOL and join up with the wild bunch. A ring on the leg denoted where from if one by mischance appeared among the shot ones. The owner was interested in finding out it’s fate and where found, but not in getting it back!! A homing pigeon that did not come back home was a dead loss in more ways than one!!!. You could not really blame one for joining up with it’s country cousins anyway.
Friday, 8 July 2011
Friday, 17 June 2011
N o 95. One man and his dog.
David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 95. One man and his dog.
My first friend was Spot, father’s old dog, a bowfert on the old style with shaggy coat, brown and white, heavy and capable of dealing with sheep or cattle without fear or favour. Not many of these hardy old-style dogs around now, the sleek nervy Border Collie has taken over.
Spot was coming on a bit and you could teach him nothing. But he was big enough that when we were still small we tried to ride on his back. Very patient. We tried to make and put a harness on him to pull our sledge but not too effective. He would lie patiently at the back door until father came out, then off they went. Trim was his younger companion, a more traditional dog but chained up when not working. I think our father did not trust him too much, but it is also a truism that two dogs can get up to mischief if allowed loose together that neither would do on their own.
I had little to do with dogs then for many years until working at Greenland Mains. Donald Nicholson was our shepherd then and I was in my very early years of learning a trade which you never cease to learn, i.e. farming.
Donald had a Beardie, I forget his name or where he came from. Possibly I think from his Coghill relatives at Kirk, Bower. Lets call him Beardie. Again not many left. Hair down over his eyes like a Romney sheep. Quiet, but when we were going out of Dickies lambing field heading for our 3 o’clock cup of tea at Donald’s nearby house, we would find the dog no longer at our heels.
Maybe three hundred ewes or more in the lambing field. But out of that number Beardie would appear gently moving a ewe towards us, picked out by himself I know not how.
If Donald said ”Leave it and come here”, Beardie ignored him. He knew better. And sure enough when he had taken the ewe up to us it was in the process of lambing. We had not seen it, but he had. And knew what to do. Take the ewe to us for assistance, even if it was a perfectly normal lambing with no distress. No hurry. And he was always right. Quite uncanny, we could only marvel.
He would catch any lamb we wanted by nosing it over on the run, then lying on top of the lamb and holding it down gently with his fore paws until we came up. That was sometimes needed when we saw what we called a “Stuck Lamb” out in the field, a few days old, a euphemism for a lamb that badly needed it’s bottom cleaned. Not attended to that lamb would die. Beardie knew it, and again would take appropriate action even on his own. Beardies had a great reputation for brains, and no way am I going to dispute it.
Donald had various dogs but had one bitch who produced a litter to Beardie, though none of them were Beardies. I was usually working at the Square in winter with the cattle and brother David was working out doors. But going down to the lambing field in the evenings was our normal practice.
We each got a pup from Donald, I think David’s was white, mine was the traditional black with a very little bit of white under his throat.
We were introduced by Donald to the choosing of a pup, six weeks old and time to wean them. Donald told us to pick one and lift him by the tail. If he squealed or struggled, reject him. If he had a wall eye, reject him. If the pup neither squealed nor struggled but just looked at you, put him on one side as a possible. Such stoicism was desirable.
I am sure today that process would be banned if the Welfare people knew of it, but we were picking a working dog to share the hard vicissitudes of life with us and that method of choosing had a long history. Then final choosing. Which one did we fancy. Which one met your eye without looking away. Look at the pup’s feet - big feet, big dog. Even at six weeks they would show very positive individuality, a foretaste of what they would become when grown up working dogs. I called my pick an unimaginative Ben. He was a good friend of mine for many long years.
We had a few milking cows at Greenland Mains that in summer went out to the field to graze, to be brought in at milking time morning and evening. The gate of the 36 acre field of New Hansel was left open, the cows found their own way there after milking.
Came 4.30 pm, and, whatever we were doing, and in a quiet conversational voice I could talk to Ben. But if I said the words “Fetch the Cows, Ben” off he would go, take the cows out of the field entirely on his own and gently and without any chasing or fuss up the road and round to the milking byre door. If I forgot to send him off he went anyway at the appointed hour. A great time keeper. The cows were pretty well trained too, each went into their own stall and waited to be milked, often without tying the neck chain. They knew their names and their places.
Ben had another characteristic. About 4 o’clock in the afternoon he would disappear. The mystery was solved when Danny Morrison, who drove his bus up to Barrock and then back down to go to Wick, told me Ben waited for him to go up, raced alongside him in the field, waited for Danny’s return to race him back. Then, honour satisfied, he came home. He never went onto the road, just had a good chase with the bus. Not interested in cars.
Time went on. I bought Lower Dounreay and Nettie Dunnet from Keiss and I married on 23rd Nov. 1953 and went to our first home, the excellent farmhouse of Lower Dounreay, built 1860, demolished by UKAEA Oct. 2003. We left it unwillingly in May 1956 for Isauld, but had no choice in the matter. Ben came too.
Ben had the most useful trait of his father of knocking down any lamb we wanted, but as gentle as could be. To see him nudge the lamb over with his nose was a treat. Just say “Catch the lamb” and he did. No biting or nipping at all, just that nudge under it’s backside.
He would catch a ewe for us when asked, gripping it under the throat by the wool but never biting, holding it for us to take over. Very good at it too. Though the ewe would be much heavier than Ben, it seemed mesmerised by his grip and would stand still. Made lambing outdoors feasable but now we are long moved on to indoor lambing, and could do no other.
I went to Aberdeen late one October to buy some Leicester Ram Lambs. Borrowed father’s Ford Consul car as the Ford 5 cwt I had then was mighty cold with no heating. Went to Aberdeen late one day, sale next day, home third day. I forgot that I had transferred Ben from my van into the boot of father’s car.
Home again at Isauld I opened the boot. Ben regarded me with his usual patient charm, jumped out and relieved himself for what seemed a long hour, though that was I think impossible. All the long way to Aberdeen and back he had not uttered a sound, and his manners had been impeccable !!!.
He lived to be 16 years old, died peacefully one night. He lies buried at Isauld under an apple tree in the walled garden.
No 95. One man and his dog.
My first friend was Spot, father’s old dog, a bowfert on the old style with shaggy coat, brown and white, heavy and capable of dealing with sheep or cattle without fear or favour. Not many of these hardy old-style dogs around now, the sleek nervy Border Collie has taken over.
Spot was coming on a bit and you could teach him nothing. But he was big enough that when we were still small we tried to ride on his back. Very patient. We tried to make and put a harness on him to pull our sledge but not too effective. He would lie patiently at the back door until father came out, then off they went. Trim was his younger companion, a more traditional dog but chained up when not working. I think our father did not trust him too much, but it is also a truism that two dogs can get up to mischief if allowed loose together that neither would do on their own.
I had little to do with dogs then for many years until working at Greenland Mains. Donald Nicholson was our shepherd then and I was in my very early years of learning a trade which you never cease to learn, i.e. farming.
Donald had a Beardie, I forget his name or where he came from. Possibly I think from his Coghill relatives at Kirk, Bower. Lets call him Beardie. Again not many left. Hair down over his eyes like a Romney sheep. Quiet, but when we were going out of Dickies lambing field heading for our 3 o’clock cup of tea at Donald’s nearby house, we would find the dog no longer at our heels.
Maybe three hundred ewes or more in the lambing field. But out of that number Beardie would appear gently moving a ewe towards us, picked out by himself I know not how.
If Donald said ”Leave it and come here”, Beardie ignored him. He knew better. And sure enough when he had taken the ewe up to us it was in the process of lambing. We had not seen it, but he had. And knew what to do. Take the ewe to us for assistance, even if it was a perfectly normal lambing with no distress. No hurry. And he was always right. Quite uncanny, we could only marvel.
He would catch any lamb we wanted by nosing it over on the run, then lying on top of the lamb and holding it down gently with his fore paws until we came up. That was sometimes needed when we saw what we called a “Stuck Lamb” out in the field, a few days old, a euphemism for a lamb that badly needed it’s bottom cleaned. Not attended to that lamb would die. Beardie knew it, and again would take appropriate action even on his own. Beardies had a great reputation for brains, and no way am I going to dispute it.
Donald had various dogs but had one bitch who produced a litter to Beardie, though none of them were Beardies. I was usually working at the Square in winter with the cattle and brother David was working out doors. But going down to the lambing field in the evenings was our normal practice.
We each got a pup from Donald, I think David’s was white, mine was the traditional black with a very little bit of white under his throat.
We were introduced by Donald to the choosing of a pup, six weeks old and time to wean them. Donald told us to pick one and lift him by the tail. If he squealed or struggled, reject him. If he had a wall eye, reject him. If the pup neither squealed nor struggled but just looked at you, put him on one side as a possible. Such stoicism was desirable.
I am sure today that process would be banned if the Welfare people knew of it, but we were picking a working dog to share the hard vicissitudes of life with us and that method of choosing had a long history. Then final choosing. Which one did we fancy. Which one met your eye without looking away. Look at the pup’s feet - big feet, big dog. Even at six weeks they would show very positive individuality, a foretaste of what they would become when grown up working dogs. I called my pick an unimaginative Ben. He was a good friend of mine for many long years.
We had a few milking cows at Greenland Mains that in summer went out to the field to graze, to be brought in at milking time morning and evening. The gate of the 36 acre field of New Hansel was left open, the cows found their own way there after milking.
Came 4.30 pm, and, whatever we were doing, and in a quiet conversational voice I could talk to Ben. But if I said the words “Fetch the Cows, Ben” off he would go, take the cows out of the field entirely on his own and gently and without any chasing or fuss up the road and round to the milking byre door. If I forgot to send him off he went anyway at the appointed hour. A great time keeper. The cows were pretty well trained too, each went into their own stall and waited to be milked, often without tying the neck chain. They knew their names and their places.
Ben had another characteristic. About 4 o’clock in the afternoon he would disappear. The mystery was solved when Danny Morrison, who drove his bus up to Barrock and then back down to go to Wick, told me Ben waited for him to go up, raced alongside him in the field, waited for Danny’s return to race him back. Then, honour satisfied, he came home. He never went onto the road, just had a good chase with the bus. Not interested in cars.
Time went on. I bought Lower Dounreay and Nettie Dunnet from Keiss and I married on 23rd Nov. 1953 and went to our first home, the excellent farmhouse of Lower Dounreay, built 1860, demolished by UKAEA Oct. 2003. We left it unwillingly in May 1956 for Isauld, but had no choice in the matter. Ben came too.
Ben had the most useful trait of his father of knocking down any lamb we wanted, but as gentle as could be. To see him nudge the lamb over with his nose was a treat. Just say “Catch the lamb” and he did. No biting or nipping at all, just that nudge under it’s backside.
He would catch a ewe for us when asked, gripping it under the throat by the wool but never biting, holding it for us to take over. Very good at it too. Though the ewe would be much heavier than Ben, it seemed mesmerised by his grip and would stand still. Made lambing outdoors feasable but now we are long moved on to indoor lambing, and could do no other.
I went to Aberdeen late one October to buy some Leicester Ram Lambs. Borrowed father’s Ford Consul car as the Ford 5 cwt I had then was mighty cold with no heating. Went to Aberdeen late one day, sale next day, home third day. I forgot that I had transferred Ben from my van into the boot of father’s car.
Home again at Isauld I opened the boot. Ben regarded me with his usual patient charm, jumped out and relieved himself for what seemed a long hour, though that was I think impossible. All the long way to Aberdeen and back he had not uttered a sound, and his manners had been impeccable !!!.
He lived to be 16 years old, died peacefully one night. He lies buried at Isauld under an apple tree in the walled garden.
Monday, 30 May 2011
No 94. St Ola.
A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 94. St Ola No 1. 1892 to 1951
No series of mine would be complete without reference to the first St Ola. A steam ship of 230 tons GRT, dimensions 135 ft x 22ft x 11 ft draft. I think she was built by Hall Russell in Aberdeen, based on a now old-fashioned trawler design. The Ola was small indeed compared to the present Hamnavoe, little bigger than one of her lifeboats!!
She crossed the Firth for 59 years from 1892 – 1951, making six daily return sailings per week with only a few cancellations in the interests of passenger comfort and safety.
The original layout of the St Ola had a bridge but no wheelhouse which was added later. Canvas dodgers were all the shelter the crew had on the bridge against the elemental fury of many of the Pentland Firth crossings. Behind the funnel was a small deck-house that gave access to the stuffy cabin below. For’ard was a doored scuttle giving access down to the forecastle, the domain of the crew when not on duty.
I was eight years old when I got my first sight of the St Ola, probably in September 1937. The Ola came from Stromness in the early morning to tiny Scapa Pier one mile from Kirkwall to collect passengers en route to Caithness. Charlie Tait of J. & W. Tait, our father’s first cousin, took us by car to Scapa Pier from his house at Buttquoy where we had stayed the night before while in Kirkwall. Our mother was taking us to Caithness for our first visit to our Granny in Inkstack.
Father stayed in Stronsay, probably still engaged with the herring fishing or perhaps more likely the harvest, so our mother had myself, David, Norna and Isobel in tow. We did one more crossing through Scapa Flow in 1939 with our father with us, then the Flow was off limits with the War and the Ola went west of Hoy for the remainder of my many experiences of her.
From Scapa Pier we scanned the coast to the West to catch our first glimpse of the Ola. A plume of far- distant black smoke, then a small dot which grew with each passing minute. Our excitement was intense, we were going abroad to Caithness in Scotland!! To an Orkneyman Scotland was, and still is to many, going abroad, called “The Sooth” or often just “Scotland”.
During these pre-war years the St Ola called on occasion at St Margaret’s Hope in South Ronaldsay or at Lyness in Hoy, touching briefly to pick up passengers and mail.
We did both. Lyness was in 1939 as father took us down the gangway to set foot on the Island of Hoy, and then back on board again!!
On the 1939 crossing he pointed out the tiny rock called The Barrel of Butter, one of the features of Scapa where he had been in the Army for a time in 1914 to 1918. In the far distance we saw it, a knob of an Island where the Territorials had hauled guns up the sheer cliffs. I think they might still be there, too arduous to recover.
Our first part of the crossing was within Scapa Flow, sheltered water. From Lyness a short sail took us round Cantick Head and out into the Pentland Firth. It would have been summer time when we did that trip but the sea was still restless. Scapa Pier to Scrabster was at least two hours, probably more. We spent all the time up on deck savouring new surroundings, the cliffs of Hoy, Dunnet Head far off to the South but getting closer, Stroma, our Grannie’s Island, well off on our port side.
We landed at Scrabster Pier to be met by our Uncle Hamish from Inkstack. I still remember the new leathery smell of his car, different from our own smaller Morris Ten.
Then to Inkstack and my first sight of real trees as we went down the Planting in Castletown.
I had not met our grandmother as yet and her Caithness dialect was almost incomprehensible to us. A foreign tongue. Plus her rapid delivery of words so we were lost. She being a native of Stroma did not help either!!!
Another St Ola voyage was in September 1941 going to school in Inverness when I was 12, the first of many such trips. By now it was War. This time it was Kirkwall to Stromness in a wooden seated bus, through a barbed wire gate and Identity Card inspection by rifle-armed soldiers at the head of the pier and on board.
It was my first introduction to Hoy Sound. Even in September the Ola met the incoming swell from the West, pitching heavily. Then round the corner of St John’s Head to head South towards Caithness and past the towering cliffs and The Old Man of Hoy.
In Sept 1942 my brother David joined me in Inverness. David Macrae from the Hotel in Stronsay had gone to Inverness the year before myself, and his brother Don was with David. Over the next few years when not flying with Fresson I went to Scrabster by the St Ola, then on by 6 hour train journey Thurso to Inverness. Even during the War it had a good dining car, attached to the train at the Mound. Officers travelled by the train on occasion in First Class, and any rank and file of course in Third.
Adventures during the War with the St Ola were seeing grey Navy ships passing, the Earl of Zetland or the St Ninian meeting us laden with Forces personnel going to “Bloody Orkney”. They came North to Thurso on the Jellicoe Express, a train for Forces only.
There were usually some Forces people on the St Ola. It gave us quite uncalled-for malicious pleasure to see a sailor being violently sick more than once. It was anyway a good Navy tradition, Admiral Nelson was said to be always sick when he went to sea.
I remember an Army officer rushed to the rail, unfortunately just as the Ola rolled. He got soaked to the waist by an incoming wave, and I do not think he felt it. Sea sickness is not funny.
We did our utmost to stay on deck in the fresh air, warmed at times by standing with our backs to the funnel. Down below the sea-sick atmosphere in the cabin was not conducive to anything.
In command of the Ola was Captain Swanson, a well-known tough old red-faced product of many long years at sea. In the forecastle we sometimes found Davy Logie, a good friend of our fathers. He featured in many a scrape but the two I remember were when he took a bag of rabbits infected with Myxymatosis to Orkney, a gift from our father off Greenland Mains to his fellow Orcadian farmers !!! .
The other incident was inflicted on Davy by his fellow crew-men. Knowing his friendship with our father, and having had a similar gift before, one of the crew gave Davy a bag and said it was some hens from Tom Pottinger who could not wait to give them personally as there was a sale on at Hamiltons Mart he had to rush off to it.
Leaving Scrabster Pier and off duty for a spell, Davy sat down on a box in the forecastle to pluck the hens. I did not hear the language when he opened the bag to find an offering of dead cormorants, but believe it was spectacular.
No 94. St Ola No 1. 1892 to 1951
No series of mine would be complete without reference to the first St Ola. A steam ship of 230 tons GRT, dimensions 135 ft x 22ft x 11 ft draft. I think she was built by Hall Russell in Aberdeen, based on a now old-fashioned trawler design. The Ola was small indeed compared to the present Hamnavoe, little bigger than one of her lifeboats!!
She crossed the Firth for 59 years from 1892 – 1951, making six daily return sailings per week with only a few cancellations in the interests of passenger comfort and safety.
The original layout of the St Ola had a bridge but no wheelhouse which was added later. Canvas dodgers were all the shelter the crew had on the bridge against the elemental fury of many of the Pentland Firth crossings. Behind the funnel was a small deck-house that gave access to the stuffy cabin below. For’ard was a doored scuttle giving access down to the forecastle, the domain of the crew when not on duty.
I was eight years old when I got my first sight of the St Ola, probably in September 1937. The Ola came from Stromness in the early morning to tiny Scapa Pier one mile from Kirkwall to collect passengers en route to Caithness. Charlie Tait of J. & W. Tait, our father’s first cousin, took us by car to Scapa Pier from his house at Buttquoy where we had stayed the night before while in Kirkwall. Our mother was taking us to Caithness for our first visit to our Granny in Inkstack.
Father stayed in Stronsay, probably still engaged with the herring fishing or perhaps more likely the harvest, so our mother had myself, David, Norna and Isobel in tow. We did one more crossing through Scapa Flow in 1939 with our father with us, then the Flow was off limits with the War and the Ola went west of Hoy for the remainder of my many experiences of her.
From Scapa Pier we scanned the coast to the West to catch our first glimpse of the Ola. A plume of far- distant black smoke, then a small dot which grew with each passing minute. Our excitement was intense, we were going abroad to Caithness in Scotland!! To an Orkneyman Scotland was, and still is to many, going abroad, called “The Sooth” or often just “Scotland”.
During these pre-war years the St Ola called on occasion at St Margaret’s Hope in South Ronaldsay or at Lyness in Hoy, touching briefly to pick up passengers and mail.
We did both. Lyness was in 1939 as father took us down the gangway to set foot on the Island of Hoy, and then back on board again!!
On the 1939 crossing he pointed out the tiny rock called The Barrel of Butter, one of the features of Scapa where he had been in the Army for a time in 1914 to 1918. In the far distance we saw it, a knob of an Island where the Territorials had hauled guns up the sheer cliffs. I think they might still be there, too arduous to recover.
Our first part of the crossing was within Scapa Flow, sheltered water. From Lyness a short sail took us round Cantick Head and out into the Pentland Firth. It would have been summer time when we did that trip but the sea was still restless. Scapa Pier to Scrabster was at least two hours, probably more. We spent all the time up on deck savouring new surroundings, the cliffs of Hoy, Dunnet Head far off to the South but getting closer, Stroma, our Grannie’s Island, well off on our port side.
We landed at Scrabster Pier to be met by our Uncle Hamish from Inkstack. I still remember the new leathery smell of his car, different from our own smaller Morris Ten.
Then to Inkstack and my first sight of real trees as we went down the Planting in Castletown.
I had not met our grandmother as yet and her Caithness dialect was almost incomprehensible to us. A foreign tongue. Plus her rapid delivery of words so we were lost. She being a native of Stroma did not help either!!!
Another St Ola voyage was in September 1941 going to school in Inverness when I was 12, the first of many such trips. By now it was War. This time it was Kirkwall to Stromness in a wooden seated bus, through a barbed wire gate and Identity Card inspection by rifle-armed soldiers at the head of the pier and on board.
It was my first introduction to Hoy Sound. Even in September the Ola met the incoming swell from the West, pitching heavily. Then round the corner of St John’s Head to head South towards Caithness and past the towering cliffs and The Old Man of Hoy.
In Sept 1942 my brother David joined me in Inverness. David Macrae from the Hotel in Stronsay had gone to Inverness the year before myself, and his brother Don was with David. Over the next few years when not flying with Fresson I went to Scrabster by the St Ola, then on by 6 hour train journey Thurso to Inverness. Even during the War it had a good dining car, attached to the train at the Mound. Officers travelled by the train on occasion in First Class, and any rank and file of course in Third.
Adventures during the War with the St Ola were seeing grey Navy ships passing, the Earl of Zetland or the St Ninian meeting us laden with Forces personnel going to “Bloody Orkney”. They came North to Thurso on the Jellicoe Express, a train for Forces only.
There were usually some Forces people on the St Ola. It gave us quite uncalled-for malicious pleasure to see a sailor being violently sick more than once. It was anyway a good Navy tradition, Admiral Nelson was said to be always sick when he went to sea.
I remember an Army officer rushed to the rail, unfortunately just as the Ola rolled. He got soaked to the waist by an incoming wave, and I do not think he felt it. Sea sickness is not funny.
We did our utmost to stay on deck in the fresh air, warmed at times by standing with our backs to the funnel. Down below the sea-sick atmosphere in the cabin was not conducive to anything.
In command of the Ola was Captain Swanson, a well-known tough old red-faced product of many long years at sea. In the forecastle we sometimes found Davy Logie, a good friend of our fathers. He featured in many a scrape but the two I remember were when he took a bag of rabbits infected with Myxymatosis to Orkney, a gift from our father off Greenland Mains to his fellow Orcadian farmers !!! .
The other incident was inflicted on Davy by his fellow crew-men. Knowing his friendship with our father, and having had a similar gift before, one of the crew gave Davy a bag and said it was some hens from Tom Pottinger who could not wait to give them personally as there was a sale on at Hamiltons Mart he had to rush off to it.
Leaving Scrabster Pier and off duty for a spell, Davy sat down on a box in the forecastle to pluck the hens. I did not hear the language when he opened the bag to find an offering of dead cormorants, but believe it was spectacular.
Friday, 27 May 2011
No 93. Brough Crossing.
A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 93. The Pentland Firth. Edited from first copy //
With the Pentland Firth so much in the news at present as the answer to all our future power problems, I thought it time to take a look at the waters over which my g.g.grand father JamesTait, who died in Inkstack in 1854, had taken his cattle. So I got a copy of the 13 hourly tide charts either side of High Water Dover [HWD]. The Pentland Firth was much more complex than I thought, no way can I do justice to the many tides and swirls and eddies and counter flows in a wee article. But from family connection I took a look.
. The story Wm Tait told of his grand father James Tait above taking 18 boats with 216 cattle across the Pentland stays with me. Scapa Flow was easy, reasonably sheltered water, but setting off round Cantick Head into the Pentland Firth the weather broke so they turned back and went into the old Viking Anchorage of Long Hope. There they off loaded the cattle and waited a week. Off again, but once more the weather broke. Nine boats kept going, nine turned back to Long Hope for a further week before final crossing.
With the tide charts before me I noted that with the last three hours of the east going flood tide there is a west going eddy close in to the cliffs of Hoy from Cantick Head to Tor Ness. This strengthened westwards on the turn of the tide at the beginning of the ebb. Ride that eddy and with a good sailing wind the boats would have been well off Tor Ness long before the tide turned. They would have headed out anyway into the last of the flood tide and the first of the ebb and be across the narrow seven miles between Tor Ness and Dunnet Head very quickly. These boats could sail well with the right wind. The “birlin” trading vessel of the Hebrides or the “knarr” of the Vikings could do up to nine knots if the wind was right, approximately ten miles an hour Good boats.
At the start of the west going ebb tide the Merry Men of Mey begin their dance just off St John’s Point, close in at first. As the ebb gathers strength the Merry Men reach further across towards Tor Ness, but ease off next St John’s Head as the ebb continues. By the two hours at the last of the ebb the sea off St John’s Point is quite quiet, though the Merry Men are still dancing off Tor Noss. To be avoided.
I thought then of all the places where James Tait might have landed on the rocky Caithness shore. Not an easy coast for sailing boats with no engines. The phrase “at the mercy of wind and tide” had real meaning for a sailor.
With 12 cattle to a boat a safe and secure landing place was essential. Dunnet Head provided a choice. If the wind got up in strength, or changed direction, they could alter course to go either side of Dunnet Head.
. If a strong easterly was blowing, a good wind for crossing from Hoy but blowing right into Brough Bay, the boats could go west of Dunnet Head and into the beach inside Dwarwick Head below Dunnet. There the sand and the rocky shore meet just along from the present caravan park. They could beach their boats there and off load the cattle. If the wind was westerly, and that is a direction from where the wind can blow up quite quckly, the boats could go into the lee of the east side of Dunnet Head and slip quietly and easily into the shelter of Brough Bay. It was the preferred landing place anyway, a shorter voyage. It was from Brough that one of my great grandfathers John Tait emigrated from Inkstack to Orkney, also three brothers and a sister. Ham was also well used for Orkney traffic, mostly grain and horses but passengers too.
There were no harbours as now we know them in Caithness at that time. At Scrabster ships lay suspended between their anchors and the four rings attached to the rock face below the Lighthouse. They were loaded from the shore by many small boats. The old map of 1841 of Thurso Bay and Scrabster, of which I got a copy from the Records Office in Edinburgh and which is now in the Harbour Masters Office, showed no pier at Scrabster until after that date, just a small neb into the water suitable enough for small boats. It also showed four ships at anchor and attached to the rings.
Thurso Rivermouth was tidal, impossible at low ebb. Castlehill Harbour, built by James Traill circa 1828, was just that, a harbour to load and export James Traill’s flagstones. It was well built, making use of a natural verticle rock face on the west side, easy to see when the tide is out. Dwarwick Pier was not bult till the 1890s.
Small slipways were sanctioned by James Traill in 1831 to be built if need be by the Comissioners of Northern Lighthouses at the harbours of Brough and Ham for the building of Dunnet Head Lighthouse by Robert Stevenson in 1832. Traill stipulated and reserved the continued use of any piers so built for tne use of his tenants. Huna and Sannick Bay were good landings, Huna particularly for Stroma cattle. Sannick was well known as a landing for South Ronaldsay cattle, the old pens still to be seen there. The state of the tide had much to do as to when and where to land at Sannick, the Bores of Duncansby being deadly when running.
.
At Staxigoe they had rings either side of the harbour to suspend ships between them. Most of the export of grain from Caithness was from Staxigoe.
As Aneas Bayne wrote in 1734, “The Trade of export of the Shire of Caithness consists mostly in Corns, wherof they export in any good year 16,000 Bolls, at the Ports of Thurso, viz:- Scrabster Road, a small way West of the Town , and at the River Mouth, and at Staxigoe Harbour near the Town of Wick, half meal, half bear.”
Even before the ebb tide changes to flood there is an easterly eddy coming close in round Dunnet Head, the first of the flood tide. This strengthens on the early flood. So wind permitting east of and inside Dunnet Head was their first choice. A North easterly wind, the Helm Wind of the Vikings, rarely gets up without notice as a westerly can though it can be a strong steady wind. In the interests of safety it gave James Tait a wonderful choice to land his precious cargo.
The essence of cattle transport was to find a beach of sand or shingle on which to run the boats, off loading by simply laying the boat over on its side and walking the cattle off. Or jump maybe, but it would be a low jump. Built piers were of no value for loading cattle, nor needed. James Tait’s main cattle landing beach was Brough, well sheltered from most airts of wind, a good shore on which to land
and a good flat space just above the beach to use as hauling ground to get the boats out of the water if the weather dictated. It was used in my early recollection by many Brough boats, and others, but these are now very few in number.
The Clett Rocks there helped the shelter too.
From Brough Bay or Dwarwick as occasion demanded the cattle were a short drive to 93 acre Grotistoft in Barrock Hill, where James Tait farmed from 1818 till 1843. There the cattle would be got ready for the long drive South to Carlisle. Then his final move to Inkstack in 1843, but by then nearing 63 years old I think, with a better and larger farm of 300 acres and 8 labourers to work it, his droving days would have come to an end.
No 93. The Pentland Firth. Edited from first copy //
With the Pentland Firth so much in the news at present as the answer to all our future power problems, I thought it time to take a look at the waters over which my g.g.grand father JamesTait, who died in Inkstack in 1854, had taken his cattle. So I got a copy of the 13 hourly tide charts either side of High Water Dover [HWD]. The Pentland Firth was much more complex than I thought, no way can I do justice to the many tides and swirls and eddies and counter flows in a wee article. But from family connection I took a look.
. The story Wm Tait told of his grand father James Tait above taking 18 boats with 216 cattle across the Pentland stays with me. Scapa Flow was easy, reasonably sheltered water, but setting off round Cantick Head into the Pentland Firth the weather broke so they turned back and went into the old Viking Anchorage of Long Hope. There they off loaded the cattle and waited a week. Off again, but once more the weather broke. Nine boats kept going, nine turned back to Long Hope for a further week before final crossing.
With the tide charts before me I noted that with the last three hours of the east going flood tide there is a west going eddy close in to the cliffs of Hoy from Cantick Head to Tor Ness. This strengthened westwards on the turn of the tide at the beginning of the ebb. Ride that eddy and with a good sailing wind the boats would have been well off Tor Ness long before the tide turned. They would have headed out anyway into the last of the flood tide and the first of the ebb and be across the narrow seven miles between Tor Ness and Dunnet Head very quickly. These boats could sail well with the right wind. The “birlin” trading vessel of the Hebrides or the “knarr” of the Vikings could do up to nine knots if the wind was right, approximately ten miles an hour Good boats.
At the start of the west going ebb tide the Merry Men of Mey begin their dance just off St John’s Point, close in at first. As the ebb gathers strength the Merry Men reach further across towards Tor Ness, but ease off next St John’s Head as the ebb continues. By the two hours at the last of the ebb the sea off St John’s Point is quite quiet, though the Merry Men are still dancing off Tor Noss. To be avoided.
I thought then of all the places where James Tait might have landed on the rocky Caithness shore. Not an easy coast for sailing boats with no engines. The phrase “at the mercy of wind and tide” had real meaning for a sailor.
With 12 cattle to a boat a safe and secure landing place was essential. Dunnet Head provided a choice. If the wind got up in strength, or changed direction, they could alter course to go either side of Dunnet Head.
. If a strong easterly was blowing, a good wind for crossing from Hoy but blowing right into Brough Bay, the boats could go west of Dunnet Head and into the beach inside Dwarwick Head below Dunnet. There the sand and the rocky shore meet just along from the present caravan park. They could beach their boats there and off load the cattle. If the wind was westerly, and that is a direction from where the wind can blow up quite quckly, the boats could go into the lee of the east side of Dunnet Head and slip quietly and easily into the shelter of Brough Bay. It was the preferred landing place anyway, a shorter voyage. It was from Brough that one of my great grandfathers John Tait emigrated from Inkstack to Orkney, also three brothers and a sister. Ham was also well used for Orkney traffic, mostly grain and horses but passengers too.
There were no harbours as now we know them in Caithness at that time. At Scrabster ships lay suspended between their anchors and the four rings attached to the rock face below the Lighthouse. They were loaded from the shore by many small boats. The old map of 1841 of Thurso Bay and Scrabster, of which I got a copy from the Records Office in Edinburgh and which is now in the Harbour Masters Office, showed no pier at Scrabster until after that date, just a small neb into the water suitable enough for small boats. It also showed four ships at anchor and attached to the rings.
Thurso Rivermouth was tidal, impossible at low ebb. Castlehill Harbour, built by James Traill circa 1828, was just that, a harbour to load and export James Traill’s flagstones. It was well built, making use of a natural verticle rock face on the west side, easy to see when the tide is out. Dwarwick Pier was not bult till the 1890s.
Small slipways were sanctioned by James Traill in 1831 to be built if need be by the Comissioners of Northern Lighthouses at the harbours of Brough and Ham for the building of Dunnet Head Lighthouse by Robert Stevenson in 1832. Traill stipulated and reserved the continued use of any piers so built for tne use of his tenants. Huna and Sannick Bay were good landings, Huna particularly for Stroma cattle. Sannick was well known as a landing for South Ronaldsay cattle, the old pens still to be seen there. The state of the tide had much to do as to when and where to land at Sannick, the Bores of Duncansby being deadly when running.
.
At Staxigoe they had rings either side of the harbour to suspend ships between them. Most of the export of grain from Caithness was from Staxigoe.
As Aneas Bayne wrote in 1734, “The Trade of export of the Shire of Caithness consists mostly in Corns, wherof they export in any good year 16,000 Bolls, at the Ports of Thurso, viz:- Scrabster Road, a small way West of the Town , and at the River Mouth, and at Staxigoe Harbour near the Town of Wick, half meal, half bear.”
Even before the ebb tide changes to flood there is an easterly eddy coming close in round Dunnet Head, the first of the flood tide. This strengthens on the early flood. So wind permitting east of and inside Dunnet Head was their first choice. A North easterly wind, the Helm Wind of the Vikings, rarely gets up without notice as a westerly can though it can be a strong steady wind. In the interests of safety it gave James Tait a wonderful choice to land his precious cargo.
The essence of cattle transport was to find a beach of sand or shingle on which to run the boats, off loading by simply laying the boat over on its side and walking the cattle off. Or jump maybe, but it would be a low jump. Built piers were of no value for loading cattle, nor needed. James Tait’s main cattle landing beach was Brough, well sheltered from most airts of wind, a good shore on which to land
and a good flat space just above the beach to use as hauling ground to get the boats out of the water if the weather dictated. It was used in my early recollection by many Brough boats, and others, but these are now very few in number.
The Clett Rocks there helped the shelter too.
From Brough Bay or Dwarwick as occasion demanded the cattle were a short drive to 93 acre Grotistoft in Barrock Hill, where James Tait farmed from 1818 till 1843. There the cattle would be got ready for the long drive South to Carlisle. Then his final move to Inkstack in 1843, but by then nearing 63 years old I think, with a better and larger farm of 300 acres and 8 labourers to work it, his droving days would have come to an end.
No 94. St Ola
A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.
No 93. St Ola No 1. 1892 to 1951
No series of mine would be complete without reference to the first St Ola. A steam ship of 230 tons GRT, dimensions 135 ft x 22ft x 11 ft draft. I think she was built by Hall Russell in Aberdeen, based on a now old-fashioned trawler design. The Ola was small indeed compared to the present Hamnavoe, little bigger than one of her lifeboats!!
She crossed the Firth for 59 years from 1892 – 1951, making six daily return sailings per week with only a few cancellations in the interests of passenger comfort and safety.
The original layout of the St Ola had a bridge but no wheelhouse which was added later. Canvas dodgers were all the shelter the crew had on the bridge against the elemental fury of many of the Pentland Firth crossings. Behind the funnel was a small deck-house that gave access to the stuffy cabin below. For’ard was a doored scuttle giving access down to the forecastle, the domain of the crew when not on duty.
I was eight years old when I got my first sight of the St Ola, probably in September 1937. The Ola came from Stromness in the early morning to tiny Scapa Pier one mile from Kirkwall to collect passengers en route to Caithness. Charlie Tait of J. & W. Tait, our father’s first cousin, took us by car to Scapa Pier from his house at Buttquoy where we had stayed the night before while in Kirkwall. Our mother was taking us to Caithness for our first visit to our Granny in Inkstack.
Father stayed in Stronsay, probably still engaged with the herring fishing or perhaps more likely the harvest, so our mother had myself, David, Norna and Isobel in tow. We did one more crossing through Scapa Flow in 1939 with our father with us, then the Flow was off limits with the War and the Ola went west of Hoy for the remainder of my many experiences of her.
From Scapa Pier we scanned the coast to the West to catch our first glimpse of the Ola. A plume of far- distant black smoke, then a small dot which grew with each passing minute. Our excitement was intense, we were going abroad to Caithness in Scotland!! To an Orkneyman Scotland was, and still is to many, going abroad, called “The Sooth” or often just “Scotland”.
During these pre-war years the St Ola called on occasion at St Margaret’s Hope in South Ronaldsay or at Lyness in Hoy, touching briefly to pick up passengers and mail.
We did both. Lyness was in 1939 as father took us down the gangway to set foot on the Island of Hoy, and then back on board again!!
On the 1939 crossing he pointed out the tiny rock called The Barrel of Butter, one of the features of Scapa where he had been in the Army for a time in 1914 to 1918. In the far distance we saw it, a knob of an Island where the Territorials had hauled guns up the sheer cliffs. I think they might still be there, too arduous to recover.
Our first part of the crossing was within Scapa Flow, sheltered water. From Lyness a short sail took us round Cantick Head and out into the Pentland Firth. It would have been summer time when we did that trip but the sea was still restless. Scapa Pier to Scrabster was at least two hours, probably more. We spent all the time up on deck savouring new surroundings, the cliffs of Hoy, Dunnet Head far off to the South but getting closer, Stroma, our Grannie’s Island, well off on our port side.
We landed at Scrabster Pier to be met by our Uncle Hamish from Inkstack. I still remember the new leathery smell of his car, different from our own smaller Morris Ten.
Then to Inkstack and my first sight of real trees as we went down the Planting in Castletown.
I had not met our grandmother as yet and her Caithness dialect was almost incomprehensible to us. A foreign tongue. Plus her rapid delivery of words so we were lost. She being a native of Stroma did not help either!!!
Another St Ola voyage was in September 1941 going to school in Inverness when I was 12, the first of many such trips. By now it was War. This time it was Kirkwall to Stromness in a wooden seated bus, through a barbed wire gate and Identity Card inspection by rifle-armed soldiers at the head of the pier and on board.
It was my first introduction to Hoy Sound. Even in September the Ola met the incoming swell from the West, pitching heavily. Then round the corner of St John’s Head to head South towards Caithness and past the towering cliffs and The Old Man of Hoy.
In Sept 1942 my brother David joined me in Inverness. David Macrae from the Hotel in Stronsay had gone to Inverness the year before myself, and his brother Don was with David. Over the next few years when not flying with Fresson I went to Scrabster by the St Ola, then on by 6 hour train journey Thurso to Inverness. Even during the War it had a good dining car, attached to the train at the Mound. Officers travelled by the train on occasion in First Class, and any rank and file of course in Third.
Adventures during the War with the St Ola were seeing grey Navy ships passing, the Earl of Zetland or the St Ninian meeting us laden with Forces personnel going to “Bloody Orkney”. They came North to Thurso on the Jellicoe Express, a train for Forces only.
There were usually some Forces people on the St Ola. It gave us quite uncalled-for malicious pleasure to see a sailor being violently sick more than once. It was anyway a good Navy tradition, Admiral Nelson was said to be always sick when he went to sea.
I remember an Army officer rushed to the rail, unfortunately just as the Ola rolled. He got soaked to the waist by an incoming wave, and I do not think he felt it. Sea sickness is not funny.
We did our utmost to stay on deck in the fresh air, warmed at times by standing with our backs to the funnel. Down below the sea-sick atmosphere in the cabin was not conducive to anything.
In command of the Ola was Captain Swanson, a well-known tough old red-faced product of many long years at sea. In the forecastle we sometimes found Davy Logie, a good friend of our fathers. He featured in many a scrape but the two I remember were when he took a bag of rabbits infected with Myxymatosis to Orkney, a gift from our father off Greenland Mains to his fellow Orcadian farmers !!! .
The other incident was inflicted on Davy by his fellow crew-men. Knowing his friendship with our father, and having had a similar gift before, one of the crew gave Davy a bag and said it was some hens from Tom Pottinger who could not wait to give them personally as there was a sale on at Hamiltons Mart he had to rush off to it.
Leaving Scrabster Pier and off duty for a spell, Davy sat down on a box in the forecastle to pluck the hens. I did not hear the language when he opened the bag to find an offering of dead cormorants, but believe it was spectacular.
No 93. St Ola No 1. 1892 to 1951
No series of mine would be complete without reference to the first St Ola. A steam ship of 230 tons GRT, dimensions 135 ft x 22ft x 11 ft draft. I think she was built by Hall Russell in Aberdeen, based on a now old-fashioned trawler design. The Ola was small indeed compared to the present Hamnavoe, little bigger than one of her lifeboats!!
She crossed the Firth for 59 years from 1892 – 1951, making six daily return sailings per week with only a few cancellations in the interests of passenger comfort and safety.
The original layout of the St Ola had a bridge but no wheelhouse which was added later. Canvas dodgers were all the shelter the crew had on the bridge against the elemental fury of many of the Pentland Firth crossings. Behind the funnel was a small deck-house that gave access to the stuffy cabin below. For’ard was a doored scuttle giving access down to the forecastle, the domain of the crew when not on duty.
I was eight years old when I got my first sight of the St Ola, probably in September 1937. The Ola came from Stromness in the early morning to tiny Scapa Pier one mile from Kirkwall to collect passengers en route to Caithness. Charlie Tait of J. & W. Tait, our father’s first cousin, took us by car to Scapa Pier from his house at Buttquoy where we had stayed the night before while in Kirkwall. Our mother was taking us to Caithness for our first visit to our Granny in Inkstack.
Father stayed in Stronsay, probably still engaged with the herring fishing or perhaps more likely the harvest, so our mother had myself, David, Norna and Isobel in tow. We did one more crossing through Scapa Flow in 1939 with our father with us, then the Flow was off limits with the War and the Ola went west of Hoy for the remainder of my many experiences of her.
From Scapa Pier we scanned the coast to the West to catch our first glimpse of the Ola. A plume of far- distant black smoke, then a small dot which grew with each passing minute. Our excitement was intense, we were going abroad to Caithness in Scotland!! To an Orkneyman Scotland was, and still is to many, going abroad, called “The Sooth” or often just “Scotland”.
During these pre-war years the St Ola called on occasion at St Margaret’s Hope in South Ronaldsay or at Lyness in Hoy, touching briefly to pick up passengers and mail.
We did both. Lyness was in 1939 as father took us down the gangway to set foot on the Island of Hoy, and then back on board again!!
On the 1939 crossing he pointed out the tiny rock called The Barrel of Butter, one of the features of Scapa where he had been in the Army for a time in 1914 to 1918. In the far distance we saw it, a knob of an Island where the Territorials had hauled guns up the sheer cliffs. I think they might still be there, too arduous to recover.
Our first part of the crossing was within Scapa Flow, sheltered water. From Lyness a short sail took us round Cantick Head and out into the Pentland Firth. It would have been summer time when we did that trip but the sea was still restless. Scapa Pier to Scrabster was at least two hours, probably more. We spent all the time up on deck savouring new surroundings, the cliffs of Hoy, Dunnet Head far off to the South but getting closer, Stroma, our Grannie’s Island, well off on our port side.
We landed at Scrabster Pier to be met by our Uncle Hamish from Inkstack. I still remember the new leathery smell of his car, different from our own smaller Morris Ten.
Then to Inkstack and my first sight of real trees as we went down the Planting in Castletown.
I had not met our grandmother as yet and her Caithness dialect was almost incomprehensible to us. A foreign tongue. Plus her rapid delivery of words so we were lost. She being a native of Stroma did not help either!!!
Another St Ola voyage was in September 1941 going to school in Inverness when I was 12, the first of many such trips. By now it was War. This time it was Kirkwall to Stromness in a wooden seated bus, through a barbed wire gate and Identity Card inspection by rifle-armed soldiers at the head of the pier and on board.
It was my first introduction to Hoy Sound. Even in September the Ola met the incoming swell from the West, pitching heavily. Then round the corner of St John’s Head to head South towards Caithness and past the towering cliffs and The Old Man of Hoy.
In Sept 1942 my brother David joined me in Inverness. David Macrae from the Hotel in Stronsay had gone to Inverness the year before myself, and his brother Don was with David. Over the next few years when not flying with Fresson I went to Scrabster by the St Ola, then on by 6 hour train journey Thurso to Inverness. Even during the War it had a good dining car, attached to the train at the Mound. Officers travelled by the train on occasion in First Class, and any rank and file of course in Third.
Adventures during the War with the St Ola were seeing grey Navy ships passing, the Earl of Zetland or the St Ninian meeting us laden with Forces personnel going to “Bloody Orkney”. They came North to Thurso on the Jellicoe Express, a train for Forces only.
There were usually some Forces people on the St Ola. It gave us quite uncalled-for malicious pleasure to see a sailor being violently sick more than once. It was anyway a good Navy tradition, Admiral Nelson was said to be always sick when he went to sea.
I remember an Army officer rushed to the rail, unfortunately just as the Ola rolled. He got soaked to the waist by an incoming wave, and I do not think he felt it. Sea sickness is not funny.
We did our utmost to stay on deck in the fresh air, warmed at times by standing with our backs to the funnel. Down below the sea-sick atmosphere in the cabin was not conducive to anything.
In command of the Ola was Captain Swanson, a well-known tough old red-faced product of many long years at sea. In the forecastle we sometimes found Davy Logie, a good friend of our fathers. He featured in many a scrape but the two I remember were when he took a bag of rabbits infected with Myxymatosis to Orkney, a gift from our father off Greenland Mains to his fellow Orcadian farmers !!! .
The other incident was inflicted on Davy by his fellow crew-men. Knowing his friendship with our father, and having had a similar gift before, one of the crew gave Davy a bag and said it was some hens from Tom Pottinger who could not wait to give them personally as there was a sale on at Hamiltons Mart he had to rush off to it.
Leaving Scrabster Pier and off duty for a spell, Davy sat down on a box in the forecastle to pluck the hens. I did not hear the language when he opened the bag to find an offering of dead cormorants, but believe it was spectacular.
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