Why I am an Island Bagger

Evenin' all,

I was recently asked to answer some questions about island bagging, and my views on islands in general, and I thought that the response I gave summed up quite nicely the reason for the passion and the excitement of the quest. I figured you might like a read?

Have a good Christmas and all that

Sam


Right, where to begin...What are the challenges of visiting so many islands? The most obvious two issues are the time and the money. For the last three years we've spent at least a full week in Scotland over the summer, and then we've also had other weekends and day trips in between, and this involves a big commitment from our holiday allowances from work. We've also spent probably thousands of pounds on petrol, ferries, hostels and planes, not to mention the twenty pounds slipped to the fisherman to run us across the bay every now and again, so there is a limit to how many islands we can get to in any given year, but then we've always said that the challenge isn't really the sort of endeavour that you want to finish too quickly, it's more fun doing it than to have done it (I suspect!). There's also the issue of travel, with Liam living in Bristol and me in Milton Keynes we quickly covered off the reachable islands in the South West of England and we've just about done the South East too now, but it's a long drive to Scotland where most of the quest takes place, so there's little option of a quick weekend away. Realistically we seem to be looking in the region of fifty new islands bagged every year, but I suspect this number will either start to drop as we finish off the easier to get to ones and each one starts taking more and more planning and time to reach.

Aside from these more general challenges, there are more specific issues that we've encountered around the coast. For example we had to go to Essex twice so that we could fit in with the schedule of the Ministry of Defence's permitted open days to visit Foulness Island, and despite our pleas and explanations the staff there still wouldn't let us on to nearby Potton or Rushey Islands, strictly off-limits - I guess this is fairly representative of the human aspect of the restrictive nature of islands, if someone wants to make an island private it's easier done than to do so on the mainland. On our approach to Osea Island we were threatened with prosecution by a signpost before we even got in
sight of the water let alone the island, so that one is still to be ticked off. Whilst some places are really welcoming and the people seem to go out of their way to help us out as much as they can, in other places we get a stony faced response and a complete lack of interest. We asked an old man in a shop in Essex the way to nearby Ray Island and he said that no such place existed, despite it being just a couple of miles away. I guess a general theme could be inferred that people from England are either far less interested in islands, or alternatively far less helpful overall, than people in Scotland.

The other main enemy when it comes to bagging a new island tends to be nature, and in particular the tide. Two instances that immediately spring to mind, once just a couple of months ago at Asparagus Island in Cornwall, and also last year at Toll's Island off the edge of St Mary's in the Isles of Scilly, me and Liam have been out bagging alone and been met with a wait of more than a couple of hours for the tide to go out so that we can cross the channel. Both times impatience meant we attempted the dash a little early and ended up with soaking trousers, and we've both said that if we had been out with some of our less hardcore island-bagging friends then they might not have been up for the wait.
Sometimes we haven't been able to cross at all, on our second trip to Essex we wound up at Bradwell Marina looking out over Pewit Island as the tide rushed in and had to give up for the day. That's perhaps the most frustrating thing, when you get within sight of a new island but you have to leave without setting foot on it, especially when it's one on it's own that will need a whole extra trip at some point in the future to finish off. Conversely there was a smug satisfaction when we made it to St Michael's Mount with minutes to spare on that same recent trip to Cornwall, as we'd last been in Marazion a year before as the tide was fully in and we had to get back to Bristol for work, it's
definitely good to go back and finish what you meant to do, though the two minutes we actually got to spend on the Mount made me think it might be worth going back a third time to actually have a look around!

Your next question needs a bit of care, and a bit of explanation first I think. First of all, it's important to define exactly what an island is, and how it can be bagged. In writing and maintaining our blog, I've come across a couple of other individuals and groups online who are also undertaking the same challenge as us, and our criteria seem to vary a little. The exact definition of an island itself can be very wide and varied, and as far as I am aware there is no universal distinction between an island, an islet, a skerry etc, and if we were to count every bit of rock that breaks the surface of the waves we'd be challenging ourselves to visit tens of thousands of tiny bits of land, so we have decided upon our own rules. To be an island it must be above the high tide mark at all times, must be cut-off from the mainland at some stage of the tide (apart from man made structures, though the causeway from Eriskay to South-Uist is close to the line), it must support a reasonable amount of vegetation and must be large enough to support 'a couple' of sheep. The definition of couple in this instance is intentionally loose. Additionally, it helps, though it's not essential, if the island has a recognised name, but we aren't against naming islands for ourselves, as we did with 'Bagger's Island' in Vementry, Shetland. I think, though I'm yet to get a definitive answer, despite badgering the
Ordnance Survey (you think they'd know) that there are about eight hundred islands that fit the criteria, and two thirds of those must be in Scotland if not more. The next thorny issue is what counts as bagging an island? We've very firmly agreed that we will only count an island as visited once we've set foot on it properly, and we always look to take a photo of everyone who's with us so that they have evidence of visiting.

Both of these rules have led to a good deal of discussion and not a small amount of frustration. We're still unsure as to the true position on whether Gluss Isle in Northmavine in Shetland counts as an island, as there is so little information published about the hump of hill far away from anywhere, but one source I've found suggests that in extreme high tides the causeway does flood, cutting it off. I'm waiting for some more official verification of this before I'm committing to putting Gluss on the list. Conversely, I was recently on a non-island bagging trip to Edinburgh and over the weekend happened to cross the Forth rail bridge twice. My Girlfriend's Nephew was puzzled by how interested
I was in whether any of the bridge supports were rooted in the soil and rock of the small island of Inchcolm in the Firth below. It transpired that it passed just a few metres upstream, but had we gone over the top it would have started a new debate as to what counted no doubt.

But of course, as you might expect, the statistical progress of the challenge isn't really the point of it at all, I've been enthralled by the idea of an island for as long as I can remember, and this is just the vehicle that gives us a reason to travel to as many as possible. From reading Enid Blyton and Treasure Island when I was really young, to family holidays in South Devon not far from tidal Burgh Island, right through my absolute love of maps and atlases to the point they plaster my walls where others would have family photos, I've always found a romance, yet also an isolation, a mystery and a poignancy about being on, and getting to, an island. So in answer to your question, the number isn't
really the most important thing. There have been some days when it's felt like we were collecting numbers just for the sake of it, like when we were in Scilly and hired a motorboat to make landfall on what seemed like dozens of identical uninhabited mounds, but a lot of the time the reward of the challenge is to find just how utterly different each island is, not just from the mainland but also from often it's near neighbours, each with eccentricities and unusual highlights of it's own. It's probably fair to say that there's usually a payoff in terms of effort with reward, as the islands that require more planning, travel and organisation to get to often exude the sort of charm that you just won't get by driving along the A road to Canvey Island. I think it's something to do with a singularity of understanding that everyone has been through the same struggles to get to, and be on this island at this time, and probably it's also true that the fewer the people present the more they need to use each other for support. It always seems that the places where memories of this sort of community spirit usually crystallize are in the pub, and to give just a few examples, the Turk's Head on St Agnes, the Mariso Tavern on Lundy and a lunchtime session in the Rousay Pier Bar have all been some of the most welcoming I'm yet to encounter.

The real success of island bagging is the whole process of spending hours in the winter poring over googlemaps and Wikipedia and ferry company timetables, and putting together a timetable to take in as many islands as possible, it's waking up five in the morning to set out on a two hundred mile journey with the sole intention of walking over a beach and up a hill on the other side, which is otherwise such an absurdly pointless thing to do. The real joy in the whole mission is to discover the lonely and forgotten corners of the British Isles that not only survive but in many cases thrive despite not having broadband or houmous at their fingertips. There's a lot of history, we've learned a lot
about Vikings and Romans, heard the name Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell where otherwise we might not, seen more Neolithic burial tombs than perhaps we really care to, and managed to pick up some rudimentary geology, ornithology and seafaring knowledge along the way. We've met countless helpful people, hiring us a car for the day on trust alone on Westray, risking being late for a wedding party by ferrying us around West Mersea harbour and helping our late night conspiring to find a way to Vaila. We never got there, but that's not really the point. We've also seen some sights that are completely unique, the sheer cliffs of the Old Man of Hoy appearing through the mist as the ferry slid by in the early morning light, the view from the front seat of the twin islander cruising at 600 feet as Northern Orkney's mess of sandy beaches and low-slung hills sprawled before us, and the steep and hidden pathways through the undergrowth on the former pirate haven of Steepholm in the Bristol Channel.

I don't think islands have really changed in my perception since we started the quest, more that they have shown themselves to be the sort of mysterious, windswept and singular places I always hoped they would be. If we ever did finish the quest I think my response would probably be to start it all over again, but would I like to live there on an island? Only if I could work from home and they had reliable broadband and a well-stocked supermarket. Maybe Stornoway?!

Sanday and Stronsay - Teacakes and Rum

  Following another pleasantly peaceful night, this time cocooned in the surprisingly warm little wooden böds, we woke up energised and after a quick wash-and-nosh we were back on the bikes. Our plan for the day was to head north towards two connected tidal islands known as the Holms of Ire, before heading towards Lady Village to find some interesting looking places to explore. 

The well appointed Ayers Rock facilities

Sanday Coastline

We had a gentle ride of an Orkney mile or two, which terminated at the edge-of-nowhere pair of wild tidal islands on the north-west end of Sanday, bleak, desolate and strewn with ruins (St Colm Chapel accounting some of the ruinous items), nautical junk, wrecks (“Alex Hastie” trawler accounting for some of the wrecked items), ominous, solitary dog walkers and such. The causeways were passable at the time we got there but the tide seemed inbound and the terrain tough. Accordingly we made as much haste as possible scrabbling over the slippery, sea-weed covered rocks, avoiding deep, dark pools of seawater and generally having a classic bagging time while getting the obligatory photos along the way! 

Holms of Ire #1

Holms of Ire #2

 Another unhurried ride through rolling green countryside and we were at the local shop in Lady where we replenished our snacks and supplies (Irn Bru and Tunnocks Tea Cakes) and found our first ILP, the nearby Croft Museum, notable in my humble opinion for having an awesome old hootsamaphone – in full working order

Sanday

We poked around the house for a bit, which presented a little snapshot of croft life, massacred Für Elise, and signed the guest book (donating to the honesty box of course!) before heading off to see what other gems we could find. The next ILP was the Heritage Centre, its focus on Viking discoveries and lost walruses. 

Inside the Croft

Outside the Croft

 We had a go with the props as always, the Viking shield, sword and helmet combo seemed to be a popular staple of most Orkney museums (part of a museum starter pack perhaps?!), read about the remarkable Viking discoveries made at Scar and elsewhere, and checked the highly detailed maps on display for any other islands we might reach prior to our first Loganair flight.

Where all the heritage happens

Viking Liam

 Alas, there were no islands near enough, so we embarked on our final Sanday bike ride back to Ayre’s Rock to grab some food, pack, and get kindly taken by Paul himself to the airport to catch our flight to the neighbouring island of Stronsay. No passport control here, just a small room, some dedicated islanders (who already have several jobs) taking time out to sort our baggage and carry out safety checks on the airfield, and photographic evidence that they are rehearsed in quelling any flames that may arise should everything go wrong. The flight went perfectly – of course! “Five minutes isn’t long enough for anything bad to happen.” I said.

Flying over Sanday

Welcome to Stronsay

We touched down, hubris justified, offered the pilot a tea cake as a thank you, and were swiftly swept into a car with a pair of kind gentlemen who offered to take us to the Fish Mart Hostel, our exact destination, located in Whitehall just a few miles from the airport. Too good an offer to pass up, we jumped in and drove down the hill towards the small picturesque fishing village, which included the island’s only shop, pub, hostel and pier. 

Not a soul stirred along the main street where its houses lined the quay silently on one side and humble boats bobbed lazily in the water on the other. The shop showed some signs of activity; from here we were directed towards one of the houses further along the quay to get the hostel key from the hostel keeper, who sure enough let us in to the basic but comfortable accommodation, which appeared unoccupied aside from us. 

The ill-fated mission while we were here was to try and get to Papa Stronsay, a neighbouring island viewable across the quay and inhabited by the Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer. Immediate attempts were made to contact the harbour-master, then the monks themselves. We left some messages on phones and in houses, then hit the shop again, this time to buy some food. In the shop we were told by several people to look out for the monks as they were often coming back and forth between the two islands and apparently happily take visitors to show around. To kill some time while we waited impatiently for news from the monks, we had a little walk around the peaceful coastline, before going back to the hostel to make tea. 

Due to some unfortunate mix up, there wasn’t the facilities we thought there was and we were unable to cook the food we had bought, so we ended up eating at the Stronsay Hotel. However, this turned into a happy accident as it was some of the most delicious home-made lasagne I’ve ever had, I’m serious, and for only a fiver! The barman yet again was English seeking a quieter life from all the hustle and bustle etc, but was very welcoming and served us a number of delectable “Dark and Stormys” while we shot some pool and regaled our adventures to him. A great end to a great day. “But what about the monks?” I hear you ask. I’ll let Sam finish that story because it still niggles me.

Disaster Averted and our first Nightbag! A long, long day in Cornwall

 So first of all the good news, I have today purchased a spanking new computer, as the old one was starting to get so slow that uploading photos took an absolute age, and made keeping this blog up to date a real chore. Now I've caught up with the decade technology wise, things are much easier and I should be able to add more islands much more frequently. I thought I'd celebrate with some pictures and writing about a recent trip Liam and I took to Cornwall, where we braved the decidedly autumnal conditions to seek out a set of very different and individual islands...

Kynance Cove

We left Bristol at seven after only about four hours sleep, having watched the excellent Stewart Lee live the night before, and not got to bed until about two, so we weren't exactly bright eyed and bushy tailed, but a cup of coffee and the sight of the empty M5 southbound finally got us going. Our first and most distant target was the mysterious Asparagus Island, not featured in any of the many books about islands that we've been collecting, it was only a devoted scan of googlemaps that alerted me to it's existence, but as a sizable tidal clump with beach access it certainly looked worth a go. 

Asparagus Island

Derelict Cottage at Kynance Cove

 We finally got to Kynance Cove around eleven, after a long slog through Devon and Cornwall, and parked up at the National Trust car park on the clifftop, and after paying the one pound charge for members who haven't got their cards (really, really need to remember to get a new one) we set off on the trek down to the shore. There are two paths here, a short one for when the tide is out, and a longer one for when it's in, as there is a short section on the short path that gets cut off when the sea is high. The fact that we had been sent the long way around suggested we hadn't timed it exactly perfectly to cross on the sand to Asparagus Island, and as expected after winding down to the beachside cafe and across the headland we could see some serious swells running over the thirty metres or so that separate the island from the shore.

The Sea was still there

Still there...

Knowing that we'd have a wait of at least an hour, we decided that we'd check out what offerings the cafe might have for breakfast. Lots, it turned out, but then reason #1 for a 30 minute round trip back up to the car park, I'd left my wallet in the car. Long walk back up to the National Trust car park, but when we arrived, the car was open but Liam's keys were nowhere to be found. Not in the bag, not in the pocket, nowhere. Therefore, reason #2 for another walk, retracing our steps back down the long path to the cafe, over the headland, back up the path again and all the way back to the car, no sign of the keys anywhere. As a last resort, asked the guy in the National Trust car park booth. Keys were handed in within a minute of us parking up. Silly sods dropped them on the floor. We'd just about come to terms with the prospect of calling the AA to do something to resolve the situation, hundreds of miles away from anywhere, but it wasn't a fun idea.

But now it was retreating

Enough for us to make it to the top!

So for the second time we walked down the long path to the beach, but at least we'd wasted some of the time whilst the tide was going out. Not all of the time, it seemed, as whilst the actual causeway across to Asparagus Island was drying, we also needed to get around from the beach as there was no path down from the nearest headland. After an hour of me watching and Liam snoozing it was close to two, but then finally I decided that the time was right to go for it. The sea still covered the path but it was shallow enough that we could just about dash for it if we didn't mind getting wet legs. Although I possibly went a little deeper than I wanted, belly-button deep with my only pair of trousers on, we got around and onto the sand ready for an assault of the steep cliffs of Asparagus Island.

One of the best caves I've ever seen

Ready for the running the sea-gauntlet

Quickly to the top, some photos and a look around at the other free standing stacks in the vicinity, all of them too steep for any habitation, then a descent back to the beach, where there are several proper sized caves to explore. After braving the deeps of the path back to civilisation, we completed our third ascent of the cliff path to the car, and off to more adventure.

Next up we were going for St Michael's Mount. You may recall from our trip to Scilly in 2012 that we were left staring wistfully across the causeway as the waves whipped over. This time, it was just as wet, but most of it was coming from the sky. The causeway was barely passable, and by the time we got there the tide was coming in again, but the rain had begun lashing down, and it wasn't really fun to do anything other than run over, take some pictures and run back again. It looks like an awesome island to explore, but sadly we just didn't have the right day.

The slightly wet causeway

The Harbour at St Michael's Mount

On the way back, we jumped up on top of Chapel Rock, in a flagrant lack of attention to our own self imposed rules, Liam decided that as it had steps on it it must count as an island, but the presence of some tufts of grass on the top and the fairly substantial size means it will get a place in the list.

On the Mount

Fairly Wet

Wetter

After these triumphs, a couple of failures. Firstly we made a highly speculative attempt to reach Samphire Island. It's definitely somewhere off the North coast of Cornwall, south of Newquay, but we got as far as driving along the road in the general region before realising the absolute gale was going to make any attempt at running over the mile or so of fields to the coast absolutely miserable. We carried on to Newquay.

Here we wanted to go to Towan Island, the picturesque tower of rock just off the cliffs in the middle of the town, with it's very own suspension bridge and guest house on top, but we got as far as the door that said private and that didn't open with a welcoming face when we knocked. Nobody to explain the quest to, nobody to let us in with welcoming arms and allow us across the bridge. Pants.

The closest we came to Towan Island, you can just see the bridge

 Finally, just a mile or so up the coast, a sure fire bag was on offer. Porth Island is another landmass connected by a short bridge over a channel washed to soaking at high tide. By this time it was both stormy and completely night time, and we enjoyed the prospect of our very first island visited in the night time. No idea what Porth Island looks like, other than it's dark and it's quite hard to not step in puddles of mud. Still, we did it, took the photo, got the (wet) T-shirt, and as soon as we got back to the car it was a swift dash back to Bristol.

He's putting on that smile, it was horrible

But was it worth it?

 Left at seven in the morning, got back close to eleven at night, managed to bag four Cornish islands in varying degrees of comfort, but a great day was had by all (both)!

 Liam's Mousa Memory: Daughters and Crabs

Another departure from the Orkney trip report here, Liam has supplied me with this reminiscence of our last day in Shetland last year, and as I failed to get to the end of the series myself, this rounds off the matter nicely. More tales from Orkney next week!

 

Our last day on Shetland provided us with an opportunity to correct a minor itinerary error. Sam and I resolved to get up early (around six I think), shoot up to West Burrafirth to get the ferry to Papa Stour, shoot back down to Sumburgh Head to pick up Fran and Mike with time spare for the officially planned Mousa day trip. With an improved familiarity with the roads of mainland Shetland and the tribal cacophony of Animal Collective blasting from the car stereo, we sped to West Burrafirth and boarded the Papa Stour ferry. And lo and behold, our fisherman friend from Vementry was one of the ferry fellas! 

Papa Stour Ferry Terminal

Liam on Papa Stour

Sam on Papa Stour

He was quick to introduce us to the other members of the crew, "These are the island baggers I was telling you about," said he to his friends. We felt pretty good about ourselves just then, maybe it was that we hadn't fully woken up and were still a little dreamy in the brain. Whatever; it was an awesome coincidence. So Hamish said it was cool for Sam and I to hop off the ferry at Papa Stour for a quick snap before joining them on the immediate return trip back again, as we were pushed for time. This meant that we didn't get to look around the island, but I'm sure we will in the future when we inevitably return to Shetland. 

From the Mousa Ferry

The last island of Shetland

Walking on Mousa

Car, back down the road, picked up the others (Fran was lost somewhere looking for puffins I seem to recall) and then on to the jetty in Sandwick to catch the boat to Mousa. This boat trip is run by the RSPB for a cost of about £15 per person, however, we were not heading there to look at birds (although watching the terns divebomb into the water was pretty cool), but to check out the rather interesting looking Iron Age Broch, easily visible from the mainland due to its surprisingly unweathered stature.

Mouse Broch

Back then we were broch noobs, and were thoroughly impressed by the size of the structure, and of how much remains in tact. It was absolutely fantastic; strangely adorned keystones, scary cubby holes, stairs that you could actually go up, all helping us to feel close to the past; tangible history that gives you a special feeling. The experience blew our broch fuses, and none since have come even close. Sorry to all of Orkney (even the little child-made model brochs, which I still hold as being better than some of the actual ruins), but there it is, all other brochs seem mundane by comparison. 

Inside the Broch

Outside the Broch

After a brief stomp around the island and a debate as to whether our morals would stretch to us jumping the wall and entering forbidden territory to bag Mousa's satellite island, we were treated to an excercise by the Oscar Charlie helicopter crew. A person was lowered down to the very island we were coveting, to be "rescued" a few minutes later. It seemed like a lot of trouble to get to that particular island (by the way Oscar Charlie crew, if you EVER need volunteers for that exercise, we're your men!), so we put a pin in it for the time being and settled on the beach for lunch. Well, sausage rolls and that, wholesome bagging fayre! And something about crabs and daughters at the end there, but it's faded from memory.

Mousa Cliff Architecture

That's the story of our last day on Shetland, after Mousa we headed back to Lerwick for the ferry home, excitedly planning our next adventure!

The Isle of Sheppey!

    Just a brief interlude from the continuing tales of our trip to Orkney, to report on a little jaunt we took on    Sunday, a most civilised affair, bagging a brace of islands with a nice meal and all home before dark.

We set off from Milton Keynes at about eleven, we being Me, Terri and Liam, Liam having already driven up from Bristol early in the morning, and followed in the footsteps of two of our previous days out down the M1 and onto the M25, but this time we carried on around the orbital, over the Dartford crossing into Kent. It was unfortunate that it was the first time that we'd been bagging in Kent, because if we had been before we might have known that we would need two pounds in cash to pay for the bridge. As it was we made do with holding up the queue for a while as the helpful chap wrote us an invoice. Apparently fourteen pence didn't have sufficient bargaining power. 

Sheerness - Sheer Exhilaration

"Groynes" - haha

Safely over the border and into England's Southeastern-most county we headed east towards the large and well populated Isle of Sheppey. The way onto the island is over the fairly long, high and imposing bridge, scene of a recent accident involving around 100 vehicles who got all smashed up in the fog. No such issues for us today, and we cruised around into Sheerness town centre. 

Sheerness clock

Stopping for a walk along the seafront looking out over the Thames estuary, we reflected that this was not the most impressive, exciting, secluded or picturesque of islands that any of us had been to. It may even have been at the bottom of all of those scales. Little more needs to be said on our impression of Sheerness, aside from a brief positive mention of a really good pet shop, where I went quite close to a tarantula and Terri enjoyed a lot of guinea pigs. 

Harty

From here we carried on around the island's fairly un-islandy landscape along to the east, before taking a side-road into the wilderness that is now known as, and used to technically be, the Isle of Harty. In the past this would have counted as a separate island (apparently, with the similar Isle of Elmley, the area used to be known as the "Isles of Sheppey") before the channels between them silted up and now they are all connected. Our destination here was the Harty Ferry Inn, located on the Sheppey side of one of the ancient ferry routes across the channel known as the Swale, which also lends its name to the district of Kent where the island is found. Here we had a most pleasant roast, and a little wander down to the waterline for a look at what was about. Not much else. This being seemingly the sum total of the excitement on offer on the Isle of Sheppey, we decided to head for home, but on the way we did make a detour into Chatham for our first island duplicate. 

The landing point of the Harty ferry

St Mary's Island is a large, rural island, home to the capital of Scilly, Hugh Town, and lots of orchards and flower farms. It is also a great big housing estate in Chatham, Kent. We crossed the bridge onto the island, drove around the ring road that linked all the parts of the estate, and then drove off again, only stopping for a picture. 

3 out of 4 thumbs?

 Some days, island bagging is a pursuit that puts you at one with nature, some days you meet the most interesting people who have stories to tell to inspire you on your quest, sometimes there is mild peril, most days there is adventure, you see landscapes from paintings and wildlife from Attenborough shows. Other days you go to Sheppey. Stay tuned for more interesting islands soon.  

Wahey!

Orkney! Day 4: South Ronaldsay to Sanday!

Day Four began wet, grey and unremitting, but I’m think I’m safe in saying that it was the first good night’s sleep we’d all had so far, sorry Sam! We had a quick breakfast and headed back along the only road to Kirkwall to catch the ferry to Shapinsay. As we were leaving the car this time to save costs, we needed to find somewhere to park it reasonably cheaply and within walking distance to the ferry. This turned out to be straightforward and we found Kirkwall to have a variety of short (cheap) and long (free) term parking (not sure on logic there) close to where we were headed. 

Shapinsay!

On the way to the causeway to Helliar Holm

The sailing was fairly run of the mill, again the waters were calm despite the slightly stormier weather, but as we approached Shapinsay, Helliar Holm came in to view with an alluring causeway seeming to stretch from one island to the other. Being the baggers that we were, we made a bee line for the beach closest to Helliar Holm, full of cider and optimism, navigated slippery rocks and stranded jellyfish before coming to the realisation that both the tide was coming in and the rock causeway had a rather large break halfway along. 

 No we weren’t up for swimming, though the idea was floated (for old time’s sake), so we continued east along the road to see if we could find any of the arbitrary landmarks I had selected for the itinerary to lure new recruits Terri and Rob:

“Landmarks include a standing stone, an Iron Age broch, a souterrain and a salt-water shower.

In 1905, The Orcadian newspaper reported that a strange creature had been seen off the coast of Shapinsay. It was reportedly the size of a horse, with a spotted body covered in scales. Opinion on the creature's origin was divided, with some islanders believing it to be a sea serpent, while others opined that it was merely a large seal.”

The harbour at Shapinsay

 So it was with great disappointment that after ten minutes, the rain and the wind picked up enough to harry us back into town to seek shelter and warmth, which was found in spades at the Heritage Centre. We ordered some ballast (sausage, egg and beans) and the staff kindly offered to hang our coats to dry near the boiler, explaining that we could go upstairs to look around the exhibition and she would call us when the food was ready.
 

Balfour Village, Shapinsay, in the rain

The most memorable part of the museum for me were the reports written by local children of events that had happened to their grandparents; fishermen being stuck on Auskerry, memories of the German warships, that sort of thing. Also, there was a fantastic model of Burroughston Broch, the first of many great models we encountered around Orkney, mostly made by school children I believe. Those kids have some serious talent on their hand. Or time. We ate, Rob bought some delicious spicy ginger treats, and we headed back to get an earlier-than-planned ferry as the weather had made it difficult to do much except a quick stop at the salt-water shower.
 

Burroughston Broch model

On the boat

A slightly more interesting sail back as we were sharing the ferry with the very school children whose work we had been perusing in the Heritage Centre and they told us they had seen some orcas swim by their school earlier in the year and elucidated on the subtle complexities of Top Trumps. A nice life for some I suppose.

Our next destination was Sanday, but later in the day, so we spent the intervening time exploring Kirkwall, stopping in at the St Magnus Cathedral. I scoured the place for “mushroom art” amongst the intricately decorated stained glass in the hopes of finding some validation for my flatmate Jake’s theory, but alas none was found.

Hanging out in town

St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall

It turned out fortunate that we had caught the earlier ferry back from Shapinsay, as industrial action was taking place within the ferry operators and were therefore running an amended timetable. This meant an earlier ferry to Sanday and without calling in at Eday on the way. Luckily we had no real plans for Eday aside from jumping on and off the ferry a la Egilsay and Wyre, so only marginally dismayed, we boarded our last inter-island ferry (flying from here on out!) for Sanday, leaving the car and the mainland proper for the Northern Isles. 

We were informed by a fellow passenger that it would be wise to book seats on the Sanday bus to take us to the Ayres Rock campsite, to avoid a nine (Orkney) mile hike with all our gear. Seats reserved over the phone with ease, the bus met us directly after disembarking from the ferry and dropped us at the campsite for less than £2 each. Ayres Rock’s Paul greeted us and showed us around, offered to hire us bikes for just £5 between us, and directed us to the pubs in Kettletoft.  

Liam on his bike

 We set off in an excitable mood in the wrong direction, got corrected by a passing car, and continued cycling in leisurely fashion. The island seemed remote in every direction, low hills and sea around us, no obvious village/town and in the distance the neighbouring islands of Stronsay and Westray either side. It was a deliciously peaceful ride with the bikes lending the evening a Famous Five air. We enjoyed our drinks and pool at both pubs, and blindly navigated our way home in the dark, the only lights being the occasionally rotation of a nearby lighthouse beacon. Paul’s Camping Pods were up to comfy-cosy code, and another great night’s sleep finished another great day’s adventuring! 

Downhill to Kettletoft

Somewhere on Sanday