Shetland! Day 4: Foula

 Day four began with an early start, a quick spruce up of the spartan accommodation at Nesbister, and a short drive around to Tingwall airport, just outside of Lerwick. Our places were booked for the fifteen minute flight to Foula on one of the the tiny 8 seater islander planes that service the remotest outposts of the remote archipelago, but immediately the trip was put in jeopardy when the lady operative advised that there had been a bad weather warning radioed in and unless things cleared up in the next forty minutes or so the flight would be cancelled. After some frantic researching of alternative methods of getting to Foula, and the possibility of a three and a half hour ferry instead of a plane, the call finally came through, the weather had cleared and we were all set to depart.

Being not the world's most confident air passenger it wasn't exactly reassuring to know the weather had just crossed into the acceptable side of bad to allow us to leave, but there was no going back as the same lady operative weighed our bags and even strapped us in to the aeroplane seats. Before we knew it we were up in the air, and seemingly before we knew it again we had touched down on the tiny gravel airstrip on Foula, with a white-knuckle moment as it simply looked like the plane wouldn't stop and we'd be thrown over the cliff into the sea. The pilot, however, was clearly experienced in this game, and he gracefully turned the plane around and taxied back to the "terminal". 

 

The sheer unadulterated jubilation of solid ground beneath your feet

That building behind the sign is the airport. All of it.

 Foula is an island that needs a little bit of explanation. Often described in guidebooks as Britain's most remote populated island (though I've never understood what makes it more remote than Fair Isle), it has a population of just over thirty, no proper harbour (the boats have to be winched out of the water), no shop and only one road.  A large proportion of the landmass is taken up by a range of cloud covered mountains, reaching back to huge sea cliffs on the western coast, leaving only a narrow corridor of flat, fertile land to the eastern edge. 

What it does have is a tiny five-pupil primary school, the aforementioned airstrip providing a vital lifeline to the mainland, and a smattering of ramshackle first, second and third generation homesteads and lots and lots of sheep. Anecdotal evidence from around the other islands had told us that the people of Foula were both very intelligent and also very lazy. I suppose that this is the sort of appraisal you could make from seeing the cars, machines and building materials simply lying around rusting, but when you consider the prohibitive cost of moving anything you can sort of understand.

Digger Graveyard

After arrival we had considered scaling some of the ominous hills to the west, with ominous Nordic names like Da Noup, Da Sneug and Hamnafield, or even heading all the way to the edge of the world at Da Kame, where the sea cliffs are the second highest in the British Isles, but we could literally see the driving rain up on top, and travelling light with no change of clothes we opted instead to trek up the road to the northern tip and back.

 We began by taking in a coastal walk to a war memorial commemorating the men of Foula who died in the two world wars. It's sobering to think that an island of such small population could still send men away to fight, with the devastating effect that their loss would have on the survival of those they left behind.

War memorial

A well earned rest

Looping back around we came down into Ham, one of the two areas of Foula which have been described as a settlement, though the straggle of houses here seems no more dense or organised than much of the rest of the road. There's a post office which was closed, a small valley with a beautiful walled garden, a real shock in such a desolate place, and the narrow entrance to the harbour filled with seals, who looked remarkably tame as they surfaced to say hello.

From Ham the road leads further north and we followed, past the modern primary school built for just five pupils, and winding over undulating fields full of sheep and enormous areas of cut peat. Expertly sliced from the ground and stacked neatly to dry out in the wind the peat is a good literal example of the strong relationship with and reliance on the land that the people of Foula and indeed Shetland share. With transportation costs so high it's hard to imagine this fuel being removed from Foula, so one imagines that it is very much a community industry.

Following the map we reached the end of the road past houses called Da Loch and Da Burns, simple crofts that stand isolated amongst the fields and in the shadows of the mighty peaks to the west. At the end of the road there is an incline over a ridge which slopes down to the sea. Natural arches and sea birds abound, a perfect place for a picnic. 

Another feature of Foula that puzzled us for some time about Foula were the methods of transportation. The old cars that ferry sheep, dogs and peat up and down the main strip are mostly decrepit and falling apart, bumpers missing and clearly being run literally into the ground. We later learned that these were 'isles cars' - whilst those on the mainland of Shetland require the usual annual MOT tests, when they fail instead of being scrapped they are transported to the smaller islands of Foula, Out Skerries, Unst and Fetlar. They can be driven here without an MOT certificate until they stop working, and when they do stop working they can be transformed into a convenient shed for storing fleeces or tools.

After working our way back down to the airfield we still had an hour or two until the flight, so after leaving Mike behind to nurse an injured ankle from new boots, me Liam and Fran headed to the south end and the second settlement of Hametoun. Settlement seemed an even less suitable name for this place, the three or four houses only slightly closer together than those on the rest of the island. There were however several people around, and building work going on that did give a brief feel of activity to the island. Past the last of the houses we reached the dramatic cliffs with views out over the expansive and restless sea to the south. To look out over the endless waves crashing against the island from miles around really brings home the remoteness and wild nature of the place.

Eventually the time did come to head back, but we were in for one final surprise before we left. Two young girls that we had seen tending to sheep earlier on arrived in a battered old car, and headed in to the tiny island's fire station. After a few minutes they came roaring out of the entrance in an antiquated fire truck, having donned full fireman's uniforms, if a little ill-fitting. They appeared to genuinely relish the vital task of speeding across the runway, sirens blaring and arms waving to scare away the three or four sheep that had strayed onto the gravel during the long part of the day when the airport lay quiet. Obstacles successfully removed, we soon heard, and then saw the little plane coming over the sea through the clouds. Moments later it was down, discharging its cargo of four or five people and lots of boxes, and moments later again we were strapped in and pootling along before sweeping up into the sky, bouncing back to Tingwall.

Our bed for the night was in the bod at Walls, on the western side of the mainland, where we had the run of a great big old house with what must have been twenty beds. Rather than make use of the well appointed kitchen, however, we decided to treat ourselves and drove to Brae up the winding road via Bixter and Aith, where we indulged in some delicious and filling fish and chips. Back at the house, there was a sharp intake of breath when we checked the itinerary and cross-referenced with the ferry times. Tomorrow was Thursday, we were supposed to be going to Papa Stour, but no ferries go to Papa Stour for a Thursday day-trip. How had we got it so wrong?! A chance meeting with a couple of the neighbours led to an enlightening hour or two hearing the histories of the islands in the bay in front of us. Little Linga, and larger Vaila, populated and housing its own castle. Would a visit be possible? There were no ferries but armed with the telephone numbers of the owner and her boatman, we had a lead to follow up in the morning!