There's nothing more futile than complaining about the weather. Especially in Orkney.

 

They start early, the phlebotomists at my Health Centre. I suppose they have to, to beat the dawn. I'd rolled out of bed and into my big coat that hides any little deficiencies in the grooming department, and battled through the early morning rain and wind. Not so the phlebotomist, perfectly groomed and made-up, and making light conversation as she stuck sharp needles into me and drew out another armful of blood.

"That's it, then, for this year", she said, with a gloomy satisfaction.

"What? The summer?"

"Yes, its autumn now. Soon be Christmas. Still, mustn't grumble, we had one or two nice days this year."

Past the window, down which rivers of rain were being blown sideways, you could see the swings in the play area, which had wrapped themselves around the cross bars, and leaves ripped off by the wind hurtling past.

"Looks like the gales are back, it's getting like the hurricanes of 1952 and 1953."

That was when farmers lost hen-houses complete with hens out to sea and the West Mainland Mart in Stromness was demolished. A twelve foot chimney stack on Tankerness House rocked precariously and customers rushed out of the Cosy Café underneath. Then the stack went, its entire length falling sideways on the roof. The top of the stack went over the roof ridge and crashed into the courtyard in a shower of bricks, dust and rubble. Kirkwall's sea wall was breached: three tremendous seas struck the wall, which disappeared in a smother of foam. Once the wall had gone, the Ayre Hotel was fully exposed to the sea, which hurled great boulders of broken dyke and road way against it, smashing the downstairs windows and allowing the sea to rush in.

The SS Earl Thorfinn had been serving the North Isles for twenty-five years and set off on the usual Saturday run, carrying its crew of thirteen (one was only 15 years old), ten passengers, two bulls and four pigs. They were off the Holms of Spurness (below the southern tip of Sanday) when they first experienced the full force of the hurricane, with visibility down to nil and heavy snow showers. Finding it was impossible to reach the shelter of Sanday, the master and the chief engineer decided their only option was to run before the wind. A glimpse of land on Stronsay meant a course could be set and the crew braved the storm to secure the derrick, the cargo hatch and the deck cargo.

Off Auskerry three heavy seas in quick succession came over the starboard side and the master believed it was a miracle the ship did not roll over, as her mast almost touched the water. Shortly after that, the steam steering gear was carried away, filling the wheelhouse with escaping steam. As it couldn’t be repaired, the hand steering gear was engaged and sometimes five men were needed at the wheel to keep the ship on course. Finally, twelve hours after the Earl Thorfinn’s head turned south, at 9.30 in the evening, they reached Aberdeen, after being thought lost at sea. The master and crew had survived one hundred miles of mountainous seas that would have daunted much larger vessels but there was still no chance to rest. The harbour was closed and they had to steam to and fro through the rest of the night and most of the next day, until finally getting in after three o’clock in the afternoon.

They always say, the Orcadians, that after Show week, that’s the summer done. The last of the shows was the Coonty Show – all the isles and parishes have their own shows all week, culminating in the Big One, which was on Saturday, 10th August.

The till girl in Tesco asked me the next day, if I had managed to get to the County Show – but it was only a conversational ploy to tell me that her little dog had been a noble participant, winning the Third Prize – not quite the Olympics, but at least there weren’t any competitor transdogs to hit the wee pup in the face. I asked the Till Totty if her little dog knew she was in a competition, and the girl said, of course, and she was very proud to have everyone admiring her. So I said, you’ll have to console her with the thought that she will do better next year. Oh, that’s okay, said TillTotty, sunnily – my wee dog thinks she came first – everyone clapped and she got her own rosette.

So, Coonty Show out of the way, and the storms hit – and this on the hottest day of the year in London. My garden took a battering – ripped-off leaves and willow branches sailing past the window, and the hanging basket had to come down. The garden chairs ripped loose from their moorings and cavorted around the back garden in some sort of stop-start minuet, and the windows rattled. I wanted to pick all my lavender, so that I could dry it and use it for future Lavender and Blueberry Cheesecake, but I can only hope that the lavender is resilient and will dry in the sun, should we happen to get any more this year.

My own little dog, Harris, sadly missed, never won a rosette in his life. A gentleman up north from Lanarkshire, he never grew entirely accustomed to the Orkney weather. He would sit on the back of the couch, gazing into the garden, not believing his eyes, and dash to the door, hoping for his walk. I'd open the door to show him the impossibility of a small person like him venturing out, he would agree with me that the front door opened on to a world of storm, and run though the house on the off-chance that the back door would have a pleasanter outside world and was always disgusted when it was raining and winding front and back.

Here's Harris, hair combed back by the wind

I hope that you and yours are all doing well and basking in the August sunshine. Spare a thought for me, confined to barracks on my windy island off the north coast of Scotland, best part of England. Did you know you is living hon a i-hsland, the call-centre bloke asked, explaining why an engineer couldn't visit, as arranged. Yes, I replied, glumly, I had noticed.