call me ishmael: January 2025

If you are a woman who marries in, survives the big-like-elephant mother-in-law bullying, and produces weans then you'll gain a grudging acceptance, but never be really part of the Orcadian extended family. That needs five generations in the kirk-yard. A man who marries in will always be a ferry-louper, a sooth-moother, even if he competes in the Ba'. As for us, incomers who thought Orkney was just another county in the United Kingdom - (free movement throughout the UK), bringing with us much-needed skills, knowledge and expertise; well, superficial politeness masks suspicion and resentment. Cummin' here, tackin' oor best jobs, tellin us what tae dae, whisht, thae Cooncil is all incomers. Even if you join the W.I. or the Men's Shed, even if you've been here 25 years, they'll talk friendly to you, but you'll no be asked round to dinner. Which is why I'm a member of the ex-pat community. It's all a bit reminiscent of Empire, the Fifties, and racism, without coloured skin being involved. Accent and surname are sufficient for identification and demarcation purposes.

And, at Christmas, the ex-pat community launches itself south, driving home for Christmas, as the song has it. The Council facilitates this holiday diaspora by closing down for a fortnight, scooping up the Bank Holidays which are usually scattered through the year's sunny calendar and stitching them between the Christmas closure and the two-day New Year closure (that's right - two days to recover from the hang-over), locking the doors and turning off the heating.

Ferry after ferry leaves St Margaret's Hope, Stromness or Hatston in the run-up to Christmas, full of expectation and excitement, with boatloads of agency workers, internal migrants, students and retirees.

Each little barque of frailty (that's a Regency prostitute, mrs ishmael, not a car. I know, but I like the phrase) thunders off the boat ramp onto the ferry slip, full-bellied with hampers of Orkney cheeses, fudges, bere bannocks, farmed smoked salmon, pickled herrings, bottles of Kirkjuvagr gin and 12 year old Highland Park, and carefully selected gifts with an Orkney feel, bought from gift-shops in Kirkwall that have bought them in from India or China, and lovingly-knitted little cardigans for new grandchildren. And with a reckless lack of trepidation, swooping South like great ungainly migrating birds, wheels are set on the deadly A9, gears are crunched up and down the Berriedale Braes,

and drivers whose normal distance driving is around 15 miles, launch themselves, at just about the worst time of year for the enterprise, into a journey to the Cities of the South. It is a magnificent road, the A9, taking you over the Slochd Summit

and through the Drumochter Pass.

Drumochter - it means high ridge - is the main mountain pass between the northern and southern Scottish Highlands. It is the only gap in the Grampian Watershed suitable for road traffic routes between Glen Coe and Cairnwell Pass and is the highest point on the A9 at 1508 feet above sea level. It gets pretty severe up there in winter - the clue is the regular spacing of snow poles, which show where the road is when it is under deep snow, to guide the snow ploughs and snow blowers.

And the snow gates, of course, to close the road completely, requiring travellers to turn back.

I've struggled north through the Drummochter Pass before now in heavy snow, at night, headlights illuminating a world of whirling white and the tail lights of the lorry in front, thinking I'd never get through, but, after thousands of years, the road starts dropping, your ears pop, the snow stops and you coast into Inverness, where it just looks a bit wet.

This year, going South, I didn't hit snow, but by the time I got to Aviemore it was, as my gentlemen friends inform me, balls-achingly cold, the trees were coated in sparkling frost, not snow, like giant Christmas decorations, and the rills that flow off the rocks in the Cairngorms, where the road is cut out from the surrounding mountains, were frozen into miniature Narnian waterfalls.

Returning North, the temperatures had lifted, and fog made the journey both hideous and beautiful, as cars would screech to a halt for no perceptible reason, and Ravilious tree skeletons would emerge from the thick whiteness.

And so, one by one, the little barques bearing the ex-pat grandparents, siblings, and adult children limped back to Orkney, expectations deflated, digestions ruined, backs rendered hideous by nights on the bed-settee, minds exploded by traffic, crowds and the Cities of the South.

One chum, enduring the monstrous journey to stay with her son and new daughter-in-law for Christmas in the expensive Edinburgh house which she had part-funded, was drawn aside by her son to be given a bollocking.

"Really, Mother, you must not fill the freezer with sausages."

"But they were the best sausages. From Donaldson's. Special Christmas offer."

"Now Mother, you know that Eloise is careful about our food."

At this point, I jumped into the narrative. "Is Eloise gluten-intolerant? Allergic? Phobic? UHP averse?"

My chum shook her head, utterly defeated by life: "No, no, mrs ishmael, she likes to eat healthy."

"Nothing wrong with that," I said, robustly.

"But you don't understand. For breakfast, I saw her - no word of a lie - mashing up an avocado and spreading it on toast. An avocado!"

"It's a thing, dear old friend", I replied, all woman-of-the-worldish, "They do that in the Cities of the South. You've been too long in Orkney, which, as we know, is the Land That Time Forgot".

" I don't know where he gets it from", she drearily responded. "He were brought up on sausages."

"And now he's married into the Avocado Classes" I commiserated.

Another chum, a new grandmother, had laboriously knitted what we used to call a layette out of that fine, white baby wool that takes forever. The new parents, suspicious and wary as befits survivors of their parents' parenting, had ingeniously managed to keep my chum and her hubby immured in Orkney since the birth but were helpless in the teeth of the Season of Goodwill, and agreed to the grandparental visit, on the basis that they stayed in the local Premier Inn.

"And how did that go?" I enquired.

"The Premier Inn was wonderful, mrs ishmael, so comfortable, and the food was entirely acceptable. Not the same as home-made, of course".

"What? Didn't you have any meals with your daughter and son-in-law?"

"Well, no, because they were so busy with the baby, and they asked us not to stay with them in the evening. Or afternoon, really."

"Your daughter must have loved all the gorgeous baby things you knitted?"

"She wrote a very complimentary description of them on the Ebay entry, mrs ishmael. I hadn't realised they weren't suitable for a modern baby, as they can't go in the washing machine and they might trap little fingers....."

She is having her doubts about being so quick to put her Orkney house on the market and offer on a house near her daughter, the penny having dropped that the new baby, although a relative, is basically and essentially, someone else's child.

What was your worst meal out this Christmas, mrs ishmael?

I think the star prize has to go to the Merkister Hotel, West Mainland, by default.

The website informs us that "situated on the shores of Harray Loch, the Merkister hotel stands in its own grounds in the most wonderful location, commanding impressive views of this famous loch and its surroundings. We are situated lochside, and offer a jetty to launch your own boats, or rent one for yourself and offer guided Ghillie bookings for those unfamiliar with the area".

I arranged to meet my chum for lunch at the Merkister one Tuesday in late November. A snow storm blew up, but I doggedly white-knuckled down the long single-lane track, thinking how am I ever going to get back again, don't let me skid, can I actually see the track? Am I even now in a field, bouncing towards the Harray Loch? Perhaps the Ghillie will find me and prise my cold dead hands from the steering wheel next March? But at least I have the consolation of a fine lunch to look forward to. A fill of warming mince and neeps and tatties.

I successfully negotiated my way into the car park, where there were three other vehicles, and tramped my way through the snow to the conservatory entrance, which opens into a splendid hallway with floor to ceiling windows, looking out over the loch and the snowy landscape. Three gentlemen were taking coffee and chatting together in Yorkshire voices, and we exchanged views on the day and the snow, as you do, then I turned to enter the hotel, obediently pausing and ringing the bell, as a large sign instructed me. There was a delay, so, just as the wait was growing embarrassing on account of the three Yorkshire gentlemen, doubtless here for the fishing, but thwarted in their sport by the weather, the door opened and a large Person of the female persuasion forbiddingly said: "Yes?"

It used to be, 25 years ago, when I was first here, a Stranger in a Strange Land, that a pleasantry ventured to a Local Person would be received with a grunt, or subvocal Fuck Off English Cunt. Things have hugely improved over the decades, an improvement that I unequivocally attribute to Mr. Tesco's Customer Service training. The improvement hasn't spread out into West Mainland, though, a massive distance of 13 miles from Mr Tesco's emporium.

"I'm joining my friend Freya Johannsdottir for lunch", I ventured.

"Oh, no, you are not", replied the Large Person.

Thinking perhaps that Freya had forgotten to book a table, I faltered,

"If Freya hasn't booked, could we get a table for two?"

"No."

I looked enquiringly at her and she added: "We're closed." As I looked about at the Christmas decorations and the three Yorkshiremen enjoying their coffee and biscuits, and the general air of an establishment that was open for business, she added: "it's on Facebook".

So I plodded back out into the snowy carpark and phoned Freya, who was just turning off the road onto the Merkister's long track. "That'll have been the cook," Freya said. "She can be grumpy."

A noble runner-up in the Worst Christmas meal stakes was the caff in the York Art Gallery.

Here's the blurb: "Located in York Art Gallery’s beautiful Victorian building and situated in the heart of York.... We have carefully selected (what we think are) the best local suppliers in order to provide you with locally sourced produce whenever we can. Alongside our staple faves, our Head Chef takes full advantage of what Yorkshire has to offer and loves to create new dishes dependent on what the season offers."

My kind host had taken me to the William Morris exhibition in the Art Galley (much recommended, by the way), and lunch at the Gallery's caff seemed the sensible and convenient option. I've been duped before by skilful blurb about seasonal offerings - a menu at a National Trust property once offered me a tart with local seasonal berries. Intrigued by which seasonal berries are available in February in the North of England, I asked the foreign waitress. Of course she didn't know, and went away to consult chef. "Rhubarb", she announced, on her return.

Back to the Gallery Caff. "Staple faves" should have had me heading out to the nearest Burger King, but, you know, once sitting down, coat off, parcels settled, it is hard to escape, so I opted for the least annoying menu item. I thought I was getting a turkey dinner, deluded by the menu descriptor of turkey, cranberries, Brussel sprouts, coleslaw and toast. I thought I could leave the coleslaw. What I did get was a two inch slab of toasted bread, smothered in sliced raw brussel sprouts in mayo, and topped with two circular slices of compressed turkey studded with raw cranberries. Honest, not invent. I was hungry and tired so I ate some. I know I have a particularly sensitive digestive system, but it would have taken the digestive apparatus of Desperate Dan to have dealt with Chef's innovative and amusing take on a turkey dinner.

Desperate Dan statue in Dundee, home of the Beano

We could develop a Restaurant Avoidance list - please provide suggestions for inclusion.

Ancestral Voices Prophesying War

Did you catch the ~~Queen's~~ King's speech?

He was wearing Very Serious Face

and I was convinced that King Brian was using his address to the nation to prepare his people for War. The images were all of war, ancient servicemen and disabled soldiery and the text was not reassuring: "During previous commemorations we were able to console ourselves with the thought that these tragic events seldom happen in the modern era. But, on this Christmas Day, we cannot help but think of those for whom the devastating effects of conflict – in the Middle East, in Central Europe, in Africa and elsewhere – pose a daily threat to so many people’s lives and livelihoods."