On a wing and a prayer

Living within a group of islands, it's important not to take any published transport timetables as gospel truth because acts of God aren't even near the top of the list of things that can go awry.

Recently, I was tasked with carrying out a repair in North Ronaldsay, one of the smaller islands within the archipelago, which is a 15 minute plane journey or a two and a half hour boat trip from Kirkwall. I was requested to attend on a Saturday and went to book a return flight which would suit. Loganair could fly me back in the afternoon, but there was no room on the outward plane in the morning. Not to worry, I could catch the early morning ferry, which would see me in North Ronaldsay by about half ten. What no-one could have possibly predicted was another ferry having a technical issue, the timetable being rejigged and my sailing being pushed back until after lunch, all of which would get me to the island just in time to catch the plane home.

Oh well, let's make a new plan for a different day.

Rescheduling for the following Monday, I was able to book the plane both ways. However, come the day, thick fog meant that although visibility at Kirkwall Airport was good enough, at the airfields of the smaller islands it was not.

Oh well, let's make a new plan for a different day.

Rebooking for the following Saturday, the online system showed that the outbound plane was full. However, talking to the staff at the airport, they were confident that there would be a seat for me. OK, third time lucky!

The weekend finally arrived, I drove to the airport, there was a seat for me (behind the leader of the Islands Council, and a group of NHS staff on a weekend break) and we were all whisked off in absoluely perfect weather to the most northeasterly island in Orkney.

Upon landing, we discovered that there was going to be a funeral taking place on the island later that day. On a small island with few inhabitants, this is an occasion which affects the whole community and I had no wish to intrude upon their grief. I had flashbacks to a holiday in Northumberland many moons ago, when I visited Lindisfarne (or Holy Island), the tidal island well known for its religious, historical and wildlife interest. Along with a bazillion other tourists, my visit coincided with a funeral for a local person, and I had to absent myself from the scene as hordes of pleasure seekers busily and single-mindedly went about enjoying their holiday without a thought for the impact upon the folk who actually lived there.

This time, however, I knew the deceased. Not particularly well, but well enough that my first damselfly sighting on the island was in the company of his wife as we chatted about wild flowers along the track by their home. That was fifteen years ago, and although there had been the occasional cup of tea since then, I resolved to keep well out of the way and allow the islanders their privacy.

The repair job itself took less than two hours, so I had about three hours to wile away before the plane back to Kirkwall. Leaving my customers preparing to attend the funeral, I walked to the opposite side of the island to spend time contemplating the many facets of island life and soaking up some wildlife.

Reaching Bride's Ness, I watched a pair of Wheatears foraging for food, whilst Sedge Warblers sang their raspy tunes from the reed bed of the adjacent loch. A Wren flew up onto an old stane dyke and belted out its song, and a couple of Pied Wagtails were busy snatching insects out of the air.

Wren

Bride's Ness Loch

Leaving the tarmac road, I took a path through small fields, passing by the abandoned settlement of Stennabreck, until I could clamber down onto the shore and follow the trail made by the local sheep. These are the ones which are usually kept outwith the hay meadows and have evolved to eat seaweed. In all my years of visiting the island, the sheep have been the most skittish creatures, much more so than the birdlife, hurriedly clip-clopping off along the stony shore at the first hint of human presence. This particular day, however, there was a strange calm to the sheep I encountered, and I was able to take photos and film video without any signs of concern from the animals.

Having quietly made my way by the sheep on this part of the shore, I carried on northwards to Haskie Taing, a small outcrop of rock below Hooking. Here were plenty of waders, mainly Turnstones, Oystercatchers, Sanderling and Purple Sandpipers, all busy foraging along the tideline. A Sanderling's relationship with the water's edge is a continual source of wonderment.

Purple Sandpiper

Turnstones

Eider ducks

From Hooking, I cut across the southern end of the 'golf course', which was obviously going to be covered in sheep, and picked up a tarmac road once more. Following this westwards, I made it to the airport as the sound of a lone piper carried from the kirkyard across the airfield. The only other passenger on the plane back to Kirkwall was the minister who had performed the funeral ceremony. Once airborne, I checked the altimeter by the regulation means of looking over the pilot's shoulder. We were definitely "on joyful wing cleaving the sky" and about 1000 feet nearer to the vicar's God.

Back on the Orkney mainland, I made what I could loosely describe as a pilgrimage, visiting a burn near the airport and finding my first Large Red Damselfly of the year. Looking at my annual data, this was a week and a half earlier than 2023, owing to this year's milder Spring and some pleasantly warm, sunny days. Amen to that.