Starfishie

On with normal life. 

The halfway point of my 36 night holiday has now passed, and I'm starting to make my way home. But there are still 15 nights to come, and plenty left to see. 

I've left the most northerly part of Scotland, but I'm still pretty far north - pitched at Kinlochewe, which lies between Ullapool to the north and Kyle of Lochalsh to the south. It's all high mountains around here, on all sides. Very different from Caithness; very different too from most of Orkney. 

Yes, I had my two days on Orkney! As an overall experience, unforgettable. Photographically, a sorry tale of a day's shooting completely wasted, as I accidentally deleted 340 of the shots taken on the first day, 14th September, in a stupid attempt at midnight photo-work back at where I was staying. I'd had dinner at a very good out-of-town restaurant with a delightful couple I'd met on the ferry from Scrabster to Stromness. Two retired doctors, one of them a professor, from San Diego in California: Nancy and Wulf. After that, I'd driven into Kirkwall, Orkney's 'capital', to take pictures of the Cathedral lit up at night with bright red beams. So I got back latish, and I was tired; I should have waited until morning, but I wanted to transfer the day's pictures from the SD memory card in LXV (my camera) to Verity (my laptop). Indeed, I thought I had. But clearly I nodded off before actually doing it - and then lost the lot when wiping LXV's memory card clean as my next act, ready for the next day's shooting. You can imagine how stunned I was, to discover that 340 irreplaceable pictures had vanished into oblivion! 

It wasn't a complete disaster. I had time next day, 15th September, to re-shoot all the most important locations. In brighter weather than the previous day too. And in less of a rush, so they were better shots. 

It was the loss of the people pictures that hit me most. Of Nancy and Wulf, when I had promised to email the best of the ones I'd taken of them on the ship, and later in their finery at the restaurant, and had to tell Nancy that nothing would now be coming. Of Fiona in the craft shop at Dounby, where I bought a birthday card for my great-niece, and chatted to her while I wrote it. Of Kristen, the postmistress at the post office, where I next went, who assured me that my great-niece's birthday card would get sent south in time. And of more than one fun couple I encountered at the archaeological sites I went to. Standing stones bring out the poser in all of us, especially gigantic standing stones! 

Dounby had long been a place I wanted to see. It has a special distinction. It's the only proper village on Orkney that isn't close to the sea. It's set in farmland, in the flat centre of a big bowl, with hills all around. It's the home of a jewellery-making business founded and run by Alison Moore, diving enthusiast, whose aim has been to create pieces inspired by the Orkney environment, especially the sea and seashore. I didn't know her workshop and showroom was there in Dounby, but I couldn't miss it, and of course I had to go in. (At the time, I took some shots both inside and out, but those were among the ones that got deleted)

I was in the mood to get a souvenir of Orkney. An item of jewellery would be just right. I saw two rings I liked; but in fact settled on a silver pendant and chain. It was a silver starfish - rather a jaunty, cheerful creature I thought. Again, the contemporary shots have gone; but I have later ones taken since. Here they are:

I thought my Orkney souvenir had definite personality. A name was appropriate. 'Starfishie' popped into my mind at once. It sounded Scottish enough. So Starfishie it was. Here I am back at the caravan, wearing my new friend.

Starfishie goes well with the silver slow-worm, and I've been wearing them in combination for the last few days.

If you want a starfish too, or anything else from Alison Moore, she has a pukka website at https://www.alisonmoore.co.uk/. Here are some screenprints:

I haven't yet dipped Starfishie into the sea like that. When I find the right Scottish seashore - maybe tomorrow - I must certainly observe this vital ritual. And make sure LXV records the moment!

Starfishie came in a nice box, with the chain wrapped in tissue, a neat little touch. (I so wish the original on-the-day photos had survived)

Real starfish are voracious sea-floor predators, but this silver jewellery version is something else. Indeed, Starfishie clearly looks like a pointy-headed person running along and waving. Waving: I've never felt the same about that word since reading Stevie Smith's famous poem Not Waving But Drowning when still at school. It made a big impression on me. Here it is:

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

I hasten to add that although I too have been far out all my life - perhaps much too far - I've never yet been in any danger of drowning, whether accidentally or deliberately. And I don't see Starfishie's wave as a metaphor for any cry of despair. Rather, it's a wave of greeting and welcome, of openness, and signifies a zest for life. And that's my way.

Tears for the Queen

I'm now at Brora in the far north of Scotland, although not yet the furthest north I shall take my caravan. Today I was away nine hours on a long - rather too long - day trip to the west coast, the main objective being Lochinver, but I took in Assynt and Scourie as well. 195 miles! Here and there I could get some Mobile Internet. I got it at the Oykel Bridge Hotel on the A837, where I enjoyed a haggis-and-cheese baked potato with salad, washed down with a gin and tonic. I checked the BBC News website. It was mainly about the new Prime Minister's price-fixing proposals on energy bills. It sounded like good news, although how it might effect my own direct debit payments to SSE wasn't yet clear.  

My return journey via Laxford Bridge and the A838 was mostly alongside a series of lochs hemmed in by wild-looking mountains, and there was absolutely no digital radio signal to be had. So I couldn't listen to the news at five o'clock, nor the six o'clock news. But at seven o'clock, when the light was failing, and when I wasn't too far from Brora, I caught a snatch of the new main topic: the Queen had died. 

She was ninety-six and frail. Her doctors had advised against public engagements for the time being. I should have been expecting serious news concerning her, but this was a shock. I'm not one to react immediately, but within a minute or two tears came to my eyes. I almost pulled in, but I felt so tired that I pressed on, wiping my eyes. You can see from the shot below that even when back at the caravan, I still felt upset.

I had been moved and comforted when the Queen made that lockdown broadcast from Windsor in April 2020, and I'd felt for her when Prince Philip died in April 2021. She had my respect, and I admired her, but I hadn't felt great personal affection for the Queen: she was too remote, a consequence of her special role. She was simply there in the background of my life. One of the threads that was woven into my personal tapestry.

Yes, I suppose that was it: she had been part of my own history. I was born in the same year that she came to the throne - 1952 - and she was always there from my birth onwards. Her image was on banknotes and coins. The Beatles mentioned her in several of their songs. The Rolling Stones dedicated a song to her, after enjoying her hospitality following a drugs bust. She inspired the Sex Pistols too. There were Jubilees. My Dad got a Jubilee Medal from her in 1977. In the same year I was in a boat off Spithead, cheering the fleet that she had just reviewed. Later on, in 2006, I organised a 60th Wedding Anniversary Message from Buckingham Palace for Mum and Dad. She touched my family. Her father, King George VI, was never more to me than an historical figure. But the Queen was a real person, who stood for something, and grew old as I grew old, except that she was always much further down the line than I was. And now she had gone. I think the tears were at least partly because one of the big things that had defined my life had come to an end. I suddenly felt exposed, unprotected, remaindered, a relic of an era now finished. 

And so Charles finally becomes King. How odd it feels to be talking about a King: never before in my lifetime. I'm glad that he is calling himself Charles III. There was some rumour that he would avoid 'Charles' because of the previous two kings called that, one of whom lost the Civil War and his head, and the other having a reputation for degenerate behaviour. Well, this Charles can make amends if he so wishes; and I think he will make changes but not do anything rash. Some may mutter darkly about his wife Camilla being Queen Consort, but not me. I think King Charles III will strike the right tone, and not mess up in any way. 

An odd coincidence that Liz Truss and King Charles assume their roles almost on the same day. I hope they get on.