The Old Man of Hoy

Ever since watching the first serious attempt to climb the sea stack called The Old Man of Hoy in 1966 - televised live, when I was fourteen - I had wanted to go and see this geological curiosity for myself. There would be two ways. One, by taking a difficult and very hilly path from lonely Rackness, to view the Old Man from behind while teetering on windy, vertigo-inducing cliffs - with the advantage, though, of seeing him at close quarters. Or two, by viewing the front of him at sea level from the Scrabster-Stromness ferry, which passes fairly close by, but not as close as I could get with the cliff-top technique. Even so, given good weather and a reasonably calm sea, the ferry method had much more appeal!

The Old Man lies off the very high cliffs on the west side of Hoy, the second-largest island in Orkney. Here are some location maps - as usual, click on them (or any of the photos to come) for a detailed view. 

It is a very tall pinnacle of red sandstone, and looks like a series of thin horizontal rock slabs placed one on top of another. It was once a jutting headland. Then the relentless sea attacked the cliff behind it, eventually causing a collapse and separating the tip of the former headland from the remaining cliff face. This was achieved by the 1700s. The Old Man was at first a wide, two-legged creation, but subsequent erosion removed one leg and left the tower we see today. Current scientific opinion hath it that the Old Man won't last too much longer. That means a catastrophic fall sometime before the year 2100. Maybe this winter, maybe the next, maybe decades hence. Given climate change, and fiercer storms, my money would be on a fall in my lifetime, certainly within the next thirty years. What a sight that would make!

The Old Man of Hoy isn't unique. The entire process that formed him, and will sooner or later bring him down, can be seen in other places on the Orkney and Caithness coastline, wherever there are high cliffs. Here, for instance, are the stacks near Duncansby Head, which I saw a few days after returning from Orkney, the most famous (and most-photographed) being the ones shaped like church steeples.

In the background to the shot just above you can see a stack that was clearly once the tip of a headland, just like the Old Man of Hoy.

In years to come, that 'young' stack will find itself more and more separated from the cliff behind, until the sea undermines it sufficiently to make it fall. Sandstone is not an especially hard rock, and those horizontal layers are very vulnerable to erosion, undermining, fracture and collapse.

Back to the Old Man of Hoy. I was determined to have a good photographic record. I'd have two chances of that: on the morning voyage to Orkney on 14th September, and on the afternoon return voyage next day. Come what may, two different kinds of light. I was going to take both Leicas - the little D-Lux 4, and the larger X Vario (LXV), keeping my Samsung S20+ phone as a backup for both. What could go wrong?  

Well, it didn't go quite to plan. 

On the outward journey on the 14th September, the morning was dull and the sea was rough. It was rough enough to put me off eating the big on-board cooked breakfast I'd been looking forward to. The ship, the MV Hamnavoe, wasn't small, but the swell in the Pentland Firth was such that keeping one's footing was tricky, and the ship's constant movement was likely to induce queasiness. I contented myself with tea and toast. A crew member kindly carried my tray to a table, where I wedged myself in and tried not to think about sea-sickness. I envied those thoroughly used to sea voyages! But I wasn't sick, although later on I encountered one poor lady in the loo who felt absolutely wretched. 

After an hour or so of this, the sea grew calmer. We were passing Hoy. Time to get out on deck, and get some pictures with both Leicas! My main camera for this purpose was going to be LXV, and I took several shots of the Old Man as we passed by. But I wanted the venerable little Leica D-Lux 4 to crown its thirteen-year career with its own shots. It seemed fitting. Besides, I wanted to know what the little Leica could still achieve. I knew that LXV, the newer camera with much the larger sensor, would do better; but it would be interesting to find out just how much better. However, neither camera could make too much of the passing view. The light wasn't right. The Old Man was hardly more than a drab smudge against the high cliffs. This is the best that the little Leica could capture, and I've worked on these shots to enhance them:

I took similar shots with LXV. No doubt they were more distinct, a little clearer, with better colour. But I can't show you any LXV shots because I accidentally deleted them all that same evening, around midnight when I was sleepy and prone to make mistakes. Silly me! So my record of the Old Man of Hoy on the outward voyage is confined to what the little Leica, a long-outmoded camera, got me. 

And, for a different reason, my record of what the Old Man looked like on the return voyage also depends on what the little Leica D-Lux 4 was able to do. I couldn't use LXV because I'd already used up its battery power earlier that afternoon - blitzing the Italian Chapel, Kirkwall, two stone circles, and then Stromness - and thought I'd inadvertently left the spare battery in the caravan back on the Scottish mainland. In fact I had brought it along with me to Orkney, but it had got buried deep inside my bag and I didn't realise that at the time. All the return-voyage scenes could have been taken with both cameras. How I kicked myself once I discovered this! 

Fortunately the weather that afternoon on the 15th September was sunny, and the sea much calmer. So I got some goodish shots. I just wish I'd used the better camera. 

I was out on the deck as soon as the northern end of Hoy came close, and watched enthralled as the ship got nearer and nearer to the Old Man. The cliffs were worth shooting for their own sake. It was easy to see, here and there, the makings of new stacks. 

Aha! The Old Man cometh...

Finally, after decades of wanting to see the Old Man up close, and in good conditions, I was getting my wish amply fulfilled.

I was very much put in mind of the man-made statues on Easter Island, a place I'd love to visit. 

Of course, with the Old Man in the background, it was time for a selfie! I took one. Then a pleasant young Dutch man called Lambert offered to take a picture of me, and he did pretty well I think, although I seem to have an oddly roguish look on my face. 

The show wasn't over yet, but the Old Man now began to recede as we sailed on towards Scrabster. Rackwick Bay came into view. If I ever returned to Orkney - I'd certainly like to - I'd stay for a week, and while there take the car over to Hoy. Then I could visit Rackwick and its bay, and indeed explore all the wartime Scapa Flow naval installations, or at least what remains of them. There's also Melsetter House to seek out, and the Longhope lifeboat museum and martello tower. I suppose this would all be on a 'fly there, hire a car, and stay in a hotel' basis. I'm not certain I'd be up to another 1,600-mile round trip to Scrabster and back, with a caravan in tow! (Though maybe, to avoid flying and a lot of hassle, I'd still do that)

Gradually, and with almost a pang, it was goodbye to Hoy itself, and indeed all of Orkney.

Hoy was now just something on the horizon...

All those return-voyage pictures were taken with the little Leica D-Lux 4. A thirteen-year-old 10 megapixel camera with 96,000 or so shots under its belt. Any modern camera would trump all these shots. Even so, I consider that - at least while the sun was shining - the little Leica did rather well. 

I know travelling people who will go and see wonderful places and things, but take only a few casual photos, or none at all. 'I don't need to - I've got a very good memory!' they'll say. Well, memory fades. I'd rather have the experience and some pictures that I'll always be able to look at. And indeed share. This post would be nothing without the photos I took.