Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad

It’s pretty much finished. The body, limbs and its beating heart are done.

(Sorry, there are plenty more metaphors where that came from. Prepare yourself.)

I’m talking about the near completion of Book Two of my trilogy, The Chronicles of Orphir.

It’s a huge relief to write down those words Even though I know that I still have many hours of work ahead, rereading, checking facts and continuity, editing – and adding more layers.

What’s nice about allowing it to sit, while I get on with other stuff and feel out the nuances as I go, is allowing room for it to grow, for its roots to nudge themselves a little more firmly into the ground and its leaves unfurl.

Instead of rushing to get it up on Kindle as soon as possible, this time I’ve forced myself to stop and process what I’ve done so far. Writing a novel – particularly part-time – it’s easy to forget bits and lose focus. I need to remember who my characters are, what they’ve been through and where they are going. From time to time I even give the same character two different names, and I forget their birthdays, their physical and emotional scars, what they’re wearing.

It’s not so different when I try cooking something for the first time – I usually overlook an ingredient – a spice, a herb, the sugar or the salt – and the finished dish won’t taste right unless I notice and remedy my omission.

I have found writing this second book in my trilogy a complex task. The story was already to pour forth when I wrote the first book, but this one needs not only to harken back to the previous story, but stand on its own, while also paving the way for the next volume. It’s a tough call, not to be underestimated, and as my imagination leaps ahead, it’s tempting to start writing the next volume before I have finished the last.

I’ve been audacious (or daft) enough to attempt local dialect for some characters. It’s another gamble – I don’t want a cast of West Indians sounding like Rastamouse, but I don’t want them to sound like the protagonists of an Augustan novel.

They are multi-dimensional, not just speaking scenery. I’ve raided Haitian and Jamaican culture and history for my story background, and I want the characters to reflect that.

And then there are the book covers. From the outset, I decided I wanted my own images. I couldn’t find anything exactly right in the stock photo archives. And as author and fiction-writing guru, Rayne Hall, points out, there’s always the risk that you’ll end up with a picture that’s on a dozen other book covers.

I wonder, though, perhaps that what people (readers) are looking for as they scan the pages of e-books– the familiar. When one is selling an unknown quantity perhaps the stock images of a headless women in period dress or disembodied hands clutching the hilt of a sword encourage someone to part with their dollars and take a punt on your book.

A few months ago, to discover how potential readers might regard my choice of artwork I solicited feedback in a discussion thread concerning gender stereotypes featured in historical fiction book covers  - something I hoped I have avoided on the cover of Tankard’s Legacy. But, instead of useful comments regarding the content and connotations of my cover artwork, the trolls crawled out, and from behind their generic photos and nom de plumes spewed scorn upon it before directing me to a photo library.

After I’d recovered from my hurt feelings, I was reminded of what Malcolm Gladwell argued in his book, Blink, that people don’t actually know what they want. And like the test screening of Hollywood crowd-pleasers, if you ask them, you risk producing the kind of anodyne mediocrity that aims to please everyone, but excites no one.

But, back to my almost-finished novel.

My progress to this point now frees me to read stuff that has nothing to with seafaring or pirates or the background to my characters. 

(Though somehow I find myself picking up a volume about esoteric Japanese spiritualism and its relationship to martial arts …)

And as you’ll see from my previous post, Willa Cather has been one of the latest objects of my focus, alongside my growing obsession for author and all-round fascinating person, Elif Shafak, whose brilliant, chaotic and vivid personality has me in a thrall. (For a quick fix, see her on TED, you’ll get the idea.) I’m tempted to wax lyrical on this newly discovered member of my most favoured writers, but … She deserves a post of her own.

If you fancy a bargain this weekend, Tankard's Legacy is available at 67% discount for a week starting December 28th.

American Woman: Willa Cather

When it comes to my favourite authors, it could be said that I get slightly obsessed.

When the writer is dead the supply of their books is, obviously, finite and so when it comes to my beloved Rumer Godden and Daphne DuMaurier, their bodies of work adorn my bookshelf like expensive boxes of chocolates that provoke a continual yearning - a yearning only to be indulged a little at a time.

But with those authors still inhabiting this mortal plane, Isabel Allende, Joanne Harris, Rose Tremain, Barbara Kingsolver, I tend to go for full immersion – book after book after book, biography, press, gossip … and now I can even top it off with Wiki, Facebook, Twitter and blogs.

But when a few months ago I rediscovered Willa Cather (1873 -1947), I decided to kick the habit. She was an author I had touched on briefly at university and her work whet my appetite, but the years that I had yet to reread her turned into decades, until a member of my reading group suggested My Antonia as our next book.

One of the advantages of ploughing through Cather’s canon is that her novels are short. But there are plenty to get my teeth into, and fortunately my Brighton’s Jubilee Library has an impressive collection. I quickly followed up My Antonia with A Lost Lady.

So what does Cather write about that gets me so excited?

Nebraska! American pioneers at the end of the 19^th century!

Er … ho hum, not exactly wizards, or vampires or zombies, is it?

If anyone came up to me and said, “Hey – do you want to read a book about Nebraskan farmers?” Well, my answer would probably be the same as yours.

But stay with me.

A maxim that Cather aspired to was ‘Primus ego in patrium mecum deducam Musas’ - for I shall be the first to bring the muse into my country.  Cather’s lyrical muses conjure a vivid rendering of the wondrous, yet savage, environment of the newly opened West of America, a landlocked world far from many readers’ experience.

She was in love with the nature of Nebraska, its swathes of dancing grasses, gnarly old trees, untouched marshy meadows. Her lyrical descriptions are breathtaking. This seems to have prompted some critics to bridle at what seems to them a kind of naïve sentimentalism for an idealised past. Particularly in the 30s when America’s farming pioneers found themselves starving in the self-made dustbowl as stocks and shares tumbled in the cities, elegies to the ache of America’s agricultural heartland, such as Grapes of Wrath, seemed to render Cather’s more delicate, less epic tales all the more unpopular.

Like Zora Neale Hurston’s treatment by her peers during the Harlem Renaissance, the desire for more hard-core – ‘male’ – narrative made the more ‘feminine’ celebration of family relationships, local culture and environment seem trivial.

Yet, Cather was far from idealistic. She was cynical and certainly didn’t turn a blind eye to the many hardships suffered and sacrifices made by 19^th Century American pioneers. Her stories portray gritty, courageous and ambitious women, and her books refuse to judge the morals of their heroines, examining the motives and morality of those characters who dare to do so.

At this time in America migrant mothers sacrificed their own small comfort of remaining in their homelands and often their own health and well being to sow the seeds for their daughters’ liberation. Daughters who then had the right and the access to education and opportunities that propelled them into a life that must have seemed worlds apart from the freezing dugout shack where they had been born.

And Cather herself was no shrinking violet. In an era where every woman wore her hair long, she sheared off her locks to spare herself and her ailing mother the trouble of washing, brushing, braiding and dressing it. (I’ll bet she had better things to do than mess with her hair). And she chose to keep it short until she reached college.

As a girl she indulged in the kind of ‘all about you’ quiz that girls still do today. Favourite colour, favourite writer … and what trait did Willa Cather foresee as being most desirable in a husband? “Lamblike meekness”! What quality did she most despise in women? “Lack of grit”!

Do you fancy reading her stuff now?

Unfortunately, even a century later, there are still those in the world who regard the things women have to say as trivial, as if having invisible gonads seems to nullify the validity of the female voice.  And while women in countries like the UK can take for granted a culture of equal regard, there are plenty of places not so very far away, where that is simply not so.

As contemporary arguments about gender swirl into a vertigo of vicious circles about whether sexual precociousness is sexual degradation, the fundamental issue has to be that a woman should have choices about her body – how she chooses to dress and adorn herself, how and whether she wishes to reproduce.  The seeds of these choices were sown by the women who made the sacrifices to earn them in the first place, and for American women they can look to Willa Cather and her ilk for that.

Almost a century ago in her novel My Antonia, Cather created a character, Lena, who makes an extraordinary transformation - from a barefoot cowherd to a finely dressed seamstress making clothes for the cream of society. Speaking of marriage, she says: “Men are all right for friends but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones ... I prefer to be foolish when I like it and be accountable to nobody.” And, the narrator reflects, Lena “ … remembered home as a place where there were always too many children, a cross man and work piling up around a sick woman.”

Cather, who chose never to marry, also writes critically of marriage via her protagonist, Jim Burden: “This was a fine life certainly, but it wasn’t the kind of life he had wanted to live. I wondered whether the life that was right for one was ever right for two.”

So can a woman of 2013 really turn the pages of Fifty Shades or listen to Blurred Lines without blushing - not with embarrassment at the clumsy sexual titillation - but the fact that women’s sexual domination is still celebrated and fetishized by mainstream culture. 

Are we still so afraid of the battle we face to be taken seriously, so horrified to be identified as ‘feminist’ that we retreat to infantilism? Are we really happy buying into such a value system with its double standards?

'You know you want it. Good girl.'

Let’s not dance to that tune.

From Blog to Bog to Analogue

I seem to be something of an all or nothing blogger, and to anyone who is kind enough to read this habitually, I extend my most sincere apologies.  

To make an impact using social media, this simply doesn’t do. People get bored, they soon forget, they are prey to the million other distractions, including other more faithful and diligent bloggers. So, perhaps I was somewhat ahead of myself when I decided to join the ‘twittersphere’ and thus indulge in my usual pattern of starting out completely obsessed, checking tweets every minute and blasting off witty retorts only to culminate in a complete dearth of interest a couple of weeks later.

I blame my phone - the sim expired and due to the vagaries of dealing with a mobile phone company named for a particular citrus fruit I was without mobile phone communication for a week. Just sufficient time to wean me off checking Twitter regularly and turn me to the Dark Side of pointless daily battles of splatting zombies, lining up sweeties and popping bubbles via the iPad. 

It’ll be OK, I thought,  as I do about this blog when I haven’t touched it for weeks and the stats chart is flatlining drastically. I’ll get back into it, modestly, this afternoon .... tonight ... tomorrow ... Then my daughter - whose other role is the household i-media guru - showed me an article in Wired magazine about ‘How To ... get more followers on Twitter’. Just how many url-rich, fascinating tweets are optimal to keep your follower numbers over a century? My guess? Ooh, let’s see, two - no, three a day? 

One an hour! 

An hour! 

For someone who has to remind myself to go to the toilet because there are so many other darn things to do, I found this troubling news. Perhaps the solution is to combine the two activities - trips to the loo and tweeting.  It’s not a practicable solution for a man ... but for a girl, there’s a necessary handsfree few moments that could be more fully utilised...

But, then I think to myself, if I am tweeting away to nobody in particular whilst sitting on the loo, that really does give new meaning to #pissingyourlifeaway.

Yet I found myself examining my latent resistance to acting on such well-meant instruction.  I put it down to contrariness or at least old-fashioned Luddite tendencies that have me yearning for the days of mix-tapes and post restante. But then I caught Wade Davis’s thoughts on a BBC Radio 4 broadcast of The Digital Human, and understood that it was something more.

I’ve mentioned Mr Davis before in relation to the Haitian zombi legend, he’s an anthropologist and works for National Geographic, and on the radio programme he was talking about making a journey with another traveller to encounter vanishing cultures. From my own reading I am aware of how deeply Wade Davis immerses himself in his work, and so it was in complete contrast to him that throughout their venture his companion remained in touch with the outside world via Twitter and his blog. 

Davis’s feelings about his fellow traveller’s circumstances interested me because they struck a cord with my ambivalence towards my blogging and tweeting.  Davis expressed pity for someone having to continually feed these ‘monsters’ that demanded constant updates, daily reports and relentless commentary on the trip. He had created cyber beasts that refused to lie quiet and let him be apart from the rest of the world and be completely absorbed in the journey. 

So, perhaps my perpetual nostalgia for old technology isn’t entirely divorced from this idea. I can hope that rather than smashing the machines that carry on the manifest destiny of a digital age, the Luddite in me can keep alive the desire to experience life in analogue.

The Customer is Always ... a Pain in the Arse

Time for another rant as an incident today provoked the old ‘angry’ shoulder twinge. Grrrr!

A friend and I were the only customers in a restaurant, which though for the main part offers a take-away service, but has installed a table inside to cater for diners wishing to escape the recently inclement weather.

However, on a shelf above the table there is an iPod dock blasting out music, which from the counter is at an acceptable level, but seated below it, interferes with relaxed communication. 

I decided to ask one of the staff members to turn it down a little bit, but to my utter amazement she replied: “I can’t do that. Customers at the doorway won’t be able to hear it. That’s the restaurant. We play music.”

I looked around the empty restaurant and pointed out that we were the only customers, and that I was only going to be around for 20 minutes tops, but she shook her head and repeated: “I can’t do that.”

Very nearly apoplectic by this stage, I managed to suppress the urge to throttle her, but I had to ask whether she really thought hearing Taylor Swift emanating from the doorway was really going to swing a restaurant choice.

Belonging to the Swift is shit camp, it appears I am not the target audience and I won’t be eating there again as my custom is clearly not that important to her. (Although the volume of the music did mysteriously decrease a few minutes later.) But as a restaurant battling rivals at every angle on a busy Brighton street, can she really afford to be so intractable toward someone who chooses to spend money in her shop?

But what this brings me to is an eternal mystery which has rumbled on ever since I moved to a small town where the motto ‘buy local’ is loud and proud. Why, oh why, do people decide to open a shop or restaurant when they don’t actually like people?

It has to be a bit of an occupational hazard, and people making a nuisance of themselves by actually asking questions or making requests is part and parcel of getting them to part with their cash, surely? 

Yet in my efforts to shop local I have been followed by someone grumpily rattling his keys because I’d unwisely arrived ten minutes before closing time, I’ve had contemptuous eyes rolled at me for not being able to locate an item without assistance and been subjected to the ‘invisible woman’ treatment because the female assistant behind the counter was far more interested in chatting up the men who’d sidled up beside me.

Perhaps I just spent too long in Japan, where people call out a welcome when you enter a restaurant, or bow to important customers in a department store. Where being helpful is second nature, and being unable to help obliges them to utter the most abject apologies.

But then I remember going to a shop in London and spending rather more than I intended because they were simply so lovely and helpful. When I remarked to the shop assistant on the quality of the service compared to other shops I’d been to it sent his bushy eyebrows skywards.

“Why madam,” he said in astonished tones. “You can’t have been shopping in the right places.”

Quite.

Vulture Culture

After the vastness of Orkney’s skies, the profound peace and quiet, the gentle pace of life, and of course the fact that I was on holiday, coming back home has been a bit of shock.

 I’ve never felt such a jolt in the face of urban life since I returned from Japan and found myself almost in tears trying to negotiate the monolithic complexity of a London branch of Sainsbury’s. The amount of choice was both ludicrous and appalling, and my brain simply couldn’t cope.

Modern life is an assault – and an assault that is difficult to escape as we go about our quotidian concerns and obligations. We might bemoan the fact that people disappear into their digital devises at the expense of interacting with the world around them, but if that world is abrasive, aggressive and demanding, perhaps one of the ways to manage our sanity is plugging into Facebook, or Angry Birds or a digital soundtrack to your inner, more peaceful life.

I wonder if I have something to learn from being on holiday – should I try and see my home through the eyes of a stranger, with mindful wonder at the objects, the traces of history and humanity that surrounds me? As I write, I am sitting on a bench in a quiet tree-lined Georgian Square. A semblance of tranquilty in a busy city as people make their way to work or college. The street hosts a parade of pretty girls on bicycles, paint splattered tradesmen, hipsters in tweed caps and peg-leg jeans. One or two professional types pause for a brief and precious moment to savour their take out coffee on the bench across from me. Then they steel themselves, get up and stride away to the other world where whatever they do to earn a living suddenly becomes the most important thing in the world.

I can feel the physical manifestation of my objection to ‘real life’. My body aches, my shoulders are rigid and the space between my shoulder blades is twisted into knots. Not even eight hours on a train had this result – but twelve hours of normality did. My travelling companion started to feel the shock when we hit Inverness on our way home, but she resolved to keep the sense of rediscovered tranquility within herself as long as she could in the face of grocery shopping, washing machine repairmen and the tying of emotional loose ends.

So the next step is to convince my body, with a massage, that it really is all right, and perhaps this morning of chill sunlight and falling leaves will carve a little happy space in my consciousness. Perhaps if I can still find places where the trees and the birds are louder than the traffic, I might just stand a chance.

Behind the Scenes at the Museum

How a nation treats its heroes must be indicative of something, surely?

I suspect that all too often the human frailties can be so obscured by fervent myth-making that legendary figures are reduced to cyphers for what a nation aspires  - or pretends - to be. Thus murderous psychopaths are glorified for their go-getting attitude, while others remain unrecognised and invisible simply because their deeds were not recorded, recorded in the words of their enemies, or because the context of their era distorts their legacy.

And so I come to why I have been urged to devote a few lines to the unexpected louche-ness of the monument celebrating explorer, John Rae, to be found in St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, Orkney.

That the word ‘louche’ should be applied to someone so clearly unafraid of undertaking far from comfortable journeys through some of the starkest and most unforgiving environments in the world, might raise a few eyebrows -  if not a few questions. But, just take a look at it!

Anyone ignorant of this unsung hero’s achievements might be forgiven for  - at first glance – mistaking the monument for a be-robed opium addict languishing on a velvet chaise longue in anticipation of his lover’s advances.

At closer inspection, though his costume suggests a certain exoticism occasioned by the chamois tunic and moccasins, his identity is made clear, and this observer at least, catches a breath tinged with no little shame at making such an erroneous presumption about Mr Rae.  (For a fuller exposition of his life see Orkneyjar).

After all, it is bad enough that he became a victim of character assassination in his own lifetime, due to the redoubtable Lady Jane Franklin and her ilk, leaving his reputation in tatters, so far be it for me to join in and seemingly cast aspersions upon the great man! It’s simply the statue – such a relic of its era – that I have difficulty taking seriously.

Another Very Victorian tomb we observed at St Magnus’s was that of William Balfour Baikie. His career of disseminating Christian virtue to the ignorant of Africa was eulogised in such glowingly patronising terms  - including the use of ‘savage, heathen and slave’ that we rolled our eyes in post colonial cynicism. Yet, a visit to Stromness Museum drew a far more sympathetic portrait of the young Mr Baike who seemed anything but the dead-eyed crusading zealot I’d imagined. His compassion (he was anti-slavery) and integrity (his exploration of the Niger led him to be stranded, dependent upon the hospitality of locals for survival. On being rescue he refused to leave before paying them back for all the food they’d given him) so endeared him to the natives of Nigeria they encompassed his name into their language as ‘beke’, the word for white man. But I do wonder how many of his successors managed to live up to this wholesome epithet.

Alongside Baikie’s biographical information was an endearing photograph of William  – with a twinkle in his eye, and a hand on his heart. Lovely portrait as it was, we became intrigued by the mysterious white tuft visible in the bottom left hand corner – just what did it belong to? Probably, it was the embellishment to a fine hat he held in his other hand. But it amused us to imagine it may have been a bird or a dog ... or some other creature. Again, the delightfully trivial ponderings of such matters distracted us a little from Baikie’s considerable achievements. Sorry, Bill. He never made it back to Orkney, but was clearly a survivor to manage almost two decades in the African Interior.

The achievements of Eliza Fraser, whose mendacity and tenacity are of equal remark, is celebrated rather more quietly. She has a blue plaque on her former residence, and indeed we engaged in conversation with the current resident who warned us that her story was a terrible one. In 1836 she survived a shipwreck and being captured by Australian aborigines. The island where she remained until her rescue a year later, has been named for her. But despite surviving against the odds, which her husband failed to do, her glory became tarnished when she engaged in fundraising to support her family - but conveniently forgot to mention she had married again and was no longer in desperate circumstances.

Then there was poor Alexander Graham who led the rebellion in Stromness against taxation imposed by Kirkwall on foreign trade. Graham was rendered so broke by his legal campaign that, despite Stromness winning, he died in penury. Pity he didn’t have the nerve of Eliza Fraser!

These findings, on top of all my research into the pirate of the pilchards, John Gow (of the ships he captured, most were stuffed with fish or other foodstuffs, and he could have happily set up his own grocers),  gave me pause for thought. 

It may be that every hero has his or her foibles and flaws, but the flawed heroes of Orkney seem to have the fortune of being cherished without judgement for their actions, their failures and without their champions shirking from the truth behind their public image: Gow may have been a hopeless pirate, but he was our hopeless pirate!

In the case of John Rae, it’s a very real determination to re-assert a man's genuine reputation over a legacy that remains from a vindictive smear campaign to discredit a respectable Orkneyman who unearthed an inconvenient truth. These efforts are culminating in a festival this year to commemorate the bicentenary of his birth (JohnRae200). 

As I contemplate the affection and respect that Rae inspires, I’m reminded of the dedication on a bench overlooking the harbour of Stomness. It is for a man who clearly lived in and loved Stromness, but was not born here. Yet, he achieved a ringing endorsement on his bench, for though he may have been a 'ferry louper' by birth, it refers to him as “… an Orcadian at heart ...”. 

Is there a finer compliment? I stumbled upon another ferry louper, and blogger, Peter Cairns, whose thoughts on life in Orkney and his beautiful photographs adorn the pages of Orkney Ferry Louper. And, I think he would probably agree.

So long, Orkney!

Can't say too many times how lucky we were with the weather, but just look. Time has no meaning when looking at something like this.

I need to sort through my notes and write up all the stories and observations. But, for now, I'll toast a wee dram of Orkney's best till I catch up.

Crosswinds and Wave Action

Two days in Orkney, and sorry to break it to you like this, but we have decided to stay...

Well I would, but you know there are people I am rather fond of waiting for me to come home. Not to mention that in a few weeks' time the weather will probably be so foul I'd be as good as marooned until March (taking into account that I am particularly susceptible to seasickness).

For some, the appeal of a bleak, treeless landscape that throws 140 mph winds at its residents remains an eternal mystery. Yet, there are those for whom the word 'magical' is the only description they can find to sum up the brooding, ancient isles, the quietly spoken, welcoming people and the richness of wildlife and history on offer here in Orkney.

Blessed by a purity of light, air and sound, I too am ensconced in its unique enchantment, and after a day wandering its capital, Kirkwall, and this afternoon in the knowledgable care of Kinlay Francis of Orkney Uncovered, I feel I have a 'peedie' glimpse into the intriguing many-layered identity and mythology of these remote islands.

Kinlay had devised a programme especially to show me the places along the mainland associated with the notorious pirate of Orkney, John Gow, but luckily we had enough time to visit the stone circles of Stenness and Brodgar  - possibly older than Stone Henge by a millennium. Gow was amongst the many locals who used these places as meeting places, striking deals through the round hole of the Odin Stone (which sadly no longer exists thanks to a zealous landowner and his dynamite).

My first introduction to John Gow was on Sigurd Towrie's website Orkneyjar, which offers a very sympathetic view of Gow's exploits. However, after reading the account of Gow's exploits given by George Watson, which includes the correspondence between Gow and James Fea when Gow was grounded off Eday. Though it seems Gow was initially successful as a seaman and rose quickly through the ranks, perhaps this rapid rise was his undoing - thinking himself far more capable than he actually was.

In my view, next to Captain Kidd, John Gow was probably one of the most hopeless and hopelessly unlucky pirates ever to be thrust into the public eye - yet the Orcadians seem to love him for it.

His ill-considered, impetuous attempts to seize power from his superiors, his incompetent seamanship that led to his vessel being grounded at a crucial moment, and the ultimate scatty stand-off between Gow and a far more shrewd local landowner, all contributed to his fate: a gibbet at Wapping, where a convicted pirate's corpse would be strung up for three tides as a warning.

Yet, here in Orkney, the peculiar conical Groatie House assembled from ballast seized from his ship is still proudly preserved in the gardens adjoining the Kirkwall Museum, and the myths surrounding the sacred oath given by Gow's sweetheart on the Odin stone, binding her to him eternally - not to mention his other peccadilloes  - are still much-told tales.

 Jean and Ivan Craigie, current owners of the land where Clestrain Hall stands, kindly allowed us access to the imposing ruins of both the 1769 construction where explorer John Rae was born, and the seaside ruin of the house owned by the well-to-do Honeyman family, which must have looked easy pickings for John Gow as he sailed in from Hoy Sound.

Sir Walter Scott, author of Rob Roy and Ivanhoe, also wrote a three volume tale inspired by Gow. However, the truth of the matter was that Gow's raid on Clestrain Hall is another in his catalogue of misadventures. Cheated of his booty by a quick thinking Mrs Honeyman and her daughter, Gow and his crew ended up with only a few pounds in cash and some silver spoons for their trouble.

After a prolonged and fruitless negotiation seeking help to release his ship, Gow was bundled off in ignominy by James Fea. A few weeks later at the end of March he was holed up in Marshalsea Prison awaiting trial. He was executed on June 11th.

Did the unhappy spirit of Gow blight the fortunes of Clestrain residents in years to come?

The Craigies informed me of other tales surrounding the owners of Clestrain Hall: that in 1758 Laird Honeyman left on a voyage with his young son - but before leaving he buried a chest of treasure in the lea of the old hill dyke and obliged his wife to guard it. They never returned from their voyage  - the laird's ship was lost with all hands. His wife died of grief at hearing the news. Their ghosts still haunt the area where the  treasure lies buried and a ghostly ship can still be seen by the laird's descendants.

We bid the Craigies a farewell and left them in peace, then Kinlay drove us on, back to Kirkwall, mulling over the tales of ghosts and treasure and wondering at the magnificent ruin of Clestrain Hall which we'd been lucky enough to explore within and even climb a little of its beautiful sandstone spiral staircase.

It has been another day of ideal weather conditions, fascinating stories and stunning views, made all the more wonderful by the generosity and thoughtfulness of the people we encountered.

And yes, that has to be part of the magic of Orkney.