DREAMS IN THE MIST.

A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.

Dreams in the mist.

The sea fog slips into Whitehall Harbour in Stronsay, white mist slides over the water, the waves fall away to flat calm save gentle surges onto the beach, slapping and rattling the shingle, sighing back to the sea. I hear the clang of far off bells on the two marker buoys guarding the sea passage in, rung by the lift of the waves and the swell of the sea. The mist slips further in over the land, slow fingers closing in on the two piers and the harbour and the beach and the road and the houses. Dense and enveloping, damp and warm. It is summer. The houses and the land vanish under a white blanket. A door opens and closes further down the street, then another. A voice in quiet recognition, “Thick morning, Davie, ah doot id’ll lift muckle the day”. Rubber boots sound on the hard road, sea boots, I hear the slap of the tops of them, turned down just now on land, two men on their early morning way to catch the tide. Lobster men, probably off to haul their creels round Odness and off Burgh Head, possibly as far as Auskerry, good sea ground for creels. Crabs and lobster are making a good price just now.

Distant thud of the warning gun a mile away round the back of Papa Stronsay, an alternative to a foghorn, rattling the chimney pots. The quiet murmur of a slow engine out on the water, a short double blast on a boat’s siren, the first of the drifters easing its way towards the pier, feeling more than moving but long knowledge takes over. They listen for an echo from the land, or from the houses. Somebody rings by hand a clanging bell on the pier head, helps them in. Slapping ripple of bow wave and slow churning of propeller. A deep voice on the sea in the mist in a Banffshire accent, a fisherman, an answer in broad Orkney from the pier. Engine noise eases, quietens a moment, then the slap of a rope flung ashore to the waiting men, quick flurry of a propeller going astern, a gentle bump as boat and pier marry for the day. “Make fast”. More voices. “What luck, boys?”





A door squeals open down the street, the fish-market door, wide enough for good entry though nothing enters other than fishermen with fish baskets, a sample of their catch, buyers, spectators. Plenty room to pass each other. A hacking cough somewhere in the fog, followed by another, then a good throaty hauch and a spit. Voices. The smell of pipe tobacco smoke drifts up the village. Another squealing, different, this time further down on the pier, the drifter’s crew are raising their derrick to unload their catch, pulleys rattle and squeak as ropes run over their wheels. “Better oil them, Sam”. Odd how well voices carry in the fog, no wind to snatch the words.

More footsteps in the mist, shadowy men scarcely seen going towards the pier and the mart. More quiet voices. A dog barks, I know that dog, he belongs here but no-one owns him. Someone told me he came off a drifter and stayed behind three years ago. Adopted Stronsay. Everyone pets him, Black Labrador somewhere in his lineage. My concentration is broken momentarily, a cock crows somewhere at the back of the Village in one of the many henhouses they all have, answered by another. Further down in the Station hens will later comb the beach for what they can find, turn over the gravel, scratch and snatch in the sand, return home to their own shed at night. Wonderful tasting eggs that are said to have a better flavour than any farm egg ever did. Some in the Station keep ducks and geese, they wander down the beach, explore among the seaweed, swim on the sea, come home in their own time.
Further up the road in the fog the sound of a horse snorting the fresh early air, the rumble of cart wheels, steady iron shod hooves plod past at walking pace, the rattling bump of the cart over a pothole. Then another, dimly seen in passing, going down to the pier.
More sirens, more drifters feeling their way in, a casual shout or two out in the Bay from one unseen boat to another, a symphony coming through the enveloping fog, getting thicker if anything. Another sound on the road, clattering clogs, a Dutchman, no, two, on their way somewhere. A bike goes past, chain cracking, needs oiling too.

A deep breath, smell of the sea, seaweed rotting on the shore, a drift of smoke from an early morning fire, the day is getting under way. A mallard out on the water calls his mate, calls again, answered, sound of wings flapping as a duck scuds briefly over the surface of the water, ending with a splash. Gulls mewing too, muted in the sea fog. A slow heavy flap, flap of wings as a solitary heron that overnights on the beach takes off. Bake house smells drift by that excite the appetite, a reminder that I have not yet breakfasted. Jock Stout and Swanneys, friendly competitors for the island trade and the fishermens’ too. Probably started their ovens about 3 am., early morning rolls in the shop. Mouth watering aromas continue to drift past me. Good bakers. Their bake houses lie just behind their houses.
A deeper siren sounds, not a herring boat. Sounds again. Out of the fog the shadowy black bulk of the Earl Thorfinn, dense black smoke dimly seen pouring from her yellow unseen funnel, easing into the outer end of the pier with deeper water. More slap of ropes and clanking of their steam winch. Left Sanday early to cross Sanday Sound to Stronsay, Kettletoft Pier in Sanday being very tidal, water too low on the ebbing tide and not for the Thorfinn, Down the Village the sound of cattle stirring, or being stirred. They are in a yard belonging to Davie Chalmers, waiting from last night for the early steamer, driven down yesterday evening in readiness for the early boat. Restless cattle noises. They will be driven down the pier soon with rope halters on every one, to be penned on the pier end, caught up and loaded on the Thorfinn en route to Aberdeen. .A two day journey by sea via Kirkwall and trans-shipped onto the St Magnus or the St Clair. More footsteps and quiet voices as some farm men go down the street, a drift of fag smoke, Woodbines, tackety boots give them away, heading for the loading of their cattle. Left their farms very early indeed as through the fog I catch the give-away well known voice of the cattleman from Henry Maxwell’s farm of Housebay in the South-end of the island. Six miles to walk but night in summer in Orkney is never dark. .
The fog is getting thicker if anything, it has that feel of a full day of it. Many boat sirens now, mixed notes, the cacophony of a couple of hundred herring drifters easing their way in, the rattle of carts on the two piers, snort of a horse, many voices in the mist as the day gets into full swing.
Through the fog the noise of the Thorfinn loading and unloading, the hiss and clank of the steam winch, the loading chains rattling, many voices, a voice saying “Let go”’ as some article lands with a bump on the pier. Then the unmistakable sounds of the cattle being driven down the pier, shouts of farm men and helpers, a small rodeo heard but unseen in the mist. Finally quiet, a variety of island cargo unloaded and loaded, cattle all on board, the steamer’s work in Stronsay done for the day. The Earl Thorfinn blows a long steady deep warning siren blast, reverberating round the houses, a final reminder to passengers that they have ten minutes to get down the pier.

A few minutes grace and the rattle of the Thorfinn’s winches tells that she is winding herself astern round the pier end to face outwards. Strong definite shouted Captain’s voice, “Let go aft, let go forra’d.” Ropes splash into the sea and the winches haul them safely in, then the slow ahead thrash of propeller as she edges away from the pier. There will be a man on lookout at the bow of that ship today. The repeated reverberating sound of her siren fades with increasing distance, an ever diminishing warning as she steams slowly away into the fog.
Out of the mist on the road I hear tackety boots heading for home, the voice of the Housebay cattleman saying to his companions :- “There’ll be no liftan the day, boys.”