Stories from Skara Brae

For me, the allure of Orkney was its remoteness. The wind battered islands off the northern tip of the Highlands possessed a culture created not by Celts, but by ancient people who built stone circles and then later Picts and ruling Viking earls. Orkney seemed like a way to insert a little bit of my Norwegian and Scandinavian ancestors into my journey.

That and the amazing rugged hikes. The mental pull of walking western cliffs battered by the sea, however, was strongly opposed by the draw of Neolithic sites. I thought about combining the two. There was a seven hour coastal walk from my base in Stromness to Skara Brae, the most unusual site on the Mainland island. However, when I researched this largest island in Orkney, I couldn’t find any transportation services that ran to any of the ancient sites on a Sunday. I emailed a taxi company to see if I could get a lift to or from Skara Brae, but didn’t hear an answer. I wasn’t sure what I would do with this day, and concluded I would just have to wing it when I got there.

On this trip, as on many others, the easiest solutions often presented themselves once on the ground. Upon my arrival at her guesthouse, my busy and somewhat flustered hostess, Yvonne, quickly waved her hand at piles of leaflets with island tours and activities. I asked her if she knew of any way to get to Skara Brae on a Sunday, and she unearthed a local bus timetable that had a route previously undiscovered by me online. There was a bus that actually went to Skara Brae, waited for an hour, then journeyed on to the Ring of Brodgar, waited 25 minutes, and then continued onto Kirkwall, the main town on the island. While I didn’t want to go to Kirkwall, all guidebooks universally decried it devoid of any charm, I did think that breaking up the visitation of the five Neolithic sites I wanted to see into two days was a great idea.

I must pause and insert my breakfast details. Yvonne offered a “continental” breakfast included in the B&B price or, for an additional 5 pounds, also offered a cooked breakfast. The reviews of Brinkie’s Guesthouse I read all extolled the merits of the continental. Who am I to ignore universal acclaim?

In my experience, the definition of “continental” varies greatly from place to place. Here, in Yvonne’s sitting room, was the best of the best. I will let the photo speak for itself:

Each day there would be a new locally smoked fish, salmon lox and a variety of cheeses, meats and other yummies to tantalize and delight the tongue. A few cucumbers and tomatoes were thrown in, and fresh fruit and yogurt. Plus freshly baked traditional bannock – a kind of cross between an English muffin and a fluffy scone. Crumbly but well worth the mess. Yvonne offered an immense breakfast and a handy drawer full of cling wrap and foil to take any leftovers along for the day.

Back to exploring. The morning of my first forays into the Orkney landscape, I took the “short” ten minute path down to town. Directions from a Scot or, in this case, an Orcadian, tend to be somewhat vague and contain a sense of “you’ll find a way when you are there.” My instructions for the day were to head over the Brae (hill) and then find the stairway which would drop me just behind the Ferry Inn. 

Okay. From the guesthouse, I crossed a plank to a dirt track leading to the top of the brae. My horse friend of the evening before had disappeared. I continued on a flattened grass strip that veered steeply downwards. Pausing many times, I uttered statements of disbelief at the view.

A thought did occur that the return certainly wouldn’t be quite so scenic or take ten minutes. The grass path ended at a lovely tunnel between flowering shrubs. A few steps later, I emerged to find a sign pointing back up to Brinkie’s Brae and a street with no apparent staircase.

To go right was to follow a road. To go left there was a road but also a bit of sidewalk. I went left. I soon did come to a staircase. There was a polite sign of regret that it was closed. It looked open to me, so I took it anyway. The staircase turned into a rather large cement incline. I actually had to lean backward to keep my shuffled footing. When I arrived at the bottom, I indeed saw that the way was blocked by construction. Back up I went.

I continued down the street and found another such path with the polite notice and ventured on. I approached a downward gaping incline without a sign and turned in. The way was lined with slate rocks, and I reminded myself that a wet stone is a slippery stone. A rule to live by in the fishing port of Stromness. I still slipped and fell hard on my hip. I picked myself up, leaning a bit to port, and continued. A bit further down, the path veered left and leveled out, and then made a sharp right to descend stairs. The stairs ended at a flat bit where a disheveled woman, tea mug in hand, tightened her red bathrobe and leaned in the window of her neighbor’s house to have a chat. I took a left and entered an 18-inch wide alley wedged between two houses and wound my way down until I hit the flat cobbled road below. Indeed, I arrived at a street within view of the rear of the Ferry Inn and the harbor. What do you know?

After a brief foray to the left, I backtracked and went right to find a path to the pier and Travel Centre for my bus.

There was no one in the Travel Centre — a bit disappointing as I hoped to confirm I was in the right locale for the bus I needed. There was a scattered bit of pamphlets, though nothing to compare to the selection on Yvonne’s credenza by the staircase. I located a bathroom (why is it so uncomfortable to say “toilet?”) with a huge warning sign that someone of either sex might come in and clean it.  

When the X1 bus arrived, I stepped aboard, and the driver just looked at me. I said I wanted to go to Skara Brae. He still just looked at me. I asked if I should pay. He pondered this question, stroked his beard and then said “6 pounds.” I gave him a 10 pound note and received 3 pounds back. No worries. I asked if I needed a ticket. He said, “no.” “You’ll just remember me?” He nodded.

I climbed up the stairs to the second story and awaited our departure.

The bus lurched to a start and sped its way to Skara Brae, stopping a few times in what looked like the middle of nowhere to drop off or pick up passengers. For those unfamiliar with travel in a rural locale with bus service, one just hails the whole bus as one would a cab in New York City. The drivers don’t even get mad if one happens to hail the wrong bus, but will instead politely inform when the right one will arrive and on what side of the road to stand in waiting.

When we arrived, the driver said to be back at 12:25 like he meant it. There was a small information center ahead to explore before accessing the site itself.

Here is what I learned. Skara Brae is about 5000 years old. To put this in context, at 3100 BC there was no Stonehenge, there was no Great Wall of China, there were no Pyramids of Egypt. People here lived in the “oldest village in Europe where you can still see the houses with their original stone furniture intact” for about 800 years and then left for unknown reasons. There are remains of 10 houses in the village all built with stone tools. Each of these circular living pods had a storage “dresser,” built in bed boxes and even floor fish tanks all surrounding a hearth. The cool thing is that each had giant stone slab door that pivoted open and closed. The really cool thing is that each pod was connected to others by a tunnel. The really really cool thing is that the whole village was covered with turf and underground.

I watched a brief film about the site. Apparently it was unearthed after a storm in Victorian times when the grass was ripped from the dunes in 1850. I overheard a tour guide saying that the Laird of Skail’s daughter used to have picnics in the ancient dwellings and even had a servant cut a window in one of the walls, so she could have a sea view. There was a cool exhibit where one could guess what use the ancient peoples had for various materials, like bone or stone, and put the material into a “building” or a “food preparation” or a “clothing” box. Music would play if correct.

The villagers also didn’t have weapons of any kind and yet managed to live together for at least 800 years. Go figure.

Outside, “building 7” is a replica of what a covered dwelling would have been like, lobster pond and all. This is the consolation prize for not being able to romp inside the actual ancient sites.

 

Before continuing onto the actual site, I dropped onto a grassy slope and proceeded with back straightening exercises in hopes of realigning my lopsided hip. I’m sure that the Vikings who used to revel here, unaware that they were partying on the rooftop turf of an ancient village, would be truly amused.

I spent most of my allotted time wandering around the top of the site following along the tunnels between the dwellings. I just couldn’t get over my mind’s picture of these primeaval peoples traveling through their passageways and knocking at roll-away stone doors to go visiting.

How big the original village was is a mystery. The community once sat beside a freshwater loch which was later submerged by the sea. At least a portion of the village has been eroded away with tides and time.

I looked at my watch and saw that I had 15 minutes left until I would vex the bus driver with my absence and force him to decide if he should stay or go. With admittance to the Skara Brae site, entrance to the Laird’s old abode, Skaill House, also was included. (Skaill comes from the Norse “skal” for “Cheers!”). I hurried toward the estate and asked the ticket lady what I needed to see in the 10 minutes I had. She said to just keep moving. I started to do this and then remembered that Captain Cook’s crew hawked his China set to the owners following the captain’s death in Hawaii and backtracked to ask where that was.

Having done my due diligence to see the only interesting item mentioned in my guidebook pages about the house, I then sped my way through a library, various bedrooms and quickly found myself at the exit. With five minutes to spare, I retraced my steps to the library which seemed like the most fun room due to a bookcase that opened to reveal a safe. These things really existed. Fun.

I just had time to eat one of my mini apples and then discover that I was in yet another place with no garbage can. I went into the tour center and the cashier held up a bin for me to use, clearly displeased.

I guess I could have left the core for future generations to discover an apple tree on site.

The sea and coast called to me, and I reconsidered the seven hour hike back to Stromness. Hard though it was, I decided to save my energy stores for the next day’s bike ride (yes, I was to be off on two wheels again!).

I made it back to the bus with time to spare. The driver said he’d never been inside Skara Brae. He was from a small isle nearby that had something similar but was free. I’m not sure if he has to stay to guard the bus or not. I wish I’d bought him a ticket so he could see what he’d been driving people to see for the last 8 months.

The next stop was the Ring of Brodgar. This was a newer site, from around 2500 BC, a few centuries after the Great Pyramid of Cheops was built. Stonehenge was still a distant 500 years in the future. This ring originally encircled an area as large as a football field and had approximately 60 stones. 27 still stand, including a huge watch stone by the road that is 18 feet tall. A fun fact is that the circle was surrounded by a henge, or moat, that was 30 feet wide and 20 feet deep. An interesting thing is that the site has never been excavated. One archaeologist I met said one sometimes had to chose between saving what one can see and seeing what else there could be. A hard choice.

There wasn’t much information on site, so I just wandered around the stones and pondered how and why people would work so hard to mine and transport these huge heavy rocks distant miles to make a circle surrounded by a moat. Would be fun to know.

Back on the bus, it was a 40 minute ride to Kirkwall in the center of the Orkney Mainland Island. There was no one in the tourist office where the bus left us, so I headed toward the looming red sandstone cathedral which was the main draw in town. My goal, however, was to get to a tearoom behind it for a lovely cream tea. Alas, it was Sunday, no tea house open, so I entered the St. Magnus Cathedral instead.

The story here is that a Viking Earl of Orkney and his cousin fought over rule of the land. There was supposed to be a peaceful meeting to settle the dispute, but while the Earl Magnus Erlendsson was praying, the cousin ordered his cook to whack an ax into the Earl’s head resulting in his death. Tales of miracles occurring at the Earl’s grave spurred his nephew to come from Norway and claim his uncle’s Earldom with a promise he would build a “great stone minster” in his honor. The building began in 1137 A.D., and the remains of Uncle Magnus were moved there to create a place of pilgrimage.

Inside is pretty impressive:

And pretty morbid. There is an interesting 17th century “Mort Brod” or death hanging in honor of a Kirkwall glazier (a tradesman who cuts and installs glass) named Robert Nicholson which seems a bit gruesome, and the whole cathedral is riddled with skulls and cross bones.

After traveling through the sanctuary to the back of the chapel area, there is a very curious tomb. A deerskin clad bearded man reposes with his hands clasped behind his head, his rifle cradled beside him. This is the honorable arctic explorer, John Rae, from Stromness who found the northwest passage and was important enough to have the biggest memorial in the place.

In Stromness, there was also this plaque on a house:

These descendants of Vikings take their explorers seriously.

I have to say, when my time comes and my marble tomb is carved, this is the kind I’d like to have. But with one hand behind my head and the other propping up a good book. And hiking boots on my feet. 

While I wandered toward the exit, a white-haired maintenance man stopped me to ask if I’d found the plaque showing where the saint was entombed. I said yes, but I didn’t find the Marwick’s Hole dungeon where women accused of witchcraft were held. He led me back a few steps and pointed upwards. There was an arched gap about 15 feet high in the wall above. Did the witches howl during services? Curious again.

He looked at his watch and mentioned that he was going to sneak out and watch the final in the World Cup. I asked what time, and he said 4 p.m. I might just check that out when I returned to Stromness.

For now, I needed to get something to eat, and my Lonely Planet torn sheets mentioned a fun pub named Helga’s near the waterfront.

I anticipated some kind of Viking theme, but it was just your average pub. Sometimes I think that the guidebook writers feel obligated to list somewhere special in a town. When there isn’t one, why not just write, “take your pick, nothing special here.” I ordered the soup and sandwich combo. Tomato soup and a chutney and cheese sandwich. Not the best grub I’d had thus far, but it filled my stomach. The bar was filling with patrons reserving seats for the soccer final. They even pretended to enjoy watching a tennis match currently showing. I did not, finished my meal and headed to the bus station.

After an uneventful ride through flat pasturelands to the Stromness Travel Centre, I was torn between grabbing a scone-type treat at the bakery that was soon to close or going into the Ferry Inn to see about watching an international event on a remote island. A more unique opportunity, the later option was chosen, and I claimed a seat at the bar.

I ordered a cider and started weighing which side to root for, Croatia or France. Back on that earlier backpacking trip in my 20’s with Sharon, we found ourselves en route to Greece from Hungary via Croatia. At the ticket counter, we had pantomimed being shot to try to ask if the route was safe. The ticket agent seemed unconcerned, so we we boarded that train. It had been several days since we heard anyone but ourselves speaking English. Hearing a couple speaking our native tongue a few carriage boxes away, we gravitated towards them and introduced ourselves. Soon thereafter a British diplomat joined us. We would have a 1/2 hour layover in Zagreb, Croatia, and the diplomat offered to buy us all ice cream. The five of us exited the train to find ourselves in a war zone — the ice cream shop had sandbags up the sides and people were dancing and drinking wine in the streets like some scene from an old movie of Parisians living it up before the Germans marched in. Sharon and I made it back to the train and later on were hysterically gestured at by a ticket-taker who nearly shoved us off the carriage we were on and pointed at one across the grass on a different track going another direction. Apparently our train split at “Split” and the carriage we had been on was heading toward a war front. We were on the ground and raced between the cars. Sharon had what we called the “Papa” backpack on and was struggling to get up the steps of the now moving carriage. It was like a slow motion scene with me pushing Sharon from behind and then hopping on just before the train gained speed.

I had no such interesting story about being in France, so I chose to root for Croatia.

That said, watching a match in a bar sitting behind a gray-haired woman who clearly did not want to talk to anyone became a bit boring. The bar did have wifi, so I ventured to text Jorg, my husband, and ask who he was rooting for. Also Croatia. Then I dared to open the the house painting Pandora box and found that the house was still under the services of College Pro. Of course, our contact, Jeff, was out on vacation again, and no one was supervising the crew. I switched the topic to the fact that the only communications I had gotten from my darling daughter had been texts of angry emojis and “I hate you” messages because she couldn’t get her Netflix videos to play and that was somehow my fault for not setting up her wifi. I tried to text-explain to her that her wifi was set up or else she wouldn’t be able to send me messages. Jorg promised to call his mom and get Julia straightened out technologically.

My attention shifted back to the bar and an Englishman behind me who was espousing the virtues of a bacon potato chip that “won’t disappoint.” He then went on to describe the location of the best pies in all of the U.K. and how he had driven four hours in a snow storm to get some only to find that they were out.  A man from another table piped in that he agreed about the pies and a general area conversation began. The Englishman said he was from Portsmouth, and I asked if that was near Cornwall. “Now that’s a George Double-ya comment if I ever heard one.” Hmm. I had mistaken Portsmouth for Plymouth. He then went on loudly that there had been a parade of equestrian girls through the town that day and that the remains made walking on his hike that day dicey and that the town should really clean this stuff up. I could feel the barman behind me shooting arrows at him and some were bouncing off me. This white bearded man was en route to the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides and needed to get back to his small yacht to finish up some risotto before catching the tide at 5 am. I felt relief at his departure.

As for my meal, I had attempted earlier to order local scallops from the bar but was told that I had to move to a table in the bar to get served. As this was in the midst of showing the World Cup final, that wasn’t going to happen soon. After the match ended (France won by the way), I went to the adjoining dining room and was given a seat under the promise that I would vacate it within 1 1/2 hours. When the menu arrived, it was different from the bar menu and didn’t have the scallops I so desired. I therefore excused myself and found a seat in the now emptying bar so that I could finally eat. This pub dining thing is so darned confusing that I had to sit in a third area before I could be fed. Awesome.

By the way, the scallops here have a bit of a “mussely” attachment to the side that I hadn’t experienced before. I like mussels. And I like scallops, but not this combination.

I’d had a good day seeing Skara Brae and the Ring of Brodgar, but felt a little gypped out of getting a good walk in. I didn’t have one of my hike sheets with directions on me, but started walking the coast assuming that surely there would be a route around the water.

I headed toward the western shore along the main cobbled road shared by infrequent pedestrians and intrepid drivers. As I walked, I passed by many more of the narrow alleys I’d experienced in the morning heading either down to the port or steeply uphill. The stone buildings looked timeworn and hand built long ago.

It wasn’t long before I exited the town area and entered a headland campsite at the Point of Ness. A view of the neighboring island of Hoy kept my eyes occupied as I began following a level path along the shore. I passed a golf course. Though I tend to agree with Mark Twain that golf is “a good walk spoiled,” I have to think that the view from this one might mediate any frustration of a ball lost to the sea. I spotted movement along the low tide shoreline and was delighted to find myself accompanied on my walk by a seal foraging for its supper.

Orkney was a naval base during both world wars, and many tourists focus their visit on former defensive buildings and strategic outposts. I came to a gun fortification built into the edge of the shoreline and took a few minutes to sit inside the former defensive home of shivering watchmen of the past. I continued along to find myself outside a large barbed wire fenced in compound. A sign nearby told me that this was the Ness Battery, the headquarters of the navel defenses. It was securely locked up for the night. Another item to add to a future Orkney trip itinerary.

I continued on the path and was beckoned by signs for an unknown locale of Warbeth. Though still bright out, the clock was moving toward 8:30 p.m., and I was getting a bit weary. When the next one lane road appeared to my right, I took it to begin my circle back towards town. Through a combination of navigational skill and luck, I found myself on a path towards the “Gun Viewpoint.” After ascending a small hill, I found myself overlooking the Ness Battery and it’s many buildings, the golf course, and a stunning view of the island of Hoy. Wonderful.

I backtracked and found myself wandering in a lane behind some houses. I peered up and saw upon a not-so-distant hill with a structure that could be Brinkie’s Guesthouse. Maybe I would find a new way back! A woman came out of her backyard with her dog, and I asked if she knew if the hill beyond was Brinkie’s Brae. She wasn’t sure about that but was fairly firm on the best choice being to return to town and then find my way back. I decided to do something different and take her advice. Avoiding the quarter-sized snails that suddenly littered the trail, I began plotting my way back to town. Once there, I backtracked my steps of the morning including squeezing my way through the Miller’s Close alley, climbed Brinkie’s Brae, and happily found my way to a comfortable bed.