Distant shores emerged from mist

IT was 7.30am at Houton on Orkney. The fog was thick. The forecast was for a gradually increasing south-east wind, force four later. "Do not underestimate the conditions in Scapa Flow with a wind of force four or more!" warned the guidebook.

Never have I felt less like packing up the boat with camping gear for a night on some island. I prevaricated. A whole load of folk came past heading for the boat to work on Flotta, they took little notice of this eccentric kayaker. I really, really didn’t feel like setting out. The fog became thicker, and drizzly with it.

A middle-aged lady appeared. "I hope you’ve got a compass," she said. Yes, I had. She tried again. "I hope you’ve got a wet suit." I replied I had a dry suit. Then – "I hope you’ve let the coastguard know where you’re going." No, I hadn’t, I wasn’t sure where I was going myself. Somehow that seemed to satisfy her. "Enjoy your day!"

My main worry was I’d be run down by something in the fog. I continued my miserable job of packing the boat, it took me ages, in the end I didn’t know what was in and what wasn’t – but the fog was lifting a little and that cheered me.

Eventually I set out for my first island, Cava, the sea already a bit choppy in the south-east wind. What amazed me was just how much traffic there was in Scapa Flow. Ferries, fishing boats, dive boats, fish-farm boats, oil support boats... you really had to watch out and I was glad the fog had lifted to very low cloud.

I landed near the north end of the uninhabited island – about a square mile in size – watched by a small boat collecting creels, you can’t go anywhere without everyone knowing about it. Sheep now graze Cava, there’s heather on the higher land and some former peat-cutting, the few houses are in ruins.

Cava Lodge, on the highest point of the island is a wartime relic. An old toilet had been completely demolished except for a broken WC, incongruously sitting near the top of the island. Muckle House, by the harbour, still had a roof but inside was the usual mess made by sheep and pigeons. And an old harmonium, mouldering and covered in pigeon droppings, did the islanders meet here for singsongs and Sunday worship?

THE mist was still very low, my next destination, Fara, barely visible a couple of miles to the south. I landed at Peat Bay on what was another rough, heathery island, this time about the size of Stroma. On a clear day the nearby oil terminal of Flotta would dominate views but in the mists I could have been miles from anywhere.

Pushing through heather and tussocky grass led to the top of the island, here an old house had been converted into a well-maintained fisherman’s bothy. I’d have explored further but the fog was thickening again and there was that forecast of rising winds...

Rain came on as I crossed the sound to the even mistier Rysa Little, just off the coast of Hoy. This small heathery island has never been inhabited but peat had been cut in the past, again I jogged up to the highest point of the island. The rain stopped, the wind suddenly dropped away and the midges rose, which meant I had to keep walking while eating my lunch.

Then on my way again, following now the eastern coast of Hoy for several miles. There are several fish farms here, the cliffs mostly low and broken but quite high at the Candle of the Sale and Bring Head, with a strange rock on a pinnacle, the Nose of the Bring, indeed looking just like a nose.

I landed briefly on a bouldery shore just so I could say I’d been on Hoy. Native aspen adorned the loose cliffs and rocky slopes, one of the few places in Orkney where it grows, along with willow and honeysuckle and wild rose. Other wild flowers in abundance on the islands were heather, clover and the tall yellow corn, sow thistle.

My plan was to cross to Graemsay, completely hidden in the fog to the north. I knew the tide would be picking up, and if I went too far west it would sweep me on through Burra Sound faster than I could paddle. So I set my compass vaguely north-east and paddled past the last fish farm into the mist which soon hid the Hoy shore from sight.

Not knowing how strong the tide was, all I could do was keep paddling strongly through my little world of 100 yards or so of visibility and hope I didn’t miss the island altogether. But where was it? A buoy loomed up in the distance, I aimed for that and then, dimly, a distant shore vaguely formed out of the mist.

I WAS in fact near the eastern end of the island, not far along the shore was island pier and a little way beyond I beached the boat for the night and found a place to pitch the tent in a patch of tall grass thick with red clover, a little short of the main lighthouse – Hoy High.

Graemsay is a small green island of farms a couple of miles south of Stromness with maybe 50 or 100 inhabitants. A passenger ferry visits a couple of times each day but very few tourists come here. This was my first visit to Graemsay, yes, no more than 30 miles from home and I’d never to my shame set foot. How many others from Caithness, I wonder, have travelled all over the world but never been to an island so near?

It was a very grey early evening and now starting to rain – heavy rain all night was forecast – but I was determined to explore. After a quick snack in the tent I set off to jog, in the fog, round the five miles or so roads on the island.

Up from the harbour in the mist I met a tractor, carrying bales, the silage being largely complete. Further on, a man tending his vegetables wondered if I was lost, running along the road in the wrong direction for the ferry. There’s a fine sandy beach, then the road climbs past the community hall, the views of the high Hoy hills had to be imagined.

At the western end of the island is another lighthouse, Hoy Low, which I’d seen many times from the ferries, I detoured down half-a-mile’s track but there was absolutely nothing to see except the tide rushing past in the fog.

Back on the road, and a little gate at the start of a coastal path bore the notice, "Please close the gate" – the gate stood on it’s own and you could walk round it on either side. The coastal walks I left for another time, being overgrown with long dripping grass. Little-used roads sometimes have grass growing in the middle, this one had flowers.

I adjourned to the little waiting room at the pier to cook my tea, all the islands have these well-equipped warm shelters with toilets, hot water and comfortable seating. Cards made on the island were for sale with the money to go in honesty boxes, openly displaying significant sums. Orkney is still a very open, trusting place.

The forecast was spot on, a night of rain then a westerly wind gusting to force six in the morning, just the thing to blow me back to Houton at considerable speed with the tide and the waves all helping me along. It was too windy for any more paddling that day, but I reckoned I’d already done well to visit all those islands in Scapa Flow which I’d seen so often from the ferries to Hoy yet never before visited.