‘WE’RE going to use the cross-runway today,” says the pilot, barely a minute after take-off. And then we descend. Sharply. We skim just over a stone wall and touch down on the grass. Coming to a halt on the edge of the runway he turns and says: “Welcome to Papa Westray”.
It’s a fittingly dramatic introduction to this beguiling Orcadian isle, an outpost alive with Viking and Neolithic ghosts, woven together by a stirringly strong sense of community.
