Fifty years ago, I headed north for the first time. I’d dropped out of my university literature course – with the arrogance of youth, I thought I could read books anywhere. After a chance meeting in a Putney pub, I got a job as assistant cook in the Bird Observatory in Fair Isle. At that point, I didn’t even know where Fair Isle was. I came from Devon and hadn’t made it farther north than Durham. Scotland was unknown territory.
Of course, Fair Isle is part of the Shetland group and lies halfway between Shetland mainland and Orkney. That summer, I fell in love with the Northern Isles, with the romance of the isolation, the bleak beauty and the stories. Over the summer, I worked in the observatory with Alison, an Orcadian lass, who was there for her college holidays. “When you’ve finished your contract,” she said with the easy hospitality of islanders everywhere, “why don’t you come and stay? It’s kind of on your way home.”
