George Mackay Brown's door
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Maggie Fergusson's biography of George Mackay Brown was published last month.I had a tellingly brief encounter with Mackay Brown in 1984, when I travelled from Edinburgh to Orkney. In my bag I carried a volume of poems (it must have been Fools and Angels) by Tessa Ransford - at one time my prospective mother-in-law - that she wanted me to give to her northern colleague. This was not the sole reason for my trip north but she thought - and I thought - that the book would be a simple means of introduction for the aspiring writer (me) arriving at the door of the old master (him).
Tessa had split from her husband a couple of years earlier and he was now minister at a church in Thurso at the very north of Scotland and, coincidentally, only a couple of miles from the ferry terminal at Scrabster, from where the boats crossed to Stromness on Orkney. This allowed me to spend a pleasant break of journey in Caithness with a night in the manse and a morning looking at some of the standing stones scattered in the bleak windswept moors of this landscape I had never previously visited.
I also got a lift to the ferry, which was an added bonus. The weather was fine for Caithness, which for most other parts of Britain equates to very windy, with some rain in the air. The sea was choppy and white horses were clearly visible beyond Scrabster's harbour walls. The ferry, though, was reassuringly large, carrying trucks and cars and a health contingent of other foot passengers. It was, after all, the main supply link between Orkney and the mainland.
When we reached the open sea, however, the boat suddenly seemed very small. This was my first experience of the North Sea and this was the North Sea at its most unwelcoming. Whenever I travel on a ship and the sea is rough I like to get out on deck and watch the waves and feel the wind. Staying below decks seems to me a guarantee of being sick. The only part of the upper deck available to passengers was aft. Very aft. This turned out to be quite a good thing when the sea became so rough that the bow tended to disappear under water every so often. This is how it was: with the ship on an even keel (are you noticing all this maritime terminology?), from my position against the aftmost (is that a word?) rail I could see nothing but the towering bridge in the centre of the ship. Every minute or so, however, on this oceanic rollercoaster, the ship would rear up and then plunge downwards at such an angle that I was now afforded a view not only over the bridge but over the bow and into the sea ahead. I had to cling to the rail behind me. Terrifying, but gloriously exciting, too, with the sheer volume of water and the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the hull into the waves. Meanwhile, my clothes and hair were loading up with as much salt as they could absorb from the spray that bathed me constantly.
What was meant to be a two hour crossing took almost four hours. Given that we had spent so little time heading straight for Orkney, that seemed fair. When the ship glided into Stromness over the calm waters of its sheltered bay I had outlasted the thrill of the crossing and was longing for a drink and a sit down.
There was a wee hotel directly opposite where the ferry docks and I checked in there. I also asked for directions to george Mackay Brown's house. After removing some salt from my hair in my room, I went down to the bar and had a drink. Or two. I planned to call on the writer after dinner, when I imagined he might be mellowed by a few drinks of his own and be sitting content after a day with his prose. So I had dinner and went to retrieve Tessa's book from my bag. It had survived the crossing and was free of salt and sea water.
Daylight remained - not quite land of the midnight sun but getting there. The writer's house was close to the harbour and up a small flight of steps. I knocked. he answered the door himself. I held the book out to him. "Tessa Ransford in Edinburgh sent me with this for you." he took the book. "Aye, thanks," he said.
Then he closed the door.
Tessa had split from her husband a couple of years earlier and he was now minister at a church in Thurso at the very north of Scotland and, coincidentally, only a couple of miles from the ferry terminal at Scrabster, from where the boats crossed to Stromness on Orkney. This allowed me to spend a pleasant break of journey in Caithness with a night in the manse and a morning looking at some of the standing stones scattered in the bleak windswept moors of this landscape I had never previously visited.
I also got a lift to the ferry, which was an added bonus. The weather was fine for Caithness, which for most other parts of Britain equates to very windy, with some rain in the air. The sea was choppy and white horses were clearly visible beyond Scrabster's harbour walls. The ferry, though, was reassuringly large, carrying trucks and cars and a health contingent of other foot passengers. It was, after all, the main supply link between Orkney and the mainland.
When we reached the open sea, however, the boat suddenly seemed very small. This was my first experience of the North Sea and this was the North Sea at its most unwelcoming. Whenever I travel on a ship and the sea is rough I like to get out on deck and watch the waves and feel the wind. Staying below decks seems to me a guarantee of being sick. The only part of the upper deck available to passengers was aft. Very aft. This turned out to be quite a good thing when the sea became so rough that the bow tended to disappear under water every so often. This is how it was: with the ship on an even keel (are you noticing all this maritime terminology?), from my position against the aftmost (is that a word?) rail I could see nothing but the towering bridge in the centre of the ship. Every minute or so, however, on this oceanic rollercoaster, the ship would rear up and then plunge downwards at such an angle that I was now afforded a view not only over the bridge but over the bow and into the sea ahead. I had to cling to the rail behind me. Terrifying, but gloriously exciting, too, with the sheer volume of water and the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the hull into the waves. Meanwhile, my clothes and hair were loading up with as much salt as they could absorb from the spray that bathed me constantly.
What was meant to be a two hour crossing took almost four hours. Given that we had spent so little time heading straight for Orkney, that seemed fair. When the ship glided into Stromness over the calm waters of its sheltered bay I had outlasted the thrill of the crossing and was longing for a drink and a sit down.
There was a wee hotel directly opposite where the ferry docks and I checked in there. I also asked for directions to george Mackay Brown's house. After removing some salt from my hair in my room, I went down to the bar and had a drink. Or two. I planned to call on the writer after dinner, when I imagined he might be mellowed by a few drinks of his own and be sitting content after a day with his prose. So I had dinner and went to retrieve Tessa's book from my bag. It had survived the crossing and was free of salt and sea water.
Daylight remained - not quite land of the midnight sun but getting there. The writer's house was close to the harbour and up a small flight of steps. I knocked. he answered the door himself. I held the book out to him. "Tessa Ransford in Edinburgh sent me with this for you." he took the book. "Aye, thanks," he said.
Then he closed the door.
