by Mike Crowson
* * *
"It's a real good thing this is the short crossing," thought Frank. "The back end of this boat's barely an arm's length out of the water. And that may be radar, but there are so many bigger vessels in this stretch of water that I'm half afraid of getting run over. And there doesn't look to be much at Burwick."
In truth there wasn't much at Burwick, apart from the landing stage at which the ferry tied up. There was a not entirely abandoned church and a more modern bus shelter, with a toilet unvisited by Kilroy or any other graffiti artist. And that was about all there was to Burwick. There was a field marked 'NO PARKING - BUSES TURN HERE' Well, yes they did. But only when a ferry unloaded!
Frank watched his rucksack and holdall go into the boot of the bus and stood looking around Burwick. "So this is South Ronaldsay," he thought. "I've seen livlier places in my time."
From South Ronaldsay a causeway built on slabs of anti-submarine concrete led to the next island. Bursay was much the same - undulating and treeless but smaller and slightly more populous. The bus rumbled across yet another causeway onto the island of Mainland, and Frank stared at the grey sea and greying clouds, both stirred by a chilly wind.
The roll-on roll-off ferry journey was longer but more convenient and more comfortable than the short crossing. Alan Wainwright was able to take his time finishing his coffee and his book in the ship's canteen before he went on deck to watch the rounding of Hoy.
It was hard to say why Stromness felt like a Viking town. Perhaps it was the way the houses clung rather in a Norwegian style to the sides of the steep, though not high, hillside. Possibly it was the archetecture of the houses themselves that had a sort of Scandinavian feel to them. In any event, suddenly you found it hard to remember you were still in the Northern Islands of Scotland.
Alan watched the lorries roll off before he wandered along the quayside to the Islands Information Centre.
The Information Office was a newish building on the harbour. The people in it were helpful and friendly, though that was, Alan reflected, their job. Learning that the ferry to Hoy for that day had gone earlier he decided to take in the sights and sounds of Stromness.
Kirkwall, which was a port of call for sizable ships, faced north. The bus rumbled downhill towards the centre of town and stopped in front of the cathedral of St. Magnus. The sandy-red coloured building dominated the square where Frank recovered his holdall and his rucksack.
The town centre was something of a nightmare. It looked like a pedestrian precinct but cars had the right of way. They stopped anywhere and pulled off without warning. He was not sorry to reach the safety of the bus which called at Skara Brae before it went on to Stromness.
"They drive on the wrong side of the road," he thought, "but you can't even tell which side they're supposed to be driving on most of the time."