by Ann Cleeves
Grey seals.
Grey and harbour (or common) seals are easy to spot on Shetland’s shores, but some rare species of seal, normally found in the Arctic, visit too. One of these is the ringed seal, which has been recorded on a number of occasions. Another is the bearded seal, which has whiskers like a tough nylon brush and uses them to search for clams and other shellfish along the ocean floor. About twelve of these sturdy creatures have been seen in modern times. The final rare species of seal seen in Shetland is again an Arctic dweller – the hooded seal. It has only been possible to track these animals through specialist telemetry studies, which have proved that the species spends time to the north and west of Shetland and in waters around the Faroe Islands.
A bearded seal.
Harbour seals.
Both grey and harbour seals breed in Shetland and delight visitors, who can get very close to them. A good place to see them is in Lerwick, near the big supermarket by Clickimin Loch, or from Fjara, the new cafe bar in the same area. Harbour seals have their pups in the summer. The adult harbour seals have a rather rounded, pug-shaped face, whereas grey seals – especially the larger bulls – have a longer, flattened ‘nose’. When they are ashore resting, harbour seals have a characteristic banana-shaped profile with both head and tail raised. They hunt in the rich kelp beds along the coasts. Grey seals are longer than harbour seals and tend to hunt in deeper waters. They produce their pups in autumn, and many young animals can be lost when huge waves caused by seasonal storms blow into the exposed sites at the foot of the cliffs. As with the seabirds, sand eels form a considerable part of the seals’ diets.
Seals have inspired many legends and folk tales. The most common concerns the selkies, or seal people, who are human on land and become animals in the water. There is one midsummer story about a Shetlander who falls in love with the human form of a selkie and follows it beneath the waves, to his doom.
A road sign in Northmavine.
Shetland is also famous for its otters. Unlike the rest of the UK, where they are most often seen in freshwater streams and rivers, otters here are found almost entirely on the coast. They hunt in the sea in sheltered bays, among seaweed, on small islets or boulder beaches, and their food consists of a variety of inshore fish, although they also take crabs. Signs indicate where drivers should take care of them crossing the roads! While there are no otters present in Foula or Fair Isle, there are perhaps 1,000 individuals in the other islands. Otters usually have two young or kits, born between May and August. While in mainland Britain otters are largely nocturnal, because of increased summer daylight they have become accustomed to diurnal living in Shetland and it’s possible to see them at any time of the day. A traveller waiting for an inter-island ferry has a good chance of glimpsing an animal close to the breakwaters, because these large boulders are ideal sites for an otter holt.
An otter on the beach.
The ‘simmer dim’.
Sunset on the summer solstice 2015 at the northern tip of Unst.
Midsummer is the time to experience one of the more magical Shetland moments – something that brings the sea, the wildlife and the history of the islands together in one place. Mousa is an uninhabited island to the south of Mainland, visible from the main road from Lerwick to Sumburgh. It is managed by the RSPB and is famous for its broch – the most complete tower of its kind in the world. Mousa was first mentioned in Icelandic chronicles in the ninth century, and the broch itself features in two of the Viking sagas. In the eighteenth century the island supported eleven households, but by the end of the nineteenth century the last residents had left.
In midsummer the ferryman who provides visitor access to Mousa from the pier in Sandwick organizes a very special trip. The boat leaves late in the evening just as it is getting dusk – in May and July the departure time is 10.30 p.m. and in June it’s 11 p.m. On a fine, clear night it’s a magical experience to travel to the small island in the strange half-light of a Shetland midsummer, which local people call the ‘simmer dim’. We made the trip with local friends who came well prepared, with flasks of hot tea and extra-warm clothing.
A storm petrel nesting in the wall of Mousa Broch (right).
As we walked towards the broch it was still light enough to see how well the tower had been preserved, and to marvel at the skill that went into the building of it. It’s even possible to climb the steps between the double-skin of the outer wall and stare out from the lookout points, as people must have done centuries ago. As it grew darker we began to hear noises from the walls of the broch and from the ruined field walls close by. It sounded a little like the murmuring of small mammals. Then we were aware of the movement of tiny bat-like birds flying into the island, black and shadowy against the grey dusk sky. These were storm petrels, which feed during the day at sea and use the half-light to protect themselves from predators as they return to their nests to feed their young.
When the small boat returned to Sandwick, the darkest period of the night was already over. We were chilly by then and glad of the extra clothing we had brought with us. As we drove north to Brae, where we were staying, we could see the sun already sliding up from the horizon to mark a new day.
Tourist boat passing Mousa Broch.
Looking back at Fair Isle.
Shetland Wren by Jack Renwick (1924–2010)
Gale shriekin ta da high heevins
Gale shrieking to the high heavens
Wi a hail-laced fury o rain
With a hail-laced fury of rain
Ower a tangle-twistin, waarblade treshin
Over a tangle-twisting, seaweed thrashing
Froadin fish kettle o a sea
Frothing fish kettle of a sea
Aerial brakkin, pooer cutting, mains burstin,
Aerial breaking, power cutting, mains bursting,
Wire snappin Naetir-in-a-paashin
Wire snapping Nature-in-a-rage
An Man, smaa is a lempit
And man, tiny as a limpet
Oagin inta his shell
Crawling into his shell
Dan silence
Then silence
An in a sudden ray o sunlicht
And in a sudden ray of sunlight
A peerie broon wren singin.
A little brown wren singing.
Autumn is a season of the equinox, of fierce gales and big tides. The wind seems to be predominantly westerly, as Atlantic lows chase across the sea from North America. I was interested in exploring in a novel the theme of obsession, and of emotion that grows and becomes uncontrollable. A Shetland autumn seemed a good backdrop for a novel about stormy passions and irrational behaviour. I very much wanted to set a book in Fair Isle too; although I visit it less often now than I’d like to, this is still the place in Shetland that I know best – it’s where Jimmy Perez was born and where his fictional family lives and works.
Blue Lightning takes Jimmy back to his birthplace, and in a sense it takes my love of crime fiction back to its roots too. Golden Age detective stories were my introduction to the genre. I loved the tales of Dorothy L. Sayers and Margery Allingham. I read widely as a young woman, but always went back to traditional crime fiction for my comfort-reading. If I had a cold or had been dumped by my boyfriend, those were the books I returned to for escape and reassurance. In Blue Lightning I decided to write a book set in an enclosed community without access to the outside world – a setting beloved by Golden Age detective novelists. Agatha Christie made the device work for her with a train stuck in the snow and a boat on the Nile, but it was the wild autumn weather of Shetland that enabled me to follow the same format.
The Fair Isle ferry.
There are times throughout the year when Fair Isle is cut off from the Shetland Mainland for a few days, but in autumn a big sustained gale means that it can become isolated for even longer. The mailboat, the Good Shepherd, is hauled out of the water right onto the shore to keep it safe, and the small planes stay away. When I worked in the observatory those were
the times when some visitors fretted, because no matter how influential or wealthy they were, there was no way they could escape from the island. They had to cancel their business meetings, alter work schedules and just sit out the storm. And when our supplies grew low in the kitchen, we baked our own bread, as islanders would have done before the regular mailboat service. In this situation Jimmy Perez would be without the help of a pathologist or crime-scene investigator, for it would be impossible to send samples off to the forensic lab. He’d have to solve the crime using his knowledge of the island and his own intelligence.
Buness and Fair Isle Havens with bird observatory sheds in the foreground.
In this extract, Jimmy Perez and his fiancée Fran arrive into Fair Isle by plane just before the weather deteriorates so much that travel becomes impossible:
Fran sat with her eyes closed. The small plane dropped suddenly, seemed to fall from the sky and then levelled for a moment before tilting like a fairground ride. She opened her eyes to see a grey cliff ahead of them. It was close enough for her to make out the white streaks of bird muck and last season’s nests. Below, the sea was boiling. Spindrift and white froth caught by the gale-force winds spun over the surface of the water.
She imagined the impact as the plane hit the rock, twisted metal and twisted bodies. No hope at all of survival. For the first time in her life she was scared for her own physical safety and was overcome by a mindless panic that scrambled her brain and stopped her thinking.
Then the plane lifted slightly, seemed just to clear the edge of the cliff. Perez was pointing out familiar landmarks: the North Haven, the North Light, Ward Hill. It seemed to Fran that the pilot was still struggling to keep the aircraft level and that Perez was hoping to distract her as they bucked and swivelled to make a landing. Then they were down, bumping along the airstrip.
I first arrived into Fair Isle after a strong gale, and the mailboat crossing made me realize how precarious the life of the islanders must have been in earlier times. The need for self-reliance and cooperation was obvious. When I reached the North Haven – the natural harbour where the Good Shepherd is moored – it seemed as if the whole island had turned out to help unload the boat. Many of the goods were carried to the south end of Fair Isle, where most of the residents live, on the back of an ancient lorry. Groceries were for the shop, and mail was for the post office (these days the post office is also located in the shop at Stackhoul). Occasionally a new car would be transported on the boat and winched ashore. Sometimes the boat carried livestock, building materials, and often there were passengers: relatives visiting for a break, kids home for school holidays, and holidaymakers who planned to stay at the bird observatory or at one of the crofts that offered bed and breakfast.
Even today when the scheduled plane service is much more frequent than it was forty years ago, some visitors choose to arrive into the island by boat. It’s very much cheaper than the plane and there is always the chance of seeing a rare bird on the way across or a pod of orcas or dolphins showing off. In calm weather it’s a wonderful way to catch a first glimpse of the isle.
The Good Shepherd leaves Fair Isle early in the morning and picks up its cargo and passengers at the pier at Grutness, which lies close to the airport and Sumburgh Head. There is nothing at Grutness except the jetty and a small shelter, where passengers can wait out of the rain. Once a fortnight in the summer the boat goes all the way to Lerwick – this is a much longer journey, but it means that Fair Islanders can make a day-trip to town. Lerwick must seem very busy in comparison to Fair Isle; I always wonder how the eleven-year-old children who come from the small islands to board in the Anderson High School find their new life, away from their family in a town with street lights, noise and traffic. I used the experience of moving from Fair Isle as a youngster to board in the high school as part of Jimmy Perez’s back-story – another way to make him an outsider.
The Fair Isle South Light.
Lerwick.
Lerwick is home to approximately one-third of Shetland’s residents. The north end of the town is very much a working place, with a thriving fishery, a college and a small industrial estate. In Gremista is the waste-to-power plant; here waste collected from the islands, and from Orkney, is incinerated to provide hot water to heat the Gilbert Bain Hospital, Lerwick’s schools and some of its homes. This is another example of Shetland’s desire to be self-sustaining, and the Shetland scriptwriters and I had a very interesting tour of the plant on our last recce – it plays a major role in the plot of the new series. On the outskirts of Lerwick there are two supermarkets, but the main street, Commercial Street – known to everyone as ‘the street’ – remains much as it was when I first knew it.
Commercial Street.
The ferry to Bressay.
For locals, a shopping trip down ‘the street’ can take a long time. It’s impossible not to meet people you know and stop for a chat. On the shore side, small alleys lead down towards the Victoria Pier, where some of the grand cruise ships are moored. Close by, the ferry departs on its regular trip to the island of Bressay on the other side of the Bressay Sound. It’s become so common to commute to Lerwick that the Bressay island school has recently closed – it seems that it’s more convenient for people to bring their children to school in Lerwick on their way to work. On one of these sea-facing alleys sits the Peerie Shop Cafe, which provides good coffee and even better home-bakes and home-made soups. On the other side of the street, the alleys are steep and narrow and lead up to the town hall and the library: these are known as ‘the lanes’. At the pier end of Commercial Street is the Market Cross, where the Up Helly Aa bill is posted in January each year.
In Commercial Street in 1858 there was a real and very sad case of murder. The Spectator of 10 April of that year wrote:
A fearful tragedy has occurred in Lerwick – a merchant has killed his wife, three of his children and himself. Mr Peter Williamson carried on a good business at Lerwick where he was agent for the Peterhead whalers.
The article went on to describe how the brutal murders were carried out, and how the oldest son survived the attack and a fifth child was away from home. In modern crime fiction we’re much concerned with motive, but in this case Williamson’s motive seemed unsatisfactory. The Spectator talked about ‘an insane impulse’ and continued: ‘An alteration in his manner had been observed of late. He had lost a very intimate friend.’ In the time just before the murders Williamson had become obsessed with the work of Cakraft the hangman and with notorious murderers. The fascination with celebrity killers strikes a contemporary note and, as with the Weisdale Mill case, I’d love to read a piece of historical crime fiction set around the event. Whatever the motive for the tragedy, this incident must have deeply shocked the close community in ‘the street’, and Shetlanders as a whole.
A cruise ship in mist off Lerwick.
Close to the Market Cross in Lerwick is Da Lounge. The bar looks a little rough from the outside (and, indeed, from the inside), but this place is a Shetland institution. Upstairs in the Lounge every Wednesday throughout the year musicians gather to entertain themselves and other people. If a visitor were to wander into the bar in the early evening, he might find a group of young people playing traditional tunes. They might seem out of place in a pub, especially if they have a teacher in charge of them, but it’s a good venue in which to perform in front of an appreciative audience. Later on in the evening they will probably be replaced by more experienced musicians. Sometimes half the people in the bar seem to have joined in the session.
On the other side of the lane from Da Lounge stood Monty’s, a bistro that appeared in Raven Black. Monty’s used to sell good Shetland food: seafood and lamb so local that diners were told which croft it grew on. Unfortunately it has recently closed and will be deeply missed by islanders, and by visitors tracing the footsteps of Jimmy Perez, who often ate there.
North of the town centre, between the new museum and arts centre and Gremista, is the big NorthLink ferry
terminal. Every evening a substantial car ferry – either the Hrossey or the Hjaltland – leaves for Aberdeen. The time of departure depends on whether or not the ferry will call into Orkney on its way south. Lorries on these ferries, and on the sister freight boat, carry fish, lamb and other Shetland produce south, and also import everything the islanders need. I enjoy travelling by ferry, especially if the weather’s calm. The cabins are comfortable and there is something romantic about going to sleep in one place and waking up in another. Sometimes the boat sails very close to Fair Isle – so close that it seems possible to reach out and touch the rocky shoreline. Then I feel homesick for the island and feel it’s time to return again.
‘Da Lounge’.
Lerwick silhouetted under a cloud.