Jon Beer takes an unconventional tour of the Northern Isles
OF COURSE I WOULD BE fishing on my visit to Shetland: who wouldn’t? But not yet.
I was looking forward to expeditions among the islands. Gordon and I were planning to explore the fishing on Foula and Vementry, two islands I’d yet to visit in the 20-odd years I’d been coming to Shetland. And with Jim Unsworth, we’d be fishing our way through the wartime history and derring-do of the “Shetland Bus”.
But both these plans would have to wait. Jim was off in Scotland, slaughtering his way through the larger ungulates of Speyside. The weather forecast, after a fine dry spell, was grim and, for a couple of days at least, Gordon would be busy doing whatever it is that Gordon does to earn a crust. And so, for a couple of days at least, we were not going fishing. What follows, my friends, is what not going fishing with Gordon looks like.
He’d met me at the airport and driven us back to the croft on the small island of East Burra where Marjorie’s parents had once lived and where she was born. There’ve been some changes since then. Marjorie was waiting for us amid the floral riot of the polycrub. It can get a bit breezy on these treeless islands in the North Atlantic. Tender young plants — any plants, come to that — can struggle. The old Shetland solution was a planticrub, a small, high-walled enclosure of stone where young cabbage plants could get established. They dot the Shetland landscape. The polycrub is Shetland’s version of the polytunnel, with polycarbonate sheeting replacing the polythene of gentler climes. Marjorie and I sat in luxuriant comfort while Gordon cooked dinner outside.
The fire pit was half of a gigantic trawl bobbin from a Russian trawler. A gallon pot of cooking oil was heated on a pile of burning timber and a whole chicken was lowed into the bubbling pot. In 30 minutes we could expect a golden, deep-fried, crispy-skinned chicken. But in 30 minutes the bird was still pale, its skin flaccid. Back it went into the pot. Logs were poked: head was scratched. It took a couple more inspections and another 20 minutes before the chicken was to Gordon’s satisfaction. That chicken’s stubborn reluctance to cook would turn out to be the key to not going fishing in Shetland.
For many centuries, life in the Shetland Islands revolved around crofting and fishing. Fishing in the seas of the North Atlantic bred fine seamen, who were eagerly recruited for the merchant navy, leaving the women to carry on the crofting and much of the heavy lifting. Wives and husbands had to be able to turn their hands to anything needed by the family or community. The tra
