Shetland Islands 2015

Sandwick - Thursday, 2nd July

I was awoken out of a deep sleep by what my addled brain took to be a bomb going off. The noise was deafening and the whole tent was trembling in a most disturbing manner. The rain was incessant, being blasted against the tent walls in pulses by the gusting wind. I was immediately wide awake and the precariousness of my situation on the cliff top was all too apparent. I fumbled around for the torch, it was 1.15am and all was not well.

The tent was briefly illuminated by a dazzling flash and I held my breath whilst counting down the seconds until the inevitable thunder clap. Boom, ten seconds. The storm was approaching, the next interval just six seconds, then two. I fully expected to be plucked off my perch at any moment in some Wizard of Oz style cyclone, then dumped unceremoniously into a boiling sea just a few metres away.

For what seemed like an eternity, my little world was at the centre of a tempest of truly frightening proportions. The rain was remarkable, a non-stop deluge that every now and again increased in intensity accompanied each time by gale force gusts that made my ears hurt. The tent with its improvised poles was buffeted from end to end such that the roof was sometimes only an inch from my nose. Looking through the mesh, I could see that the ersatz tent poles were no substitute for carbon fibre. I know that Terra Nova make excellent tents, but at that moment I wondered whether any of their products had been trialed to such an extent. My faith in rip stop nylon was being tested to the limit.

I must have fallen asleep again for a while, because during my next period of consciousness I was aware that the storm had lessened, the tent was no longer shaking and I could hear the sea again. It was like that moment in Das Boot where the submarine looses the shadowing destroyer and the depth charges have finally stopped. The rain was now just normal rain.

Later, I felt the gentle warmth of the sun on my face for a few brief seconds. Undoing the zip tentatively for a peek, everything around my little camp site was soaked. The sea looked angry grey and the sky no better. Everything appeared to be still in one piece though, thank goodness.

There wasn't much to do and I was under no time pressure so the main preoccupation as ever was food, specifically breakfast. A brief lull in the rain allowed me long enough to boil the pan for a brew, stretch my legs and consider the plan for the day. I wondered if the Mousa storm petrel trip would be on, it was still very windy. In any event, it seemed sensible to find a place to stay that was nearer Sandsayre Pier so that I wouldn't have far to go in the dark after the boat trip, just in case.

The weather continued to improve as I ate breakfast and I eventually separated my dry and wet things into different panniers, broke camp, packed up and made the bike ready for a day of exploration around Sandwick.

Progress back up the slope to the farm track was laboured due to the soggy ground underfoot. I undid the gate, squelched through the gap and re-tied the complicated knot around the thick posts. The farm track allowed some cycling, but mostly I just pushed and scrambled my way towards tarmac at the top. From this vantage point I looked back to where the Brochs would be standing guard on each side of the Sound, with the brisk wind lifting the water into strings of white tops moving gently northwards. If anything, the sea state looked less favourable for the ferry than it had the day before.

Cruising down the road, I considered the contents of my panniers and the fact that I had many more wet things than dry. This put me in mind to find a B&B with radiators for drying, the prospect of a shower and an altogether more comfortable evening. I managed to get a signal on my phone so searched for local B&Bs and checked online whether the Mousa boat trip was still on. I rang the first B&B on my list, and a nice lady advised that she did have a room for the night. The Solbrekke B&B was back up the road in Sandwick.

I switched directions after realising that I'd taken a wrong turn but still felt slightly lost. Heading towards Leebitten, I asked a guy walking alongside the road if he knew the whereabouts of the Solbrekke. We chatted for a while, mainly about the recent weather, after which he kindly pointed out the roof of the requisite building up on the hill and gave precise instructions how best to get there.

Jeanette was very welcoming and showed me to the room upstairs and explained that there was just one other couple staying as well. She asked me what I would like for breakfast and indicated what time it would be served. The weather is an obvious topic of conversation and we both agreed that the storm overnight had been severe. I dumped the panniers in the room and gave the wet and damp items a chance to dry out a bit. The house had a terrific view of the sea from its elevated position.

Taking advantage of a pannier free bike, I set out again on a tour of the area heading vaguely south west to reach the sea again at Hoswick at the head of a fine bay, Hos Wick. A bright modern building turned out to be the Hoswick Visitor Centre which was open. I propped up the bike and went inside in search of a second breakfast.

The cafe was really homely and welcoming and offered a fine selection of light lunches and home made cakes. I had a wander around the exhibits whilst waiting for my order to arrive and it turned out to be a fascinating place. The most obvious was a remarkable collection of radios and electronic equipment of all kinds. Amongst the other displays, was a story from 1888 concerning the Hoswick fishermen who after driving some 300 whales onshore, refused to share the profits from the haul with the landowner. The fishermen won their case at the Court of Session in Edinburgh. Whilst eating, I overheard people on the next table talking about the previous evening's storm.

After consuming a hearty toasty and strong mug of tea, I took the opportunity of wi-fi to view maps on my phone and formulate a plan. Back outside, the first place I wanted to visit was the 60 degree north signs on the A970. The 60th parallel north is a circle of latitude that passes through Finland, Alaska and amongst other places, the Isle of Mousa. I'd passed the signs before on a previous trip and always regretted not taking a photo at this iconic geographical location.

This involved a climb out of the village up onto the A970, then a nice smooth uninhibited cruise southwards on the lovely tarmac. Eventually the little yellow signs came into view on both sides of the road that indicated the imaginary line around the Earth of the 60th parallel.




The garmin gave the location. It never occurred to me to reset the thing to show degrees instead of a grid reference, which you can do apparently. HU40291 is actually latitude 59.999887 degrees according to the OS, so either the signs are just a little bit too far north or the garmin needs calibrating.

Thoughts turned once again to food, so I retraced my route back up the road to the Sandwick turning and dropped back down the hill towards the Sandwick Baking Company for supplies. With a sense of deja vu I repeated my picnic of the day before, on the beach at Sand Wick.

Next on my list was to go and have a look at the Mousa ferry at Sandsayre Pier, which meant navigating north on a very pleasant road. I had a look around the Sandsayre Interpretative Centre which was in a small building next to the pier. On display were details of the 'flit boat' that transported animals and materials to the Isle of Mousa in former times. Other panels described the history of the area and what to look out for in terms of flora and fauna.

The pier had been restored in 2012 and there was a board listing everyone who had sponsored stones to make it happen.


Another more improvised notice drew attention to the mark left by the storm tide on 15th December 2012.


Some guys were on the stone pier tending to the ferry moored alongside. They told me that the storm petrel trip was on and that I could leave the bike in the shed if I thought it would be safer; obviously they regarded this precaution as completely unnecessary. They pointed out some seals at the bottom of the ramp that were basking in the sunshine.


I noticed that the road down to the pier carried on to what looked like an interesting promenade along the sea front. I left the bike against the wall and wandered along the path as it turned gently right following what looked like an estate wall. There was a bench seat built into the wall with a plaque in memory of Alan Slater and his favourite view. I could only agree with Alan's choice. This was a very pleasant diversion with rugged sea vistas and a bracing breeze to clear away the cobwebs.



It was the middle of the afternoon and I fancied a rest before the nights' expedition to the Isle of Mousa. Back at the Solbrekke, Jeanette introduced me to the couple who were staying there that night. As it turned out, Yvonne and Ian were also booked on the storm petrel trip. I imagined that they would be driving to Sandsayre in their car, so I took the opportunity to ask them for a lift. Ian looked slightly taken aback; it turned out that my basic sense of direction had let me down because he politely let me know that they would be walking down to the ferry, that it really wasn't that far and that I'd be welcome to join them. Feeling ever so slightly foolish, I thanked him and we arranged a time to meet.

I had a welcome rest in my room before gathering up my now dryer things and deciding what to wear. Clearly it was going to be cold and the forecast was for more rain. In the end, I basically chose everything that I'd brought including t-shirt, cycling top, my trusty Rab down smock and the thicker of my two cycling jackets. My Salomon Escambia GTX approach shoes would come in to their own once again, at least my feet would be staying dry.

We met at the agreed time and had an interesting ornithological based chat on the way down the hill to the ferry as twilight came on. Yvonne and Ian had been at the Solbrekke for a number of nights already and they told me what they'd been up to.

We soon found ourselves among a fairly large group of people waiting for the 22.30 departure. It seemed that most were experienced twitchers brandishing RSPB binoculars but more importantly, clad head to foot in sensible waterproofs. That was more than could be said for me, standing out in my bright yellow cycling jacket that didn't quite provide full protection, especially at the front where it failed to cover the insulated folds of my Rab smock.

We boarded the Solan IV Mousa ferry boat for the trip across Mousa Sound to visit the storm petrels at Mousa Broch. The remains of the sun's glow was still in the sky.


The crossing was very pleasant on relatively calm sea and we were soon disembarking via a small concrete pier before starting out on our route march across some very wet ground. In a number of places, boardwalks helped to keep feet dry whilst traversing some of the wetter parts. The group was well spread out as the Broch appeared before us towering up into the gloom, just as it started to rain.




Keeping the down in my Rab smock dry soon became a preoccupation as the rain fell freely from the sky. The little group ahead of me made for the entrance to the Broch so I followed. The sheer scale of the building was truly impressive, as was the rain falling inside the structure. I stood briefly in a doorway in the shelter of its lintel just for some respite. Then the pressure from moving people pushed me onto a stone stairway that ascended the Broch between its inner and outer walls. Eventually we broke out into the rain again and stood on the parapet at the top, looking out into darkness, the sky and the sea merging into one. I couldn't really get any more wet.

Thankfully, the rain had stopped by the time my group had descended the steps and gathered outside waiting for the storm petrels.

Then it started. The first thing was a strange sensation of movement, then a whistle that grew into an eerie screech that filled the air. Peering into the gloom, storm petrels were flying everywhere, around us and around the broch as they entered their nesting chambers in the walls. It was really thrilling, quite an experience in the semi-darkness.


On the walk back to the boat, I realised that my right foot was decidedly wet and every other step was a squelch of soaked sock. At first I thought I must have stood in deep water, but then my left foot was still comfortable, dry and warm. I was less than impressed. [On my return, I took the shoes back to Cotswold and they replaced them without a quibble - full marks to Cotswold].

The tide must have come in a bit, as we had to time the jump onto the Solan IV correctly, in order to avoid getting wet from the waves breaking over the pier.


The walk back up the hill to Solbrekke was slightly more subdued, due mainly to tiredness. It had been quite an adventure.

Day seven