If I Were A Trawlerman...

Back from Orkney. Nyerhe!

Actually we got back late on Saturday, but after more than a week away from the internet (which has to be some kind of record for an obsessive geek like me) I've not been in much of a rush to get back to gazing at computer screens. It was an absolutely wonderful just-over-a-week away from the health and work hassles that have snowballed over the last few months and did the Burd and I a world, nay, a veritable solar-system of good. Being the efficient one of this couple, she's already got a good wodge of photos up on her Flickr page, whereas I've only plonked up some pastel drawings I did thus far. I'm quite proud of the one above and further below, but wish I'd produced a hell of a lot more while there.

My lungs were blown clean with mighty gusts of fresh sea air as we sailed across to Stromness, as perfect a prescription for recovering from that nasty business as any steroid out there. It was astonishingly invigorating to hang my head over the side of the ferry as it charged through a misty sea, cold air of the freshest kind hurtling down my throat into those mucky old air sacs, slapping them into action and blowing free all those cobwebs of goo. The air on Orkney was just as pleasing, practically free of traffic fumes, a refreshing tang of seaweed and surf tangible in the deepest breaths. By comparison, walking down Dalry Road feels like a trudge through a giant tunnel of exhaust fumes, airborne filth and shit-strewn pavements.

I wasn't half as productive artistically as last time (that sketchbook remains one of the best things I've ever done), but I had a whole lot more relaxing to do. It took days to shake off thoughts from work, to truly calm down, and the whole holiday felt more like a recovery of sorts, though without the drama that might imply. Even drawing brought a pressure of sorts, my silly brain building up the importance of whatever artwork I produced to being at least equal to the output from last time. Inevitably, when I finally did start a sketch (the exterior of Kirkwall cathedral) it turned out dreadfully, so much so that I'm not going to waste your time or valuable internet space with a scan of it. Awful, quite quite awful. It was only when I'd chilled-the-feck-out a few days later that I could sit back on the waterfront and draw the pastel pieces shown above, plus this and a non-Burd bird.

The primary aim of the holiday - to procure a particular sparkly ring for the missus-to-be's dainty finger - was temporarily scuppered as they didn't have it in a size that fitted her peedie digits. Not to worry though, it'll be sent out and should reach us sometime in the next month or two. Naturally, you'll be the first to see it, but having seen her try it on at the OIa Gorie store in Kirkwall I know it'll look sodding marvelous on her. As will the wedding ring when the time comes (one year on Friday, mark yer calendars...) since we both tried our respective wedding bands from the same jeweller. I couldn't quite compute the sight of a wedding ring on my scrawny, alien-facehugger-leg-like fingers, but the runes on it gave it a One Ring look, so that pleased me (and will no doubt lead to me lurching around the wedding reception cackling about my preshhussss and pretending to be invisible).

Much quality eating was had - there's few steaks to compare with a good juicy Orcadian cow - and wares from the island's two breweries were quaffed by yours truly in a noble attempt to boost the local economy. For a week life was so much simpler, quieter, gentler and downright better, and I'll now happily add Orkney to Jonny Nagl's Laminated List of Potential Places to Settle Down Proper In The Next Decade (currently Isle of Skye in big bold letters and Norway or Sweden if I could get the hang of the lingo). The self-catering made it less like a holiday per se and more like a different reality, albeit one where we weren't doing anything to earn a living, not particularly sustainable I'll grant you. I felt very aware of how useless the skills and experience I've amassed in my thirty-one years of existence would be for living on such an island, as with Skye, and daydreamed wistfully about changing my name to Olaf and going out on trawlers. Of course, the reality of this would almost certainly be beyond ghastly, but doesn't Olaf Nagl sound good? Almost as good as Nagl's Bagels, but that's for another post...

Anyway, it gave the Lass and I plenty to think/ponder/daydream about and, more importantly, chilled us down good and proper. Sadly, it made coming back to Edinburgh really rather depressing and if it wasn't for The Green being such a lovely area (oh, the pink blossom!) I'd have gone into a massive hump. Now we're back into the usual routine, wistfully looking back to memories of last week while trudging through the daily grind, but still the better for it. I'll holler once the snaps are all up on Flickr as they'll contain oodles of fascinating details about what to do up there, then start figuring out what the deuce to write about between now and sauntering off to Skye in September. There must be something...