Diary of a Shopkeeper, 9th January
In the dreich days of January there’s more time to talk to customers than in the busy pre-Christmas period. There is work to do – stocktaking, planning the year ahead – but there’s also space for a blether. Which is lightsome. So I looked up expectantly when a middle-aged couple in matching green raincoats came in the door.
‘Hello!’ I said, ‘Happy New Year!’
‘Happy New Year,’ they replied in unison, and rustled their way up to the cheese counter.
‘Are these all local cheeses?’ said the man.
‘All the ones down this side of the fridge are,’ I said, but the Camembert isn’t local, and neither is the Roquefort. Neither is the Stilton, nor the Manchego nor the Mozzarella.’
‘So none of your French, Spanish or English cheeses are local?’ started the man.
‘That tends to be the way of it,’ I said, and looked at him to try to grasp if he was being humorous.
‘We rather fancied a local blue,’ said the man.
‘I’m afraid there isn’t one,’ I said.
‘We were here on holiday last summer and we had one then,’ said the woman.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Nobody here makes a blue cheese.’
‘I think it was called…Bleu de Costa,’ said the man.
‘Ah! It must have been this one,’ I said, and pointed. ‘Bleu de Causses. But that’s a French cheese.’
‘I’ve got it,’ said the man. ‘It was Birsay Blue.’
‘You’re right, Creighton. Delicious!’
‘It’s a grand idea,’ I said, ‘But…it doesn’t exist.’
They looked at each other. ‘We’ll just have to go to the supermarket to get it,’ said Creighton
‘We prefer to shop local, but if you can’t help us…’ said the woman.
‘So, are you back on holiday?’ I said, keen to move the conversation on to happier ground. ‘Not many folk visit at this time of year.’
They smiled at each other. ‘No,’ said the man, ‘We’ve finally taken the plunge, haven’t we, Elsbeth. We moved here just before New Year.’
‘And what we saw on our first night here made us realise we’d done the right thing,’ said Elsbeth.
‘What was that?’
‘The Riding of the Marches,’ she went on. ‘All those tractors decorated with lights and baubles, driving around the ancient boundaries of the royal burgh. Wonderful.’
I considered discussing the difference between tractors and horses, but decided I’d be better getting some work done, so picked up my stocktaking clipboard and headed for the gin shelves. They didn’t move. ‘So are you living closeby?’ I said, trying to make them think of their cosy home, which they’d surely be missing on this chilly day.
‘Stromness, actually,’ said Creighton. ‘Such a wonderful community.’
‘And an excellent deli,’ I said. ‘Maybe you should shop really local and ask them about Birsay Blue.’
‘We’ve been in,’ said Creighton. ‘We were looking for some of that lovely rice grown in the north isles.’
‘In Paddy Westray,’ said Elsbeth. ‘That’s where the name came from, you know: from the paddy fields planted there by the Pictish monks.’
‘And eh…were you in luck?’
‘Disappointingly, no,’ said Creighton. ‘The gentleman there was very friendly, but I’m afraid that was another occasion we had to go to the supermarket.’
I looked at him, then at her. They were still staring into the cheese fridge, as if the Birsay Blue was about to leap out from its hiding place behind the Sharpham Rustic. Possibly with a packet of Paddy Westray rice in its tiny hands.
‘Well, I hate to keep you,’ I said. ‘I could talk all day, but I’m sure you’ve got lots to do.’
In the dreich days of January, it’s sometimes nice to be left in peace to get on with your work.
What Creighton and Elsbeth enjoyed was not the Riding of the Marches, which takes place on the second Sunday in August, and is entirely horse-powered. Rather, it was the first ever Orkney Christmas Tractor Run, organised to raise money for local charities - at which it succeeded tremendously. You can read more about it here.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 12th January. A new one appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.