Last year our summer holiday was four days in Rackwick – a glorious long weekend, with clear blue sky and sea eagles circling high overhead. This summer we’ve been back to Rackwick, but just for one day.

Even as I write that knowing it to be true, my memory is trying to tell me something different. I suspect all of us Mainlanders have had a similar experience: you return from a day on one of the isles and feel like you’ve been there for a week. My theory is that we cram so many sense-impressions into our heads in the short time we have on the isles, that our brains are convinced we’ve been there longer than we really have. Time seems to slow down. It’s possible to disembark from a mid-morning ferry, spend the whole day idling and ambling, and still not have to rush to get the last boat home.

My isles friends tell me it’s the exact opposite when they come to The Mainland. Six or seven hours in the town pass in a flash, and there’s always a mad dash to get back to Houton or Tingwall or Kirkwall Pier, and usually one or two items unticked on their to-do list.

I suppose it’s obvious why the same amount of time should be experienced so differently. Folk coming into town are generally not here for a quiet day off, but for medical appointments, or to shop for stuff they can’t get on the islands, or for meetings with the council or car mechanics or chiropodists. Quite possibly all this and more in the one day. By contrast, when us toonies cross the Flow or the String or the northern Firths and Sounds, it’s to get away from such chores. We go to do nothing at all. Consequently, our few hours stretch elastically.

Coffee and cake with good friends, too rarely seen: tick. A ritual pause at Betty Corrigall’s grave to celebrate once again how her name lives on while her persecutors are forgotten: tick. A gasp of wonder at the familiar but always joyous drive down into Rackwick: tick. A stroll to the bothy and a seat on the bench to contemplate the sea: tick.

And then onwards to somewhere at the far end of the bay – how far depending on tide and other visitors – to find a place for our picnic. Someone checks their watch. What? It’s only half past eleven? Ah well, who cares, we’re on holiday! We had the place to ourselves this time, and our pick of the biggest flattest rocks for our feast. Thick slices of Grimbister in a Baikie’s brown roll, spread with a generous dollop of Shapinsay chutney. A Rendall’s fruit slice (does that count as one of our five a day?) A crunchy apple. No Michelin-starred, starched-tablecloth lunch ever tasted better.

Back at the car with a couple of hours remaining, we decided to call in at the Beneth’ill Café at Moaness Pier. Kirkness & Gorie recently started supplying them with a small selection of wine to help keep their customers well-watered as well as well-fed, so it seemed only polite to say hello. And have a coffee and a homebake.

‘What’s that on your blackboard?’ I said. ‘H’oysters?’.

They’re oysters. From Hoy. We just started selling them this week,’ said Crystal.

‘Shame we’ve already had our lunch,’ said someone sensible.

‘Who cares! We’re on holiday!’ said someone easily excited at the prospect of fresh Orkney seafood (it might have been me.) We ate them, with a glass of excellent Italian white, sitting in the yellow nose cone of the Pelamis wave power machine in Beneth’ill’s garden. And yet another unforgettable experience was crammed into our brief, bounteous summer holiday.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 24th August 2022. 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.

Diary of a Shopkeeper, 21st August