Diary of a Lighthouse Keeper, 10th November 2024
Maeshowe, c. 1861, image attributed to James Farrer MP.
There follows the fourth of five excerpts from a manuscript attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson. It’s believed to be an account of his visit to Orkney in 1869, when he was 18.
AN ISLAND VOYAGE, Chap. IV
Our breakfast was less than luxurious. The proprietor, Blind Bews, filled our tankards with a stream of small-ale as brown as any peat-stained highland lochan. It seethed gently as he limped out of the parlour then returned with an ashet piled with brown discs about a handsbreadth in diameter.
‘I thought you might like to sample our local delicacies,’ he croaked. ‘Bere bannocks.’
I looked between the ale and the bread. ‘Is all the food in Orkney brown?’ I asked.
My father glowered at my insolence, but Bews seemed to take it in good spirit. ‘If you look closer, young sir, you’ll see peedie black spots to relieve the tedium of the brown.’
After Bews retreated my father said confidentially, ‘Best scrape those off, Louis. I suspect mould, Rhizopus stolonifera. With your weak constitution you have to be cautious.’
I dropped the entire bannock in my beer. ‘Fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in't,’ I declaimed – alluding to Shakespeare’s merry man, Sir John Falstaff.
My father sighed. ‘A cart collects us at eight,’ he said, ‘to transport us to the main town of these isles via an interesting construction.’
‘Not another lighthouse!’ I groaned.
‘No,’ he replied, wiping his mouth with his fingers, no napkin having been provided. ‘An antique edifice said to contain buried treasure.’
Treasure! At this sparkling word, so redolent of adventure and excitement, my heart beat faster. I flung back my last mouthful of toasted-ale, and jumped to my feet.
My haste turned out to be less than entirely necessary, for it was a slow hour’s journey eastwards along a rough, potholed road before our driver halted the pony cart and we dismounted. In front of us rushed a strongly flowing burn, its water brown as our breakfast. A small farm to the right was the only building visible amidst fields of low-growing barley and peas.
‘This,’ said my father, ‘would be a surpassing location for a water mill of considerable size. Observe the speed and volume of the current. The almighty provides us with the means to feed ourselves, if only we can see it. I will suggest as much to the Laird of Binscarth.’
As if summoned by the mention of his name, a gentleman on horseback trotted in from the east, a servant bobbing behind on a garron. This was indeed Mr Scarth, whose acquaintance my father had made on a previous visit. After the pleasantries, we turned our back on Tormiston farm and its unexploited torrent, and made our way through a pasture of sheep towards a large grassy mound a short distance to the north.
‘Even in the benighted times before Our Lord came down to earth,’ said my father, ‘there were engineers and builders – skilled ones at that.’
‘It looks like a model in miniature of the highest Hoy hill,’ I said.
‘And maybe it is,’ said Mr Scarth. ‘Or maybe it is a house or a tomb or something else altogether. Some of my tenants insist it was the dwelling of a supernatural creature called the Hog Beuy. A frightful being, they say, of malicious intent and fearful strength. The only way it could be placated was to leave offerings of ale and bannocks on top of the mound.’
‘It should have joined us for breakfast at the Captain’s Rest,’ I said.
‘I’m told that the creature has now departed these parts,’ said Mr Scarth. ‘Driven out by the excavations of Mr Farrer, a few years ago.’
Now we were climbing the slopes of the mound itself, I could see a great gash in its summit, and spoil-heaps of earth on every side.
‘What did Farrer turn up?’ asked my father, leaning over the hole and peering down at the exposed courses of stone arranged to form a neat square structure within.
‘Nothing of interest, he informed me. Just a few bones and fragments of broken pot. Farrer’s men dug down in a frenzy, then after a few days he lost interest and ordered them to fill the hole again. Which they did, more or less. I think he’d been hoping for something to bring him fame or even fortune.’
‘Treasure!’ I exclaimed.
‘I am with Sherrif Petrie on the impetuous Mr Farrer,’ said Mr Scarth. ‘The only service he did history was to record the runic inscriptions he uncovered on the internal surfaces, carved by our bold Norse forbears. Several of them do indeed refer to treasure being buried here.’
My father harrumphed. ‘Vikings! You islanders revere them, Scarth; they were nothing but the pirates of their day.’
Pirates! Treasure! More than ever, I felt that Orkney was a stage set arranged for some dramatic entertainment, with me (of course) as the hero. But what would the climax of the play bring? I will find out soon, for tomorrow is our final day here.
And so to Kirkwall.
To be continued.
You can read more about the Lyceum Theatre’s production of Treasure Island on their website. And buy tickets!
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 13th November 2024. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations, and occasional small corrections or additions.