Diary of a Lighthouse Keeper, 27th October 2024
Thomas Stevenson, and his son, Robert Louis Stevenson
There follows the second of five excerpts from a recently discovered 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. II
Ropes were thrown ashore, and our party was delivered to Graemsay. As I pulled myself up the iron ladder and onto the pier, the great tumuli of the neighbouring island, Hoy, filled the horizon. Rising sheer out of the sea, their precipitous slopes and barren countenances filled me with awe. Compared to these, Arthur’s Seat – heretofore the acme of all mountains for this son of Auld Reekie – is a child’s mudpie.
True to form, my father did not so much as glance at the stupendous natural heights. Instead he bent double, examining the surface of the landing stage. ‘Observe, Louis,’ he said. ‘The mortar on the northern side of this pier, constructed by my brother 20 years ago, is more decayed than on the southern side. Why might that be?’
‘Perhaps the mason working the north side drank beer during his lunch break,’ I replied, facetiously.
My father sighed. ‘Consider the tides, boy! Twice a day they flow in through that hellmouth connecting Scapa Flow with the Atlantic. They surge round the north of the island and smash against the northern side of the pier with remorseless force. It’s a tribute to Stevenson construction that so little destruction has been wrought in two decades.’
I confess my attention had already wandered. ‘Look over there!’ I cried. ‘There’s a coral beach as white as snow. Just like in Mr Ballantyne’s marvellous adventure story!’
My father gave the beach a glance then threw up his hands in disgust or despair (his two favoured emotions when conversing with me.) ‘Any fool can see it’s not coral!’ he expostulated. ‘It’s maerl, boy, maerl, calcified rhodolith. If it had been coral we could have ground it up and used it in the cement. But it’s useless for anything except a second-rate field-fertiliser.’
‘It’s so beautiful,’ I said, ‘It glitters in the sun like a Pacific island.’
But my father had turned his black back on me, and was deep in conversation with the lighthouse keeper. They strode off towards Hoy High.
This trip was swiftly coming to resemble every other tour of inspection I had made with my father. Despite Captain Smollett’s valiant efforts to spin a yarn or two over the Pharos’s wardroom table, it was all plans and plumb-lines, and precious little poetry. I slipped my hand inside my peacoat, intending to retrieve the slim volume of The Ancient Mariner I had secreted there. A sudden voice, high and tremulous, interrupted me.
‘What have you got in there, lad? Is it cheese? I dream of cheese, says I.’
The peculiar individual accosting me was a man of three score years, but looking older, with his wild white hair and bristly chin. His clothes were patched and ragged, and his feet were bare.
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ I replied. ‘We did enjoy some Stilton last night, but…’
‘Stilton!’ he shrieked and dance a little jig in the dusty road. ‘Many’s the year since Stilton passed my lips. Neither the word nor the article itself, says I, the latter the tastier if memory serves.’
I looked around at the sleek cattle that grazed the fields of the island. ‘Is there no cheese made here? The island is full of cattle.’
His head drooped in sorrow. ‘Farm cheese, that’s all. Young and fresh and tasting no stronger than a glass of milk. It suits the islanders’ meek temperament, but I’m a creature made of sterner stuff, and with stronger tastes. Stilton! Parmigiano! Manchego!’
‘So you’re not a native of these parts?’
‘Nay, sir, I’m marooned here. Separated from my home by wild seas and untold miles of desolate country. I came to work on this lighthouse 20 years ago, and have been stranded here ever since.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said. ‘I feel my father, Mr Stevenson, has a duty to assist you. Why not join us on the Pharos, and we can convey you at least part of your way home. Where is it you hail from?’
‘Ah, it is a far away place, remote and mysterious. Few go there and fewer return with their sanity. I’m one of the lucky ones! He he! Its name? Dunbeath.’
I frowned. ‘Dunbeath in Caithness?’
‘Aye, I’m a Dunbeath Gunn. Pleased to make your acquaintance, young sir. Ben Gunn, at your service.’ He gave a twitchy bow.
‘Mr Gunn, I insist you join us on board the Pharos. This evening, we make the short crossing to Stromness. And then the world is your oyster.’
‘I don’t want oysters,’ said Ben Gunn. ‘All I want is a piece of cheese.’
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 30th October 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.