23/8 Nothing but Shetland

First, the negatives: a reclining seat is nonsense for the night. Whoever can lie on his back for eight hours with slightly bent hips and knees is either dead or suffering from a disease. On the way back I immediately hit the floor, at least you can stretch your legs or lie on your side.

I lose myself again in trivialities, although today was actually extraordinary. The rising sun smiles over the sea through the cabin window. That awakens the spirit of life and I set my sights on the breakfast buffet. Very late I now write to Colin from the motorcycle friends on the Shetlands, with whom I had already made contact beforehand. To my surprise he reports readiness to receive at the ferry harbour. And indeed he is standing at the side and waves me over. Only the little flag is missing, like in Egon Olsen. We are glad that we are glad and both chat about motorcycles and the island’s sights. Colin said that an hour ago it was still raining, but tomorrow the sun will shine. Of the hoped‑for old English motorcycles there is unfortunately nothing to see standing. The machines are often at home and people still have to work or are on holiday. Nevertheless there is a private collector in Tingwall who, among other things, has a Messerschmitt cabin scooter standing in his garden. The guy also seems to be a real nut, if I understood that correctly with my broken English. Anyway I should try my luck this Saturday morning. In the meantime there are still some beautiful spots to see on the Shetlands. I have trouble keeping up with Colin, with everything he shows me. We say goodbye and I promise to join his vintage‑car club. The contribution is to be paid annually in the single‑digit range and regular attendance is not mandatory. After all there are already members from America. We part warmly and promise to stay in touch.

Just as a side note: when you greet someone warmly, you express that you’re happy to see them. When you say goodbye warmly …? I’m drifting off again.

Off we go to the Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, i.e. the southernmost point of the Shetlands. Arriving at the lighthouse, memories from last year at the Lindesnes lighthouse immediately come back. Similar ambience. Together with the sun‑filled landscape delights I become a bit sentimental. I have a brief conversation about it with Bernde¹. After a small technology museum there is coffee and cake, and then I zig‑zag across the island northwards. I enjoy the view from the Ward of Scousburgh with its 263 m, spot seals and delight in the coastal formation and the view over the sea.

At St. Ninian’s Isle I find a good spot to get the island and the narrow connecting sandbank well into the lens and I disregard the private property. Just then a car stops and the driver gets out. Oh oh, now there’s trouble. But he only asks whether he should photograph me. And that rather aggressively for my wellbeing. I’m bewildered and think, if I give him the camera, it’s gone. He doesn’t give up, so I pose on the motorcycle with the island in the background. I get my camera back and thank him politely. Rough land, rough people, but helpful. Fine fine.

In the distance I discover the island of Foula, which still belongs to the Shetlands. Last, but not least, Castle Scalloway is discovered. The afternoon moves on and I am drawn to my lodging, the Brae Hotel. Why not camping in this weather? I feel under the weather and, given the weather, I had already looked for solid and affordable accommodations yesterday. Affordability is a very tricky topic, even under the premise that fun, as we know, costs. In this case 134 öcken. When the word bathtub appeared in the offer, my finger started twitching on the keyboard. Now I’m standing in front of the inn and can’t get in because a Swiss endurist is just getting off a horse and we immediately strike up a conversation. We had already briefly met this morning at the lighthouse. Overall motorcycle traffic on the island is more than manageable. If I subtract the locals, I’m left with one hand to count them all. I hadn’t expected that. Even if I may be exaggerating now, the only other biker on the island besides me is the Swiss who checks into the same hotel. No surprise, it’s the cheapest on the island. So, my Swiss goes to his room, and I also think it’s time to check‑in. But I still can’t get in. Again a Swiss turns the corner and expresses his fondness for the AWO. Also a biker, but on foot. So somehow from Gibraltar to the North Cape, and now to the Shetlands. It knocks you down. On the third try I finally make it to my room, and on a direct route, without going through the lobby, straight to the bathtub. Afterwards dinner at the hotel, and then I hop on the bike again for a spot to watch the sunset. But first I climb the wrong hill and underestimate the expanse of the terrain, and on the second try I do see the action on the horizon, but a cloud formation spoils the picture. The sun was well on its way between horizon and a thick rain cloud, which would have been a beautiful spectacle, but then the light went out. Natural spectacles don’t work at the push of a button. Back at the hotel I spot the Swiss pedalist at the bar and we chat over, well, two glasses of Scotch whisky about travel and people. Around half past eleven I disappear into bed with the certainty that this was a damn brilliant day.

¹ My inspirator for my North Cape trips