by Michael Bloor
[first published in Literally Stories on January 4th, 2024]
To supplement my pension, I had taken a summer job: crewman and ticket-collector on the Small Isles (Rousay, Wyre and Egilsay) ferry in Orkney – I was the full extent of the extra staff required to meet the demands of the enhanced summer timetable. It’s a fact that when you collect tickets you look at hands, not faces. So I didn’t notice him when he boarded. No car, no luggage, no band, no guitar.
Most of the summer visitors are heading for Rousay and the (moderately famous) neolithic tombs – a half hour voyage. So, after we leave Rousay behind and head into Wyre Sound for the second leg of the trip, the M.V. Eynhallow is rarely busy, a chance for me to relax: there’s just a couple of dozen people on Wyre – six farms, a ruined Viking fortress, and dozens of dozing seals. It was one of those rare summer days that we cherish on Orkney: a day of luminous calm; Wyre Sound itself a porcelain plate; the surrounding islands – sheltering silhouettes in the haze.
I’m loitering at the gunwhale, at peace with my own thoughts. Faintly, I can hear the lilting ‘Farewell to Stromness,’ playing in Duncan’s wheelhouse. Unseen at my elbow, a guy utters a warm growl: ‘There’s somethin’ about small islands, huh? Refuges, safe havens from the wide world, where… kindliness can flourish. Know what I mean?’
I’m too shocked to answer: the voice is instantly familiar. The famously enigmatic icon has chosen me from among the adoring multitudes. You’ve maybe seen one of those interview clips where he stonewalls all the interviewer’s intrusive questions? Asked if there was a hidden message in his ‘Storm Clouds’ single for all those fans who grew up with his music, he answered, ‘Sure, my hidden message was: “Please buy the next album”.’ He’s got a ranch in the Rockies, sixteen miles off the highway. This is a guy who really values his privacy. And now he’s speaking to me.
There’s a smile in his voice. ‘Just the names of all these islands: Rousay, Sanday, Wyre, Egilsay, Eynhallow… it’s a litany.’ He pauses and asks, ‘D’ya know Wyre at all?’
My heart’s banging like a gong, but I find my tongue, ‘Mmm, yes. My mother’s family had one of the farms on Wyre. I used to spend my summer holidays there when I was small.’
‘Did you stay at “The Bu”? Was that their farm?’
I think I’m beginning to understand. The Bu was the farm where, at the end of the nineteenth century, the poet Edwin Muir was raised. The Bu was the fond, safe place to which Muir returned to in his thoughts and dreams for the rest of his life. And Wyre, with its gentle, towering, Clydesdale horses, its cattle and its seals, was the sea-washed Arcadia that he had lost.
So my passenger is on a literary pilgrimage. I shake my head, ‘No, my grandparents’ farm wasn’t The Bu. But The Bu is still there: an old farmhouse beside the rubble of Cubby Roo’s castle and the ruined chapel.’
‘Easy to find?’
‘Yeah, there’s only one road on the island, so you can’t miss it.’
I’m beginning to feel uneasy about how to address him. He’s staring back at the ferry’s wake – a perfect, expanding ‘V.’ ‘It’s okay, every place I go, every bar or café, every store or office, every plane or ferry, people are aware of me, aware of who I am. When I walk into a room, people change how they behave, how they talk. I don’t much like it, though now I’m used to it, I guess. But it’s a shame I aint ever goin’ to get a job workin’ the Small Isles Ferry.’
We continue to stare at the wake while I take in this information, eventually I form a sentence that I hope isn’t too crass: ‘You must’ve read Muir’s autobiography…?’
‘Sure. Read the poems when I was just starting out in Chicago. They stay with you – you know? The strange return of those farm-horses after the nuclear Apocalypse – I’ll never forget that one. Someone lent me – gave me (he laughs) – the autobiography when we were filming one time down in Mexico. That must’ve been back in the Seventies. Ever since then, for forty years, I’ve been waiting to visit Wyre and The Bu.’
I carry on looking at the wake and keep my voice steady. ‘You know, there’s no holiday accommodation on Wyre. I’m Andy, by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet ya, Andy. Don’t worry about me. It’s going to be a dry night, I guess.’ He smiles. ‘And I don’t sleep much these days anyways.’
I look directly at him for the first time: the broad-brimmed hat, the deeply lined face, the famous heterochromial eyes – one green, one brown. I make my stumbling excuses – we’re nearing Wyre pier, I’m needed elsewhere on the ferry.
‘Sure, Andy. Good talkin’ to ya. Anythin’ I cun do for ya, ‘fore I go? An autograph? A selfie?’
My turn to smile. ‘No sir, you’ve already given me a gift today.’