The UK’s been celebrating Queen Elizabeth’s Platinum Jubilee this weekend and the weather—unusually for a bank holiday—has been glorious, even here in Caithness. The clouds vanished and suddenly the sky got bigger, as though God had lifted the lid off the pot to see if we’re done yet. Even the sun seems to have had its dial turned up to eleven, there’s light everywhere, reflecting off the sea and turning the world into a giant kaleidoscope. We’re almost at the solstice, too: the days are already long enough that, when the sun shines, it’s actually brighter when you turn the lights off to go to bed.
Ruin by the sea, Crosskirk (not the chapel)
We took advantage of the sunshine and headed for two separate cliffs, north and east: St Mary’s Chapel at Crosskirk on the north coast, on the road to Dounreay, and Sarclet harbour, just south of Wick. St Mary’s Chapel itself dates from the 1100s, when Caithness was a Norse province. It overlooks a bay that mostly consists of shelves of rock vanishing under the sea at an angle, which always makes me want to get in touch with my inner Charlton Heston, fall to my knees, bang my fist on the grass and shout, “You maniacs! You blew it up!” Later, when we reached Sarclet the haar was just rolling in from the sea, a wave of low cloud drifting in over the cliffs, then pouring down to envelop the harbour in a slow-motion waterfall of vapour. The sun was shining hazily through the mist, as though in a sign that the Holy Grail was buried somewhere near, but though we searched we couldn’t find it anywhere.
Oystercatcher and thrift on a sea stack
One advantage of the holiday has been the chance to draw the curtains, ignore any street parties, and crack on with the gansey: I’ve finished the back, and am well on the way to getting the front done too. As usual, I have to pay extra attention when knitting front and back, as I’ve never quite got the hang of the knitting on the back rows being, in effect, inverted; and as I lost the ability to concentrate somewhere around 1979, a certain amount of unpicking and re-doing is, alas, involved.
Haar rolling in at Sarclet
And as for the monarchy, well, it’s one of any number of things that I find I don’t have to have an opinion on, along with such weighty matters as the offside rule, why modern music doesn’t have any decent tunes, and the heat death of the universe. It’s really very liberating. If anyone asks me what I believe, I simply refer them to the poet Stipe, who stated that he believed in “coyotes and time as an abstract“, and also that his shirt was wearing thin—a philosophy I think we can all get behind. Though as I get older I also find myself increasingly coming round to Groucho Marx’s famous credo: “Those are my principles, and if you don’t like them…well I have others…”
How amazing- I find I share your lack of opinions.
The picture of the haar is evocative.
Idle question: I’ve heard that removing the roof would free a building from taxes; the ruin in the picture still has a roof on the attached small extension (what we called the ell in New England) and on the shed(?). Would those have been included?
Hi Tamar, I’m not an expert in property taxes. I was told that one titled landowner up here tried to donate his property to the National Trust, and when they failed to reach agreement simply removed the roof and left it as a ruin. The small building in the picture looks intact, but if you see it from the other side it only has half a roof! If only Paul McCartney lived here, he could fix it where the rain gets in, to stop his mind from wandering… ?