Thursday November 8th
 |
| Courtesy of Ann Karin Magnusson, Met Inst, Bergen |
Mostly cloudy today, a
spot of drizzle at times, a few brief sunny intervals also. Light to
moderate west to SW breeze.
Lunna Fishing
Station
Latitude: 60°.24’09”N Longitude 1°.017’07” W
HU 486 68
A flock of small diving birds
are sitting in the bay when I arrive. Parking by the church and through the
gate down to the sea, the seal is also there before me. No wind today, a
clouded sky, uniformly grey, an undulating surface of small rippling waves
washing onto the shore, grey/green almost silver. Peat-coloured hills surround the voe, dotted with a few
white-washed houses. Round the corner is the open sea. I’m told that this is otter country, so
maybe I’ll be lucky.
The ruins of a stone Böd stand on
the grass banks. Low
doorways leading to a couple of small rooms; two storeys, a stone staircase on
the outside, leading to the station manger’s office. This was once a store-house for bales of dried and salted Ling, laid out and
dried on the stone strewn platform that lies just beyond – grey, pink and red - some a mixture of both, small stones
with larger ones on the sea-side; a drying beach built by hand and out of reach
of the sea.
Large rocks
on the narrow beach are black with pink stripes running through them. A small
noisy Shetland wren perches on top of one, and a tiny brown bird (a Rock
Bunting?), is hopping in and out of the rocks behind me, making a sort of tutting
noise – a bit like tiny stones being knocked together. A line of seaweed high on the shoreline; so the tide rises to to nearly touch the grass bank.
I sit on the beach painting. There’s a walker on the
hill - first person I’ve seen
around.
 |
| oil on canvas |
Seaweed floating, pushed back and forth, not yet ready to come into shore.
Dark blue-grey clouds above far inky black hills, light behind. Sea changing colour, now a darker shade of grey-green.
A creel boat arrives,
cutting across the water to reach orange buoys marking his nets. An orange
survival-suited figure pulling in the creels, arms raised as rejects fly out
from the boat – too small for the catch. I can hear his radio – permanently tuned
to the weather – “gale-force southerly,
south-westerly, showers later”, but not yet... Catching sight of me he
waves and heads off.
 |
| sketch books |
Packing up, I collect my water sample, and take a walk
along the cliffs above the sea. I'll get to the highest point, but there is always another beyond. Carnage beneath my feet; this is the place
where sea urchins and crabs meet their death, broken shells smashed by eager
gulls, along with discarded crab legs litter the banks.
I climb to a pile of large stones, sit and look out across the voe. It’s still very calm, a slight wind ruffling the surface, light beginning to fade. A peaceful place to spend a day.
Hlunneid (Old Norse): isthmus where
boats were drawn up on 'linns' (skids)
