Today’s walk: a gentle 8.3 mile ramble (according to Mapometer.com) taking in the coastal access path, the village shop in Toab, the airport runway – twice – and (almost) the Ness of Burgi. In other words, a walk around the bay and back.
As usual, I start out with sketchbook in hand, and map the beginning of the walk with enthusiasm. As time passes, there is less drawing and more looking.
I stop drawing completely while walking past the airport on the main road. There is no pavement, and although the traffic is not heavy, it is fast. It all stops for the aeroplanes, though. The runway and the road are about 3 feet above sea level, and meet at the shore. Lights flash, a siren sounds and an attendant in a high-viz jacket closes the barrier. The post is covered in pustules of rust from the salty air. Apparently, there was an automatic barrier once, but a bus hit it. A plane lands, the barrier is opened, cars pass and the attendant radios the control tower for permission for me to cross the runway. Special permission, you understand. At the beginning of the week I waited for more than 20 minutes for a gap between flights long enough for me to walk the couple of hundred yards between the barriers. Again, there is no pavement – just a very exposed stretch of concrete runway. I scurry along as fast as I can, reach safety and proceed up the hill to the shop. I then repeat the whole business on the way back.
My destination is the “fort” on the Ness of Burgi, the peninsula which encloses West Voe on the side opposite to Sumburgh Head. The ground is never much more than 10 metres above sea level, and the waves are breaking over the little cliff on the west side. At one place the peaty ground is peppered with empty, white limpet shells. For a moment, I thought they were daisies. A line of stones marks the way – how old are they? The broch is very ancient, but this area is full of ruined enclosures, old wartime dugouts and concrete stores.
Suddenly, I come face to face with the North Atlantic ocean. The waves are crashing into a rocky inlet which faces due west. Next stop Greenland.
A little further on, and the way is reduced to a narrow neck of slippery rocks. It is perfectly passable; there is even a heavy duty chain to hang on to, but suddenly it seems like a bad idea to go any further. Out to sea, a squall is coming my way and I can see hail, or possibly snow, streaking down onto the water. There is nobody else about. If I were back in the Visitor Centre, I might see a walker slip into the sea and could give the alarm. But I’m not there, I’m here, and it’s time to turn back.
The squall passes behind me, and I return to Sumburgh Head along West Voe beach. Just over a mile, and it’s a different country. Silver sand, turquoise-blue sea.
Back at the airport, on another part of the runway, more men in high-viz jackets are busy, this time burning white markings onto the concrete. It’s all very high-tech, apart from the chap walking along behind, throwing powder (reflective Oofle dust?) from a bucket. Above the short turf beside the runway, a skylark sings. It’s a wonderful life.
