After a greasy fry-up we drove south west and then west towards Westing. At Lund the road turned into a track, and then was blocked by a gate. An old morris minor approached from behind and a woman got out to open the gate ahead of us. We carried on and parked by the ruined St Olaf’s Kirk, and had a look around the graveyard.
The couple from the morris minor walked their dogs along the beach. We chatted to them when the got back to the car. They were from Nottingham, but spent at least 6 months of the year here. They lived in the beige cottage across the bay, and we would be welcome to stop by for coffee if we were passing. They recommended a walk around the bays to see the Viking ruins opposite, which we did. We crossed three empty white-sand beaches. Close by the shore there were a couple of gannets tangled in fishing net. One was dead and submerged, the other alive and appeared to have its foot caught in the net. On the north side of Lunda Wick we climbed up past the ruins of a longhouse to the remains of a broch, from the top of which were good views.
On the way back, R stripped down to his underwear and waded into the icy sea, much like a Viking warrior would, to free the surviving gannet, which had its neck, not leg, caught in the net. It was agitated at first, and lunged for R with its scimitar-like beak, but it seemed to relax when taken firmly around the neck and was easily freed. It flapped off into the bay and started to preen itself.
We drove up to Westing and parked at the end of a track facing the sea and ate our lunch.
R’s pants were drying on the back seat headrest.
Then we walked along the coast looking for otters. Snipe were drumming overhead. No otters were seen by us. We saw a wren darting back and forth below a grassy overhang, and watched it bringing food to young in a nest there. It looked like it was gathering sand shrimps in its beak.
We drove towards Belmont, and stopped on the way to look at common and grey seals hauled out on the rocks.
At Uyeasound we looked at an old Bod, but not much was going on.
On the way back to Baltasound we stopped at Skibhoul Stores to buy tomorrow’s lunch and a bottle of 12-year old Highland Park. After dinner we went to Baltasound Hall and experienced the fortnightly Unst Music and Dance Club’s dance night. There were nine people in the band, playing fiddles and accordions, and one keyboard player. One of the fiddlers was the man who spoke to R yesterday outside the Skibhoul Store.
There were about 20 people at the dance, and almost all of the dancers were women. A couple of men were sitting chatting. We were made to feel very welcome. Most of the dances were unfamiliar, but we managed to follow the other dancers. At half time there was a break and tea and plates piled high with cakes were brought round, and then there was a raffle. The fiddle player we’d spoken to turned out to be a retired policeman, who’d been on the island since 1978. His wife Jean also played fiddle in the band; she was a retired librarian and graduate of Bristol University. Everyone was very friendly.
An annoying woman with orange hair latched on to us. She looked about 90, but proudly claimed to be 75.
At the end of the evening when we were chatting to people, the policeman muttered to R that she was the biggest visitor-deterrent they had. We spoke with a younger female fiddle player at the end. She seemed to be one of the band leaders, and was the one who’d been telephoned from the shop yesterday. She said it was harder to get younger players along to this event. It was quiet tonight because it was one of the first dances in the season. We talked to her about the local music scene, and she told J that there was a Shetland step-dancing tradition.