All the talk in our small town just now is about the dearth of activity on the street. The Street is actually what was the main road of the original town. Everything lay either abune(above) or ablow (below) the street, a jumble of piers and narrow lanes clinging together for such comfort as could be garnered from the harsh granite hillside tumbling down to the bay.

Women talked at lane ends about distant shared cousins who had written letters home from the far reaches of the globe. There was mingled pride and sadness that young Doddie (George) had got work with the Hudson Bay Company. Sighs of understanding and commiseration at another young lad forced to leave the island to make a living, so many of them never came home.

Men gathered at the pierhead moaning at the price of kye (cattle) at the mart which lay at the far end of town,when you are walking your beasts to mart or slaughter house you want them in your own parish true food miles. On wild weather days they would gather to decide if they should leave the safety of the harbour and risk the rough seas out the back of Hoy with their long lines.

Slowly (for all things are slow in a land ruled by the ebb and flow of the tide) the conversation would meander from topic to topic, for reading and making babies were activities for the long winters nights.

It was a self sufficient little town back then with the ships gliding past the Kirk Rocks with their great creamy sails bringing in the luxury goods the island could not provide. The cobbler, the baker and all the services our town needed provided in tiny one roomed shops and more ale house per yard of street than anywhere else on the island. Children darting along the road weaving between the adults a precious coin grasped in a hot little hand to buy a loaf or jug of ale for father coming home prayed there would be enough left to buy a wee poke (Small paper cone) of toffee as a rare treat.

Much of life was lived on the street news passed tumbling from lip to lip along its length. The anxious waiting women when a local boat was overdue whispering together afraid to say the frightened words loudly in case they would come true. Sharing tears of joy when the men were spied slipping into the Cairston Roads the small boats fighting their way round the holms towards the safety of harbour. The cannon announced a ships arrival from south with apples from Kent and oranges from Spain, bolts of cloth for plain
folk and fine silk for the Laird

Dressed in their Sunday best families walked along the street laughing to a wedding. Sombre faced silent black clothed they walked in procession behind the coffin out to Warbeth where the late of the town laid asleep to the susserus shushing of waves on the shore, slumbering till the great call to judgement.

Then came the time when the old ways were no longer good enough. The days of the oil and prosperity when the council in their dubious wisdom built scheme after scheme of new houses on the outskirts of town. The people bought cars and went to work and shop in Kirkwall. The people outgrew our little town and gradually most of the shops closed to be replace with gift shops for the cruise ships.

Many factors contribute to the death of a small community but in a seafaring town bedded down on its granite hillside the temporary loss of our ferry has pierced the heart of the towns confidence in the future flowing away like our lifeblood into the harbour.

The feeling of impending doom in the conversations is hard to get past. Writing this however I think of all the changes good and bad that have happened in our small town over the centuries and realise that through it all the town has remained as strong and solid as its granite foundation.