Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

We leave Orkney this morning.
One last cup of coffee at Julia's and it's time to board the Hamnavoe in Stromness.
I stand at the rail looking out over the town. George Mackay Brown called it 'a tumbling stone wave, a network of closes, a marvel of steps from the seaweed up to the granite of Brinkie's Brae'
The red ensign flutters on its white masthead against the blue sky.

The tannoy announces our departure. The mooring ropes are cast off, and the ship drifts away from the jetty. As the gap widens, I'm borne away inexorably from the town that has stolen my heart. There is the familiar lump in my throat; I hate departures.

We slide past the Pier Art centre and the old houses with their piers leading down to the water, and then the ship turns around in mid channel to face out to sea.

We slip past 'our flat' with its big window overlooking the water. Are the new tenants watching with the binoculars as we pass? I always did.

We pass the old life boat station, a bright incongruous red against the sombre stone houses. Then we gather speed to pass the North End of the town and the Ness with its collection of motor homes and tents teetering on the edge.
As we round the point, Stromness gradually slips from view, one last glimpse and then it's gone.

We are in a channel guarded on one side by the dark brooding Hoy hills with their top knot of cloud, and on the other, Warbeth Beach with the graveyard above.
The souls lying buried there have done their final departing, but have a permanent place in the landscape.

I continue to stand at the rails drinking in the landscape until the Old Man of Hoy bids a final farewell and I go inside. I love this northern place.

Next year we will return, Deus Volens.