In Herringopolis

Wick Heritage Centre looks fairly innocuous from the outside, but once you open that plain black door you step into another world. It's virtually an entire terrace of Georgian houses (and outbuildings) and it is, without any doubt at all, the best 'amateur' museum I have ever seen. Run entirely by volunteers, its contents supplied by local people, it explains Wick. And Pulteneytown. Which are different, but the same.
Wick/Pulteneyown (henceforth referred to simply as Wick) is huge, and yet underpopulated and showing the signs of great times long gone. It also possesses some of the best Georgian architecture in the country, courtesy of Sir Thomas Telford and the British Fisheries Society, and all is explained the Heritage Centre. For this was once the greatest herring port in the world, a place so wealthy it attracted producers of luxury goods from a' the airts, and so thirsty there were 45 pubs and 800 gallons of whisky was consumed every week. Six thousand men fishing out of the port, another 6000 men (and women) land-based, and that's in addition to the normal population. This was in the 19th Century.
The heritage centre displays all this in extraordinary fashion. It has boats, nets, sails, an entire smokehouse, a cooperage, a (great big) lighthouse (!) a photography studio, whole houses recreated, some fantastic wartime memorabilia, stationary engines, lawnmowers and documents. I could have spent hours there. In fact, its layout reminded very much of the new Shetland museum, though that is obviously a very professional (and hugely impressive) endeavour. The fact is, though - there's more sheer stuff in the Wick Heritage Centre.
It gave me an insight into the sheer pride in Wick's past and present that fuels many locals. Many of whom I'll meet tonight at the Old Pulteney Prohibition Ball, which takes place at the distillery itself.

To Caithness by sea!

A pretty lumpy crossing from Shetland to Orkney last night, but we arrived at 10.45pm, 15 minutes early. That gave the satnav plenty of time to thread me through Kirkwall and to the Murray Arms at St Margaret's Hope before it shut.
Up early to catch the 8.00am Pentland Ferries 'short sea crossing' to Gill's Bay in Caithness, on the old Claymore. The last time I was on this ferry she was under Calmac colours and plying the Oban to Barra route. Arriving at Castlebay in the gloaming is one of the great Scottish ferry experiences. Arriving at Gill's Bay in the mist was...not quite so romantic.
Anyway, to Wick, where I have just tried the Jane and Judith Glue recommended Bord De l'Eau restaurant (it's a pun. I think). Great omelette. Oh, and that's Ebenezer Place, officially the shortest street in the world (six foot nine inches)!

The long way down...via Wick...but not by camper van

The camper van has failed its MOT on three things: unaligned headlights, emissions (it's not got a catalyser) and worn ball joints. Minor, really, but enough to scupper my planned expedition south and provoke a flurry of ferry alterations and hotel bookings.

So tomorrow it's the Citroen that'll trundle off the Hrosseyland and onto Orcadian soil at (hopefully) just after 11.00pm. A few hours sleep in St Margaret's Hope and then onto the Pentland Ferries boat to Gill's Bay in Caithness. Believe it or not this is the easiest (and cheapest) way for me to get to Wick.

Where, amazingly, I've been asked to do a ten minute spot at the Grand Prohibition Ball, organised each year by Old Pulteney Whisky in aid of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. Amazing because Wick has for a decade or so featured in my columns and broadcasts as a (hopefully good natured) running gag. I am, just slightly, nervous of kidnapping. Anyway, the radio show is coming from Wick on Thursday and Friday, which should be interesting.

After that it's a convoluted journey to Glasgow and then back to Aberdeen and home. all of which will take a week or so. And by which time, the camper van should be fixed and MOT'd. Did I mention that it's a Ford Transit? Called Gloria. As in, wait for it, Sic Transit Gloria Mundi. Or just Sick Transit.

Skipwatch Day Four, drink, Scotland, some pipes and a mattress

There's a story over at the Sunday Herald, jumping the gun on figures due out tomorrow regarding drinking (of alcohol) in Scotland. I find myself in the peculiar position of being a semi-pro drinker (in that I get paid for writing about whisky) who is beginning to realise that enough is well and truly enough, both personally and....what's the right word? Collectively? Socially? Politically?
So...mine's a soda water and lime (or one of those rather delicious Cherry Diet Cokes). For the time being. For more see the Nippy Sweeties blog or, if you're on Facebook, the Aff It group.
Anyway, a fantastic weekend of weather in the Zetlandic Archipelago, featuring, for the first time in many years, North Atlantic sunburn. I write after a Sunday spent lazing about and then pedalling (stupidly not a road bike) 11 miles from Brae to Hillswick against a vicious and unexpected little wind. On the way I passed these pipes, which are hidden away in a quarry I've barely noticed in the car and which, by the presence of empty wine bottles and, uh, a mattress, seem to be a place of (how can I put this?) assignation.

And finally, Skipwatch Day Four: It's full! Everything including a chest freezer. The Cross of St George, alas, has gone.

Skipwatch: Day 2. Plus a horse and a camper van

The Hillswick skipsaga continues. Someone has removed the keyboards, the crash helmet and the computers (if they were ever there; I may have been imagining them) and left the English flag flying proudly over the rubbish. What is the message?

Meanwhile, I have been making my own contribution, courtesy of the Radiocroft's bathroom renovation. I used the camper for bruck-transportation, and wondered briefly about simply equipping it as a luxurious mobile bathroom. But no, I don't think so. It's in for an MOT on Monday, which is cutting it fine for my planned trip south on Wednesday. We shall see...

Meanwhile, the story continues. Oh, and that's a horse.