Reflections of a Scottish Fiddler
By Arthur Scott Robertson
The war to end all wars had ended itself on 11th November, 1918, and I, at the age of seven, found myself with rather confused tangential recollections of pervading sadness and gloom; of a nation fighting for freedom and at the same time denying it to those summoned to fight.
Some returned, but so many did not. Our croft was in the valley of Grunafirth, from which it in turn took its name, and lay 18 miles north of the town of Lerwick.
A house of four rooms provided adequate accommodation for the family, and careful husbandry ensured a healthy subsistence level. In the ben, or best ,room was a piano and suspended on the wall a fiddle. My father was the fiddler, my mother pianist and church organist, but both instruments had remained mute during the years of international conflict and anguish.
Ecstasy
A time, however, had to come when music would serve as a palliative to melancholy, and only then was I introduced to the magic of instrumental harmony. Transported, this, my very first ecstasy lives with me to this day.
The need for a fiddle for me was immediate and I was spared a lengthy wait; but I have no recollection of ever of ever using a half- or three-quarters size instruments.
Until I went to school in Lerwick I played mostly by ear for probably three years, and during that time came under the influence of Willie Hunter of Billister, a fiddler of great ability and greater modesty. He was the first of those talented musicians who, all my life, appear to have been waiting in the wings, ready to advise and assist me. In due course I shall pay grateful tribute.
It was inevitable that over the years I should by observing, listening, trial and error, reach firm conclusions on how to play and interpret Scottish fiddle music. These I hope to impart in due course, without tutorial intent. I have to declare an aversion to dogma and bigotry. Jocosely the two ugly sisters of music, in culinary allegory they may be referred to as the diet of cultural constipation!
1920-24
After resisting the idea for years I finally accede to the encouragement of attentive friends who feel I should express myself on the subjects of fiddle playing and life. Living is easy – you’ve only got to breathe, but fiddle playing is infinitely more difficult. It is an art offering little reward apart from the satisfaction of personal achievement.
My prime intention is to produce a light-hearted portrayal of how I adjusted and thereafter re-adjusted along life’s kharmic groove, interpolating casual fiddle playing wherever it fitted best. There was no incentive until……..but that comes later. I shall be ambitiously anecdotal, objective, reasonably chronological and hopefully interesting.
Amused
Glancing at what others do I am amused to discover that an increasing number of people appear to have forgotten their birth date. ‘Born at an early age’ is a jestful legend, but when the laughter subsides no date is volunteered. It is safe to say that men are more guilty than women, but then they usually are, aren’t they? If a fiddler claims that he started to play at an early age the cynic would probably ask why? But more seriously I believe we all have asked ourselves the question as discouraging situations arose, but then just resolutely carried on.
Let me now be retrospective and revert to the period 1920-24. An only son in an isolated crafting environment, my attitude to it was polarised in a distaste for the bucolic life and predilection for fiddle playing. In later life I never miss the opportunity of a holiday in the country. Particularly unpopular were the daily long walks with father over the hill pasture during the lambing season, but one day he told me an interesting story.
Pointing to a spot not far away he informed me it was known as Mary Morrison’s grave. Before his day and before roads were made this poor old woman had died on her way home from a distant village. Not unusually, a rough coffin was constructed from the tarred timber of an old boat and Mary was buried where she died, in an unconsecrated, unmarked grave. We walked over to where there appeared to be a slight depression in the ground. Father pushed his staff about three feet into the soil and made positive contact with the wooden coffin. It had been perfectly preserved in the moor, but when the staff was withdrawn, gasses were released which made us move quickly up wind.
Twelve dwelling houses nestled in Grunafirth Valley and in only two was the fiddle to be found – our house and that of my uncle. They were conveniently juxtaposed and gave shelter to Grunafirth’s only three fiddlers – my father, my uncle and just qualifying for mention – me.
Indispensable for dancing in Shetland, as elsewhere, the fiddler was a man of considerable importance. But in a more general context people listened appreciatively to fiddle music and each district gave chauvinistic support to their local favourite. My parents used to pass on to me the names of these dilettantes with respectful comment.
Friendly Fiddler
About 15 years ago, my wife Nelly, son Neil and I were spending a short holiday in the country. A friendly fiddler who lived nearby used to call occasionally for a chat, a tune, a dram or preferably all three. Recalling that fiddler X of earlier repute had lived in the vicinity I inquired of my friend if he had known or known of him.
Oh yes, as a young man he had known X – a very good player, but he always had some difficulty with ‘The De’il Among the Taylors’. Thereafter, any confidence I may have had in hearsay evaporated.
In the early ‘20s a neighbour working in Edinburgh came home on holiday and brought with her an HMV photograph. It bore a label depicting a dog peering into the horn and used barrel records. Invited to come and listen I was thus introduced to the playing of James Scott Skinner and experienced my second ecstasy. It was inconceivable to me that a fiddle could be manipulated to produce such magic and from that day I have held the conviction that Scottish traditional fiddle music is unmatched by any other. The permutations of bowing and fingering are unlimited and to this day fall far short in exhaustive exploration.
Christened James Skinner, he paid homage to a favourite dancing master, William Scott, by adopting his surname as a middle name. Eventually he was more familiarly referred to as Scott Skinner.
He started to play the fiddle about 1850 at the age of seven, and in 1852 came under the influence of Peter Milne of Tarland, who inculcated in his the distinctive characteristics of Scottish idiom. Later he was to emerge as a dancing master. In 1855 he enlisted in Dr Mark’s celebrated troup of ‘Little Men’, at that time performing in Aberdeen.
He moved with them to their headquarters in Manchester, there to start a six years’ course which he did not complete. However, he had the good fortune to meet Charles Rougier, and under his tuition studied Kreutzer, a French violinist of considerable stature.
Prolific Composer
To this, Skinner attributes his significant progress in both classical and traditional music. A prolific composer and outstanding player, he imparted original ideas and renewed vigour to a rather ailing tradition. Undoubtedly, our leading composer I rather feel he permitted himself to compose too many tunes, consequently many below his optimum. Those who claim to play in his style are simply only playing his compositions. His style was as singular as his temperament, but there are 100 other ways to demonstrate individualism.
Shetland has always depended on the sea as the provider of both food and subsidy. Local fishing activity apart, many of the male population had to join the Merchant Navy or settle for other nautical employment. In the ‘20s some were attracted to whaling in the Antarctic, enlisting with Salvasen of Leith on seasonal engagements. South Georgia was the base, working with Norwegian crews.
Return
One year, two young men from Grunafirth were recruited and missing their company, I looked forward to their return with anticipation. One arrived with a small, rather unpredictable monkey he had acquired in South America. It had an obscene habit of excreting in its hand and then throwing the product at whoever it did not like. Unhappily, I was often selected for target practice and I abhorred it.
The other whaler had managed to memorise about four bars of a Norwegian tune he had picked up from a workmate. I, in turn, committed it to memory and thereafter tried it out for identification on a succession of Norwegians, but without success. Finally, after I started to compose, I incorporated it in my tune ‘Shetland’s Voes and Gios’ without any sense of guilt. Had I not plagiarised this little phrase it might have been lost.
My father and mother were religious – sensibly, but firmly so. On Saturday, preparations for the Sabbath were routine. The livingroom floor was scrubbed and all thereon made to shine. Father’s white shirt with starched cuffs and starched collar were laundered and suspended on the pulley.
More than likely I would have been contemplating tomorrow’s obligatory mountaineering stroll to church, or perhaps thumbing through the new ‘Magnet’ to discover what the obese Billy bunter had been up to. In any case, as sure as night follows day was our departure for church the following morning.
High Principle
My mother was organist and had to be there, father, a choir member, and I sat with him. Our minister was the Rev George Brewster, a man of high principle and multiple attributes who commanded respect from all who knew him and listened to his preaching.
I gradually found myself genuinely incapable of grasping the suggested implications of original sin, virgin birth and vicarious atonement.At the same time I was imbued with the conviction that the power of reasoning was a divine gift and that it alone could resolve the internecine mental conflict of dogma versus reason which consumed me. Reason prevailed.
It became traditional that I would have something to eat on he way and before we entered church. About two-thirds along the way there was a large conoid stone with a flattened side and on it a ledge on which I could sit and eat. But above the ledge was a sharp protrusion which jutted into my back and removed any semblance of comfort. I would have been better eating on the hoof, but was single-minded and/or stubborn. This rock was thereafter known as the bread stone and I still point it out to traveling companions.
Aware in the summer of 1924 that I should be leaving home and going to school in Lerwick that year, I seem to remember accepting it as inevitable with appropriate detachment. The future was opaque. Would it possibly provide the third ecstasy?
As the future advanced in my direction, the receding past became more and more kaleidoscopic than real. It is well, therefore, to take a parting look at the old home and be reminded of those things which engender nostalgia.
I was born on the island of Bressay, from where my parents returned to the family croft in Grunafirth when I was two years old. There are a few ill-defined recollections of Bressay.
The Great War was imminent and my father more than once told me of a dream experience he had on the night prior to Britain’s declaration of war on Germany on 4th August, 1914. He did not sleep well, drifting much of the time between consciousness and unconsciousness, but all the time he appeared to hear the interminable sound of marching feet. He accepted it as a premonition of the grave tidings in store.
The school was in the next valley at Laxfirth, and it accommodated about a dozen pupils. To reach it I had to traverse two miles of rough hill ground daily. The lack of a village hall necessitated the school being used for concerts, occasional religious services etc.
Novel Items
The first concert I ever attended was in the school. My mother sang ‘The Cameron Men’ in rich contralto and a young man, Willie Hunter, played melodiously on the fiddle, More of him anon. There was also a novel item on the programme which merits special mention. When he retired a local deep sea man had acquired one of these gramophones with a large fluted horn probably the first to come into the district. He now carried it onto the stage and prepared for action; wound it up, swiveled the horn round towards the audience and laid on the first record – or was it an album? The turntable was released, the soundbox placed on the record with care and the sound emerged. The audience were entranced and while they continued to be entranced the operator assumed a statuesque-like posture on centre stage, proceeding to scrutinize the assembly with great interest. It was unforgettable.
Again in the school, a startling precognitive assertion was made at an evangelical meeting. This itinerant preacher visited the district regularly, was a good man, wore long leather leggings and was obviously ambitious. At this particular meeting I remember only one sentence towards the end of the sermon – “I’m not going to be an angel – I’m going to be an archangel.” He has never been proved wrong.
There was an indefinable quality of fiddle playing which belonged exclusively to William A. Hunter of Billister, Nesting, Shetland, a quality which set him apart from contemporaries. When I first knew Willie he was serving his apprenticeship in Lerwick as a blacksmith / farrier.
Careful Attention
As circumstances permitted he cycled home, 18 hilly miles distant, for an occasional weekend. If neighbouring crofters knew he was due home there might well be three horse waiting at his door to be shod. With never a sign of reluctance he would accept the inevitable, have a bite to eat and get on with it.
I never missed the opportunity to accompany my father when either of our horses required attention. With considerable impatience I would wait and watch while each animal received the measure of careful attention to its footwear which a ballerina might well envy.
Shoeing over, Willie’s mother would take us all in for supper – home bakes and tea before a blazing peat fire. Then always, no matter how tired, the patient, gentlemanly Willie would take down his fiddle and play. I could not know at the time that I was listening to one of the finest natural fiddlers Shetland has ever produced. He never sought the limelight and was always quite content to participate in group playing.
Completing his apprenticeship, Willie emigrated to New Zealand, leaving behind his fiancé Annie Irving of Whalsay. The evening before he left I cycled over to say goodbye, and as I did heartbreak was in the air. It was late when I left for home, a beautiful moonlight night, but I had forgotten that on the way I had to pass the cemetery at a desolate spot. My grief was forgotten as I pedalled furiously past it.
Four years later, Willie returned to Shetland, led Annie to the alter and settled down with his own smithy. They have been my life-long friends and sadly Willie is no longer with us. He was one of nature’s modest gentlemen and before he left us I composed two tunes – ‘The Modest Fiddler’ and ‘The Modest Fiddler’s Wife’.
I am so pleased I did – bless them both.
Heavy Gunfire
The Battle of Jutland was fought to its inconclusion in 1916, the news only to reach Grunafirth as it filtered through security. However, when it did, my aunt immediately associated it with heavy gunfire which had been heard to the east of Shetland about the same time. She could relate that gunfire continued well into the night and that, just in the interests of safety, she propped a pillow up in front of her face before going to sleep. ‘Protection is not a principle, but an expedient!’
A Naval Flying Boat Station was established at Catfirth, about six miles away, and I recall generous ratings sharing their ration of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate with me. They obviously did not fly without mishap, because I remember passing by Catfirth years later and observing the nose section of a flying boat in use as a shelter for ducks. It was somehow fitting that this aircraft fragment should continue to be associated with heavier than air flight. At the same time I am by no means certain that the Catfirth ducks could ever have aspired to such aeronautic distinction.
Adjoining our croft house a more recent utility annex had been built, quickly becoming an inestimable multi-purpose convenience. My mother used it for washing, my father and uncle for cutting down kail and turnips for animal food. The meal girnel stood handy inside the door. As required, my aunt could caird and spin there in comfort, always prepared to sing for me on request. Barbara Allen comes to mind.
Seclusion
It also offered a degree of seclusion indispensable for the confidential exchange of gossip, and from time to time my aunt’s favourite crony would be invited in of an evening. I always endeavoured to attend, but was not a welcome guest. These two devised a doggerel esparanto and mistakenly concluded I would not be able to understand it. But I was, and therefore had to exercise iron control of facial expressions as I listened. There were startling details of what people in our valley, and beyond, had been up to, and I quickly realised there was indeed more to life than just breathing. It need hardly be said that when I was later subjected to information regarding birds and bees I received it with silent amusement.
Sheepdog
The annex was also the home of our sheepdog, and black-and-tan endowed with the traditional Grunafirth name of Dash. In his youth there had been dogmatic (sic) assertions that he was retarded, and there was supporting evidence. Whenever experienced dogs were rounding up sheep Dash had difficulty in deciding who was, or should be, chasing who. If the proximity of sheep was ever, in his opinion, a threat to his safety he would leap into the yard and then peer anxiously over the protecting dyke. All the known stratagems for discouraging such craven behaviour were tried, plus a few incipient experiments in canine psychiatry; all to no avail until, without warning, a metamorphic change was observed to be taking place, and Dash became a sheepdog of improving competence.
Denied entry to the house at any time he did enjoy the concession of leaning his left shoulder on the door jamb and from that viewpoint observing what his betters were doing within. He could also savour the salivating odours of cooking food, but was too loyal a servant to develop any socialistic ambitions regarding his possible eligibility to share such luxury. No stranger to the immutable law of cause and effect, he well knew that if he permitted his left shoulder to edge just a little too far beyond the door’s jamb a fairly solid projectile would leave my mother’s hand and arrive in an area where his body was likely to intercept it.
Problem
In later years, when I would decide to go home for a weekend by push-bike or motor-bike, Dash would meet me on the road about a mile from home. Nobody knew I was coming. How did he?
This midsummer morning in 1924 I sat in the livingroom, conscious of familiar background noises – my mother’s morning routine. Dash leaned against the door jamb and a ray of brilliant sunlight by-passed him through the open door, revealing a dozen dust particles suspended in leisurely motion. I was dealing with a problem and the dog wore a sympathetic look as he kept me under observation.
In prospect for me was either a Further Education Course at Anderson Educational Institute, leading hopefully to university, or a three-year commercial course at Lerwick Central School leading nowhere in particular.
The decision, for some unaccountable reason, was left to me, and not for the last time in my life I chose the path of least resistance – opting for the latter. Hopefully, a path along which stumbling blocks could be transformed into stepping stones.
Whalsay
My mother, Katherine Hutchison, left her native island of Whalsay when she was appointed to teach in Laxfirth School. There she met and later married my father, John Scott Robertson. Earlier in this narrative, Laxfirth School was mentioned as the venue for occasional concerts and religious services.
Our eventual home in Grunafirth was not far away and within easy walking distance of both was Billister, the focal point for random ferry traffic to and from Whalsay. On my early holiday jaunts across the tidal sound I developed an apprehensive aversion to sailing over currugated salt water, and ever since have had a preference for unturbulence both at sea and ashore.
Magic
In the ‘20s this was a magic island, offering an optimal variety of new and exciting diversions. Sea fishing was foremost and I followed the example of all Whalsay youths and learned to swim. My Aunt Margaret, with whom I lived, was a supreme hostess and to cross her threshold was to enter an ambience of loving, cheerful concern. She had a son and two daughters, all school children. Her husband, my mother’s brother Peter, had been lost when his ship HMS Ramsay was sunk on 8th August 1915 (an armed boarding steamer, sunk by German auxiliary minelayer Meteor in North Sea). In Shetland’s ‘Roll of Honour’ I find the names of three Whalsay hutchisons who served on and went gown with the Ramsay – all related.
HUTCHISON, John, Seaman, RNR, C 2805
HUTCHISON, Peter, Seaman, RNR, B 2753
HUTCHISON, William J, Seaman, RNR, A 2519
My aunt was one of those remarkable women of that day who accepted widowhood with the same measure of courage as that required to raise a young family without a provider. Canonisation is only achieved after passing beyond the portals which separate time from eternity, but to me she epitomised saintliness and bravery in generous endowment as she accepted the mundane challenge. Once in hospital for a fairly severe operation, her morning reading was interrupted to prepare her for the operation. When she was wheeled into the theatre there was a delay and she was returned to the ward to wait. She promptly asked for her book and was able to finish her story before the operation.
The Whalsay fisherman, apart from his professional understanding of fish and fishing, was often found to be a keen and knowledgeable ornithologist. He may have sailed all over the world doing a youthful stint in the Merchant Navy, then returning home to fulfill his destiny as a family man.
An interesting recollection relates to the herring fishing fleet, at that time all under sail. The market was in Lerwick and returning from the fishing grounds north of Shetland the boats all passed through Linga Sound, close inshore. As each boat passed a prearranged observation point on Whalsay, someone would be waiting to receive a signal specifying the catch. The helmsman at the stern would take off his cap and start a backward/forward motion holding his cap above his head. Each sweep forward of the cap indicated 4 cran (16 baskets), and from this information those at home were enabled to make a rough daily estimate of income.
As I first knew Whalsay, so will I always remember it ; a tranquil moral community living close to nature and sustained by it. Avoiding invidious comparisons, if the word civilization means what I think it does, then it surely peaked on this island in the ‘20s.
Music Lovers
Fiddle playing was endemic and such players as Glybie and Gibbie o’ da Creads will long be remembered. The people wwere all music lovers and in a small shop near Cready Knowe, the shopkeeper Andrew Polson kept his fiddle ; we never failed to give it regular exercise. Music and magic all the way.
The years have passed, life’s patterns changed and my link with Whalsay increasingly tenuous. Nature has taken its toll of older friends, but with those who remain the priceless bond of friendship is unimpaired.
Magnus Gray Jnr of the whaler Diana
On 8th May, 1866, the Hull whaler Diana sailed from Lerwick bound for Davis Straits, Greenland, in search of whales and seals. The ships compliment was 51, including 26 Shetlanders. Of these, two were from Dury in the parish of North Nesting, Magnus Gray and his son Magnus, aged 16.
They entered Greenland waters on 17th May with the anticipation of hunting until early August. They would then be clearing the area in time to avoid being trapped in the ice ; but with dire consequences the Diana was trapped and thereafter she was missing until she staggered into Ronas Voe, Shetland, on 2nd April, 1867.
The crew was ravaged by starvation and scurvy ; eight corpses lay on the deck. A total of 13 died including the captain, nine of them Shetlanders, but Magnus Gray Jnr and his father survived. The details of this disastrous voyage can be found in the book ‘From the Deep of the Sea’ by the ships surgeon C. E. Smith.
As the faculty of child memory develops, visitors to the home tend to be indexed in relation to whatever brings them there. I recall with pleasure and a sense of historic privilege the appearances of our postman Magnus Gray. The ageing postman of 1920 was the quondam ship’s boy of 1866.
Boyhood Image
After an adventurous life at sea, Magnus embarked on the sea of matrimony and was married to Mary Leask, also from Dury. Some years later he moved with his family to Kirkabister four miles away, leaving his three sisters in the old home in Dury. Kirkabister is within easy access of Brettabister Post Office, which served the parish of North Nesting, including Neap, Kirkabister, Housabister, Laxfirth, Billister and Grunafirth. This was where we find Magnus in his ultimate role of crofter / postman. His delivery mileage would be 10 / 12.
I retained a vivid boyhood image of Magnus arriving with mailbag on back, supported by a strap over each shoulder. His bag was seldom empty as he could never resist a request for him to carry back parcels and letters for posing. His sisters in Dury always had a meal waiting for him before he took the road back.
Brettabister Post Office had no telephone. The nearest was at Skellister Post Office three miles to the south, so the people of Dury had the doubtful option of walking six miles to Skellister to phone for a doctor or six miles in the opposite direction to where the doctor lived at Voe. Only bad news came by telegram. Delivery was on foot by a volunteer from the Skellister area – remuneration two shillings and sixpence ; payable by the recipient.
Phenomenon
Magnus died in 1924 and was predeceased by one of the three sisters at Dury. My parents were told by the two remaining sisters that before Magnus passed on they say him or rather his feynes (a premonitive apparition), approaching the house. Such a phenomenon would be classified as supernatural – but was it? It is a reasonable postulate that everything, micro or macro, atom to constellation, physical to metaphysical, is within the control of natural law. And if this law was framed by a cosmic intelligence quite beyond our comprehension, nothing can possibly be supernatural. However, if normal is accepted as the level of our understanding then what we cannot understand must obviously be supernormal. We know what happens – we know not why.
But we do know why the good ship Diana and the ship’s boy Magnus Gray have earned honourable mention in the annals of nautical disaster.
Box and Fiddle
November 1985 Year 9 No 3
Some returned, but so many did not. Our croft was in the valley of Grunafirth, from which it in turn took its name, and lay 18 miles north of the town of Lerwick.
A house of four rooms provided adequate accommodation for the family, and careful husbandry ensured a healthy subsistence level. In the ben, or best ,room was a piano and suspended on the wall a fiddle. My father was the fiddler, my mother pianist and church organist, but both instruments had remained mute during the years of international conflict and anguish.
Ecstasy
A time, however, had to come when music would serve as a palliative to melancholy, and only then was I introduced to the magic of instrumental harmony. Transported, this, my very first ecstasy lives with me to this day.
The need for a fiddle for me was immediate and I was spared a lengthy wait; but I have no recollection of ever of ever using a half- or three-quarters size instruments.
Until I went to school in Lerwick I played mostly by ear for probably three years, and during that time came under the influence of Willie Hunter of Billister, a fiddler of great ability and greater modesty. He was the first of those talented musicians who, all my life, appear to have been waiting in the wings, ready to advise and assist me. In due course I shall pay grateful tribute.
It was inevitable that over the years I should by observing, listening, trial and error, reach firm conclusions on how to play and interpret Scottish fiddle music. These I hope to impart in due course, without tutorial intent. I have to declare an aversion to dogma and bigotry. Jocosely the two ugly sisters of music, in culinary allegory they may be referred to as the diet of cultural constipation!
1920-24
After resisting the idea for years I finally accede to the encouragement of attentive friends who feel I should express myself on the subjects of fiddle playing and life. Living is easy – you’ve only got to breathe, but fiddle playing is infinitely more difficult. It is an art offering little reward apart from the satisfaction of personal achievement.
My prime intention is to produce a light-hearted portrayal of how I adjusted and thereafter re-adjusted along life’s kharmic groove, interpolating casual fiddle playing wherever it fitted best. There was no incentive until……..but that comes later. I shall be ambitiously anecdotal, objective, reasonably chronological and hopefully interesting.
Amused
Glancing at what others do I am amused to discover that an increasing number of people appear to have forgotten their birth date. ‘Born at an early age’ is a jestful legend, but when the laughter subsides no date is volunteered. It is safe to say that men are more guilty than women, but then they usually are, aren’t they? If a fiddler claims that he started to play at an early age the cynic would probably ask why? But more seriously I believe we all have asked ourselves the question as discouraging situations arose, but then just resolutely carried on.
Let me now be retrospective and revert to the period 1920-24. An only son in an isolated crafting environment, my attitude to it was polarised in a distaste for the bucolic life and predilection for fiddle playing. In later life I never miss the opportunity of a holiday in the country. Particularly unpopular were the daily long walks with father over the hill pasture during the lambing season, but one day he told me an interesting story.
Pointing to a spot not far away he informed me it was known as Mary Morrison’s grave. Before his day and before roads were made this poor old woman had died on her way home from a distant village. Not unusually, a rough coffin was constructed from the tarred timber of an old boat and Mary was buried where she died, in an unconsecrated, unmarked grave. We walked over to where there appeared to be a slight depression in the ground. Father pushed his staff about three feet into the soil and made positive contact with the wooden coffin. It had been perfectly preserved in the moor, but when the staff was withdrawn, gasses were released which made us move quickly up wind.
Twelve dwelling houses nestled in Grunafirth Valley and in only two was the fiddle to be found – our house and that of my uncle. They were conveniently juxtaposed and gave shelter to Grunafirth’s only three fiddlers – my father, my uncle and just qualifying for mention – me.
Indispensable for dancing in Shetland, as elsewhere, the fiddler was a man of considerable importance. But in a more general context people listened appreciatively to fiddle music and each district gave chauvinistic support to their local favourite. My parents used to pass on to me the names of these dilettantes with respectful comment.
Friendly Fiddler
About 15 years ago, my wife Nelly, son Neil and I were spending a short holiday in the country. A friendly fiddler who lived nearby used to call occasionally for a chat, a tune, a dram or preferably all three. Recalling that fiddler X of earlier repute had lived in the vicinity I inquired of my friend if he had known or known of him.
Oh yes, as a young man he had known X – a very good player, but he always had some difficulty with ‘The De’il Among the Taylors’. Thereafter, any confidence I may have had in hearsay evaporated.
In the early ‘20s a neighbour working in Edinburgh came home on holiday and brought with her an HMV photograph. It bore a label depicting a dog peering into the horn and used barrel records. Invited to come and listen I was thus introduced to the playing of James Scott Skinner and experienced my second ecstasy. It was inconceivable to me that a fiddle could be manipulated to produce such magic and from that day I have held the conviction that Scottish traditional fiddle music is unmatched by any other. The permutations of bowing and fingering are unlimited and to this day fall far short in exhaustive exploration.
Christened James Skinner, he paid homage to a favourite dancing master, William Scott, by adopting his surname as a middle name. Eventually he was more familiarly referred to as Scott Skinner.
He started to play the fiddle about 1850 at the age of seven, and in 1852 came under the influence of Peter Milne of Tarland, who inculcated in his the distinctive characteristics of Scottish idiom. Later he was to emerge as a dancing master. In 1855 he enlisted in Dr Mark’s celebrated troup of ‘Little Men’, at that time performing in Aberdeen.
He moved with them to their headquarters in Manchester, there to start a six years’ course which he did not complete. However, he had the good fortune to meet Charles Rougier, and under his tuition studied Kreutzer, a French violinist of considerable stature.
Prolific Composer
To this, Skinner attributes his significant progress in both classical and traditional music. A prolific composer and outstanding player, he imparted original ideas and renewed vigour to a rather ailing tradition. Undoubtedly, our leading composer I rather feel he permitted himself to compose too many tunes, consequently many below his optimum. Those who claim to play in his style are simply only playing his compositions. His style was as singular as his temperament, but there are 100 other ways to demonstrate individualism.
Shetland has always depended on the sea as the provider of both food and subsidy. Local fishing activity apart, many of the male population had to join the Merchant Navy or settle for other nautical employment. In the ‘20s some were attracted to whaling in the Antarctic, enlisting with Salvasen of Leith on seasonal engagements. South Georgia was the base, working with Norwegian crews.
Return
One year, two young men from Grunafirth were recruited and missing their company, I looked forward to their return with anticipation. One arrived with a small, rather unpredictable monkey he had acquired in South America. It had an obscene habit of excreting in its hand and then throwing the product at whoever it did not like. Unhappily, I was often selected for target practice and I abhorred it.
The other whaler had managed to memorise about four bars of a Norwegian tune he had picked up from a workmate. I, in turn, committed it to memory and thereafter tried it out for identification on a succession of Norwegians, but without success. Finally, after I started to compose, I incorporated it in my tune ‘Shetland’s Voes and Gios’ without any sense of guilt. Had I not plagiarised this little phrase it might have been lost.
My father and mother were religious – sensibly, but firmly so. On Saturday, preparations for the Sabbath were routine. The livingroom floor was scrubbed and all thereon made to shine. Father’s white shirt with starched cuffs and starched collar were laundered and suspended on the pulley.
More than likely I would have been contemplating tomorrow’s obligatory mountaineering stroll to church, or perhaps thumbing through the new ‘Magnet’ to discover what the obese Billy bunter had been up to. In any case, as sure as night follows day was our departure for church the following morning.
High Principle
My mother was organist and had to be there, father, a choir member, and I sat with him. Our minister was the Rev George Brewster, a man of high principle and multiple attributes who commanded respect from all who knew him and listened to his preaching.
I gradually found myself genuinely incapable of grasping the suggested implications of original sin, virgin birth and vicarious atonement.At the same time I was imbued with the conviction that the power of reasoning was a divine gift and that it alone could resolve the internecine mental conflict of dogma versus reason which consumed me. Reason prevailed.
It became traditional that I would have something to eat on he way and before we entered church. About two-thirds along the way there was a large conoid stone with a flattened side and on it a ledge on which I could sit and eat. But above the ledge was a sharp protrusion which jutted into my back and removed any semblance of comfort. I would have been better eating on the hoof, but was single-minded and/or stubborn. This rock was thereafter known as the bread stone and I still point it out to traveling companions.
Aware in the summer of 1924 that I should be leaving home and going to school in Lerwick that year, I seem to remember accepting it as inevitable with appropriate detachment. The future was opaque. Would it possibly provide the third ecstasy?
As the future advanced in my direction, the receding past became more and more kaleidoscopic than real. It is well, therefore, to take a parting look at the old home and be reminded of those things which engender nostalgia.
I was born on the island of Bressay, from where my parents returned to the family croft in Grunafirth when I was two years old. There are a few ill-defined recollections of Bressay.
The Great War was imminent and my father more than once told me of a dream experience he had on the night prior to Britain’s declaration of war on Germany on 4th August, 1914. He did not sleep well, drifting much of the time between consciousness and unconsciousness, but all the time he appeared to hear the interminable sound of marching feet. He accepted it as a premonition of the grave tidings in store.
The school was in the next valley at Laxfirth, and it accommodated about a dozen pupils. To reach it I had to traverse two miles of rough hill ground daily. The lack of a village hall necessitated the school being used for concerts, occasional religious services etc.
Novel Items
The first concert I ever attended was in the school. My mother sang ‘The Cameron Men’ in rich contralto and a young man, Willie Hunter, played melodiously on the fiddle, More of him anon. There was also a novel item on the programme which merits special mention. When he retired a local deep sea man had acquired one of these gramophones with a large fluted horn probably the first to come into the district. He now carried it onto the stage and prepared for action; wound it up, swiveled the horn round towards the audience and laid on the first record – or was it an album? The turntable was released, the soundbox placed on the record with care and the sound emerged. The audience were entranced and while they continued to be entranced the operator assumed a statuesque-like posture on centre stage, proceeding to scrutinize the assembly with great interest. It was unforgettable.
Again in the school, a startling precognitive assertion was made at an evangelical meeting. This itinerant preacher visited the district regularly, was a good man, wore long leather leggings and was obviously ambitious. At this particular meeting I remember only one sentence towards the end of the sermon – “I’m not going to be an angel – I’m going to be an archangel.” He has never been proved wrong.
There was an indefinable quality of fiddle playing which belonged exclusively to William A. Hunter of Billister, Nesting, Shetland, a quality which set him apart from contemporaries. When I first knew Willie he was serving his apprenticeship in Lerwick as a blacksmith / farrier.
Careful Attention
As circumstances permitted he cycled home, 18 hilly miles distant, for an occasional weekend. If neighbouring crofters knew he was due home there might well be three horse waiting at his door to be shod. With never a sign of reluctance he would accept the inevitable, have a bite to eat and get on with it.
I never missed the opportunity to accompany my father when either of our horses required attention. With considerable impatience I would wait and watch while each animal received the measure of careful attention to its footwear which a ballerina might well envy.
Shoeing over, Willie’s mother would take us all in for supper – home bakes and tea before a blazing peat fire. Then always, no matter how tired, the patient, gentlemanly Willie would take down his fiddle and play. I could not know at the time that I was listening to one of the finest natural fiddlers Shetland has ever produced. He never sought the limelight and was always quite content to participate in group playing.
Completing his apprenticeship, Willie emigrated to New Zealand, leaving behind his fiancé Annie Irving of Whalsay. The evening before he left I cycled over to say goodbye, and as I did heartbreak was in the air. It was late when I left for home, a beautiful moonlight night, but I had forgotten that on the way I had to pass the cemetery at a desolate spot. My grief was forgotten as I pedalled furiously past it.
Four years later, Willie returned to Shetland, led Annie to the alter and settled down with his own smithy. They have been my life-long friends and sadly Willie is no longer with us. He was one of nature’s modest gentlemen and before he left us I composed two tunes – ‘The Modest Fiddler’ and ‘The Modest Fiddler’s Wife’.
I am so pleased I did – bless them both.
Heavy Gunfire
The Battle of Jutland was fought to its inconclusion in 1916, the news only to reach Grunafirth as it filtered through security. However, when it did, my aunt immediately associated it with heavy gunfire which had been heard to the east of Shetland about the same time. She could relate that gunfire continued well into the night and that, just in the interests of safety, she propped a pillow up in front of her face before going to sleep. ‘Protection is not a principle, but an expedient!’
A Naval Flying Boat Station was established at Catfirth, about six miles away, and I recall generous ratings sharing their ration of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate with me. They obviously did not fly without mishap, because I remember passing by Catfirth years later and observing the nose section of a flying boat in use as a shelter for ducks. It was somehow fitting that this aircraft fragment should continue to be associated with heavier than air flight. At the same time I am by no means certain that the Catfirth ducks could ever have aspired to such aeronautic distinction.
Adjoining our croft house a more recent utility annex had been built, quickly becoming an inestimable multi-purpose convenience. My mother used it for washing, my father and uncle for cutting down kail and turnips for animal food. The meal girnel stood handy inside the door. As required, my aunt could caird and spin there in comfort, always prepared to sing for me on request. Barbara Allen comes to mind.
Seclusion
It also offered a degree of seclusion indispensable for the confidential exchange of gossip, and from time to time my aunt’s favourite crony would be invited in of an evening. I always endeavoured to attend, but was not a welcome guest. These two devised a doggerel esparanto and mistakenly concluded I would not be able to understand it. But I was, and therefore had to exercise iron control of facial expressions as I listened. There were startling details of what people in our valley, and beyond, had been up to, and I quickly realised there was indeed more to life than just breathing. It need hardly be said that when I was later subjected to information regarding birds and bees I received it with silent amusement.
Sheepdog
The annex was also the home of our sheepdog, and black-and-tan endowed with the traditional Grunafirth name of Dash. In his youth there had been dogmatic (sic) assertions that he was retarded, and there was supporting evidence. Whenever experienced dogs were rounding up sheep Dash had difficulty in deciding who was, or should be, chasing who. If the proximity of sheep was ever, in his opinion, a threat to his safety he would leap into the yard and then peer anxiously over the protecting dyke. All the known stratagems for discouraging such craven behaviour were tried, plus a few incipient experiments in canine psychiatry; all to no avail until, without warning, a metamorphic change was observed to be taking place, and Dash became a sheepdog of improving competence.
Denied entry to the house at any time he did enjoy the concession of leaning his left shoulder on the door jamb and from that viewpoint observing what his betters were doing within. He could also savour the salivating odours of cooking food, but was too loyal a servant to develop any socialistic ambitions regarding his possible eligibility to share such luxury. No stranger to the immutable law of cause and effect, he well knew that if he permitted his left shoulder to edge just a little too far beyond the door’s jamb a fairly solid projectile would leave my mother’s hand and arrive in an area where his body was likely to intercept it.
Problem
In later years, when I would decide to go home for a weekend by push-bike or motor-bike, Dash would meet me on the road about a mile from home. Nobody knew I was coming. How did he?
This midsummer morning in 1924 I sat in the livingroom, conscious of familiar background noises – my mother’s morning routine. Dash leaned against the door jamb and a ray of brilliant sunlight by-passed him through the open door, revealing a dozen dust particles suspended in leisurely motion. I was dealing with a problem and the dog wore a sympathetic look as he kept me under observation.
In prospect for me was either a Further Education Course at Anderson Educational Institute, leading hopefully to university, or a three-year commercial course at Lerwick Central School leading nowhere in particular.
The decision, for some unaccountable reason, was left to me, and not for the last time in my life I chose the path of least resistance – opting for the latter. Hopefully, a path along which stumbling blocks could be transformed into stepping stones.
Whalsay
My mother, Katherine Hutchison, left her native island of Whalsay when she was appointed to teach in Laxfirth School. There she met and later married my father, John Scott Robertson. Earlier in this narrative, Laxfirth School was mentioned as the venue for occasional concerts and religious services.
Our eventual home in Grunafirth was not far away and within easy walking distance of both was Billister, the focal point for random ferry traffic to and from Whalsay. On my early holiday jaunts across the tidal sound I developed an apprehensive aversion to sailing over currugated salt water, and ever since have had a preference for unturbulence both at sea and ashore.
Magic
In the ‘20s this was a magic island, offering an optimal variety of new and exciting diversions. Sea fishing was foremost and I followed the example of all Whalsay youths and learned to swim. My Aunt Margaret, with whom I lived, was a supreme hostess and to cross her threshold was to enter an ambience of loving, cheerful concern. She had a son and two daughters, all school children. Her husband, my mother’s brother Peter, had been lost when his ship HMS Ramsay was sunk on 8th August 1915 (an armed boarding steamer, sunk by German auxiliary minelayer Meteor in North Sea). In Shetland’s ‘Roll of Honour’ I find the names of three Whalsay hutchisons who served on and went gown with the Ramsay – all related.
HUTCHISON, John, Seaman, RNR, C 2805
HUTCHISON, Peter, Seaman, RNR, B 2753
HUTCHISON, William J, Seaman, RNR, A 2519
My aunt was one of those remarkable women of that day who accepted widowhood with the same measure of courage as that required to raise a young family without a provider. Canonisation is only achieved after passing beyond the portals which separate time from eternity, but to me she epitomised saintliness and bravery in generous endowment as she accepted the mundane challenge. Once in hospital for a fairly severe operation, her morning reading was interrupted to prepare her for the operation. When she was wheeled into the theatre there was a delay and she was returned to the ward to wait. She promptly asked for her book and was able to finish her story before the operation.
The Whalsay fisherman, apart from his professional understanding of fish and fishing, was often found to be a keen and knowledgeable ornithologist. He may have sailed all over the world doing a youthful stint in the Merchant Navy, then returning home to fulfill his destiny as a family man.
An interesting recollection relates to the herring fishing fleet, at that time all under sail. The market was in Lerwick and returning from the fishing grounds north of Shetland the boats all passed through Linga Sound, close inshore. As each boat passed a prearranged observation point on Whalsay, someone would be waiting to receive a signal specifying the catch. The helmsman at the stern would take off his cap and start a backward/forward motion holding his cap above his head. Each sweep forward of the cap indicated 4 cran (16 baskets), and from this information those at home were enabled to make a rough daily estimate of income.
As I first knew Whalsay, so will I always remember it ; a tranquil moral community living close to nature and sustained by it. Avoiding invidious comparisons, if the word civilization means what I think it does, then it surely peaked on this island in the ‘20s.
Music Lovers
Fiddle playing was endemic and such players as Glybie and Gibbie o’ da Creads will long be remembered. The people wwere all music lovers and in a small shop near Cready Knowe, the shopkeeper Andrew Polson kept his fiddle ; we never failed to give it regular exercise. Music and magic all the way.
The years have passed, life’s patterns changed and my link with Whalsay increasingly tenuous. Nature has taken its toll of older friends, but with those who remain the priceless bond of friendship is unimpaired.
Magnus Gray Jnr of the whaler Diana
On 8th May, 1866, the Hull whaler Diana sailed from Lerwick bound for Davis Straits, Greenland, in search of whales and seals. The ships compliment was 51, including 26 Shetlanders. Of these, two were from Dury in the parish of North Nesting, Magnus Gray and his son Magnus, aged 16.
They entered Greenland waters on 17th May with the anticipation of hunting until early August. They would then be clearing the area in time to avoid being trapped in the ice ; but with dire consequences the Diana was trapped and thereafter she was missing until she staggered into Ronas Voe, Shetland, on 2nd April, 1867.
The crew was ravaged by starvation and scurvy ; eight corpses lay on the deck. A total of 13 died including the captain, nine of them Shetlanders, but Magnus Gray Jnr and his father survived. The details of this disastrous voyage can be found in the book ‘From the Deep of the Sea’ by the ships surgeon C. E. Smith.
As the faculty of child memory develops, visitors to the home tend to be indexed in relation to whatever brings them there. I recall with pleasure and a sense of historic privilege the appearances of our postman Magnus Gray. The ageing postman of 1920 was the quondam ship’s boy of 1866.
Boyhood Image
After an adventurous life at sea, Magnus embarked on the sea of matrimony and was married to Mary Leask, also from Dury. Some years later he moved with his family to Kirkabister four miles away, leaving his three sisters in the old home in Dury. Kirkabister is within easy access of Brettabister Post Office, which served the parish of North Nesting, including Neap, Kirkabister, Housabister, Laxfirth, Billister and Grunafirth. This was where we find Magnus in his ultimate role of crofter / postman. His delivery mileage would be 10 / 12.
I retained a vivid boyhood image of Magnus arriving with mailbag on back, supported by a strap over each shoulder. His bag was seldom empty as he could never resist a request for him to carry back parcels and letters for posing. His sisters in Dury always had a meal waiting for him before he took the road back.
Brettabister Post Office had no telephone. The nearest was at Skellister Post Office three miles to the south, so the people of Dury had the doubtful option of walking six miles to Skellister to phone for a doctor or six miles in the opposite direction to where the doctor lived at Voe. Only bad news came by telegram. Delivery was on foot by a volunteer from the Skellister area – remuneration two shillings and sixpence ; payable by the recipient.
Phenomenon
Magnus died in 1924 and was predeceased by one of the three sisters at Dury. My parents were told by the two remaining sisters that before Magnus passed on they say him or rather his feynes (a premonitive apparition), approaching the house. Such a phenomenon would be classified as supernatural – but was it? It is a reasonable postulate that everything, micro or macro, atom to constellation, physical to metaphysical, is within the control of natural law. And if this law was framed by a cosmic intelligence quite beyond our comprehension, nothing can possibly be supernatural. However, if normal is accepted as the level of our understanding then what we cannot understand must obviously be supernormal. We know what happens – we know not why.
But we do know why the good ship Diana and the ship’s boy Magnus Gray have earned honourable mention in the annals of nautical disaster.
Box and Fiddle
November 1985 Year 9 No 3