Unst is the most northerly of the Shetlands. At the northern extremity of the island is Muckle Flugga, a tiny islet with a lighthouse perched on top. Beyond that, there is another rock, Out Stack, and then nothing; well, nothing other than what Auden, in his Journey to Iceland, described as the “great plains... where the cold fish is hunted”.
The white cottage on the left of the photograph below is called Cockle Point. It is in the south of Unst, in the village of Uyeasound. Behind it are a few houses stretching along the bay. The cottage used to belong to my aunt, Marcia, known to us as Aunt Mah. When I was a student in Edinburgh in the late 1960s, I spent every university holiday there, summer and winter, including Christmas and New Year.
My step-grandfather also lived there, although he used to have a somewhat larger house, Maundeville, which was further up the hill behind Cockle Point. He came from a fairly distinguished Shetland family, the Neven-Spences. He had been a rubber planter in Malaya and had retired to Scotland at what struck me as a rather young age — but then I suppose the life of a rubber planter was a fairly hard one, what with the heat and the gin stingahs. When I knew him, he spent the day devouring history books.
“Cousin Lawrence was very canny. When his hot-water bottles perished after many years of service, he fixed them with a bicycle-tyre repair kit
My aunt had been in the Wrens during the war. She was in some sort of cooking unit, and I believe she served at Bletchley Park — cooking rather than breaking codes. After the war, she stayed at home looking after her parents, as many women of her time did. Then, one summer, a retired colonel of the Burma police came fishing in Shetland. My aunt was skilled with the trout fly and they hit it off. She married Uncle Gordon and moved to Cockle Point from Maundeville. Unfortunately, he died after a short time and she went back to looking after her aged stepfather.
I used to travel up from Edinburgh at the end of each university term, catching the ferry, the St Clair, in Aberdeen. That was an overnight trip across cold and rough seas. In the morning, we arrived in Lerwick and I would go to a tiny tin shack on the harbour that provided a buttery roll and a cup of tea for one shilling. Then I boarded a smaller boat, the Earl of Zetland, which set off for the smaller islands, including Unst.
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The skipper of that boat was a great man, Captain Willy Sinclair. He would let you go ashore on some of the islands while the ship was being unloaded; then, when he wanted to leave, he would sound the ship’s horn and that would be the signal to return.
Cockle Point was a comfortable house, although a bit cold. There was no central heating, because nobody had it, as far as I could make out. Cousin Lawrence, who lived further north on the island in a large house called Buness, was even colder. He was very canny, and when his hot-water bottles perished after many years of service, he fixed them with a bicycle-tyre repair kit.
At high tide, the sea came right up to within 12ft or so of the front porch. The windows were covered with salt from the spray that came from the waves. The sea was crystal clear. Inside the house, my aunt made the most delicious soups, using ancient stock that she kept topped up for that purpose. In the summer, she would go out to the Post Office Loch and catch a few trout to serve as the second course. It was a happy time, and looking at this photograph brings it back, with warmth.
Christmas Short Stories by Alexander McCall Smith will be broadcast from tomorrow until Friday on BBC Radio 4 at 10.45pm; bbc.co.uk