Wow, they are so friendly around here. That night in the hotel bar I’m taking the edge off the drive with a local whisky whilst the only other two people there are attempting to prepare me for the beauty of the Outer Hebrides. We are now deep into travelling mode. The next day is a cross-country sprint to catch the Scrabster ferry to Kirkwall, Orkney, where we arrive in darkness.
I’ve been in Orkney for three days now (unlike some islanders, the folk here say they are in the island rather than on it) and am establishing a steady routing of point breaks, pies and pints. Not too many of each though, just one or two a day. The surfboard’s been out, the kites have been up, and with a drop in the wind, the stand-up’s coming out. Unfortunately it’s not till I’m at the water’s edge that I realise I’ve not cut the shaft on my delicious new F-One Peak paddle and the sea is choppy as hell. Choke stroke it is. A local band of brothers has taken me into their fold, and I paddle out with Scott Johnston, a man with encyclopaedic knowledge of the breaks around here. I was put in touch with him by the Orkney Tourist Board. “Oh you’re coming up for surfing? You should speak to Scott then.”
