The End of the Road

Its northerly position makes Unst militarily important: RAF Skaw was established during the war to monitor (potentially hostile) shipping traffic; and RAF Saxa Vord joined it and continued after the war as a radar tracking station, part of the cold war effort.

And cold it must have been. The tracking station itself is the top of the highest hill on the island; it is the site of the highest recorded wind speed in the UK - 197 mph. At which point the equipment was blown away. So it might have been even stronger. (Two people died in Hermaness in the storm when the hut in which they were sheltering was blown away.)

The radome apparently blew away with some frequency, turning up in different places down the hill. The station is now unmanned, the last personnel leaving in 2006. (Though many didn't leave, staying on as civilians.) The hill on which the radome stands is called Saxa Vord, as is the base which housed the personnel, which is basically in Haroldswick. The staff quarters were sold off (several being bought the ex RAF people, apparently) and the offices have been turned into a business park and "resort" (with bar and restaurant! Which opened the weekend I left!). You go in through the medical wing; there is a good cafe (though serving Nescafe!) where they make good chocolates, and an interesting display of the history of the base. There is a brewery next door, too - called Valhalla. One for all you Wagner fans. "Britain's most northerly..." etc. (Also, I would guess, Britain's most remote!) I enjoyed several of their beers during my stay...

The thing about the military is that they have infrastructure. And lorries. Which need roads. The main road on Unst is a decent width double-track, probably because of the lorries. And the road up the hill is still in pristine condition, presumably because the RAF patch it up.

And so I walked to the end of the road.

The north end of every British road, that is. Marginally further north than the road at Skaw. (No more "most northerly" after this, I think. Though I won't promise.)

The sign at the bottom of the road clearly states "No Entry", but everyone seemed to ignore that: despite only going up the hill, it was surprisingly busy. I saw three vehicles in two hours.

There were great views of Muckle Flugga, Burra Firth (the stretch of water) and Hermaness. There were scores of bonxies, and larks singing above me as I climbed.

The hill is covered in peat, and piles of freshly cut peat lay beside the road.

The entrance to the radar station itself is secured, and I had no wish to set of any alarms (it being a very large observation post, it was hard to imagine that I wasn't being watched - albeit remotely); and beside the road went past the main station down to a remote weather station near the edge of the cliffs. I followed the cliff top around to the Noup and above Brei Wick before heading back.

Another great walk, with great views.

But still no puffins.

Puffins.

I still hadn't seen puffins. I went to the Hermaness reserve headquarters to see if the warden could point me in the right direction. The HQ is in the former shore house for Muckle Flugga, where lighthouse keepers would stay during their off periods, and where their families lived the whole time.

The warden want there, but there is very good display, including a map showing where different birds could be seen. Puffins should be - exactly where I had been walking.

So I went back there.

I walked the longer but faster path, west to the cliffs and then north. I met a woman and we chatted briefly; she was keen to see bonxies but hadn't realised that they were the large birds all around. I passed a tall guy carrying a large tripod and a load of camera equipment.

It was a fine day, though rain was forecast. The views, same as before but in reverse, and in different light, were good. I kept my eyes open, scanning the cliffs and the sky for puffins.

I saw several as walked back until I walked back until once more I was the most northerly person in Britain, opposite the lighthouse. On the step grass slopes down to cliffs were a while troop of puffins. Not a crowd, not the hordes that I had expected but quite a few.

I spoke to many people about the lack of puffins. The consensus seems to be that it was just too early. It shouldn't have been. It should have been early but well into the breeding season, but the inclement weather in March and April seems to have kept the birds at sea. It was the same at Sumburgh, on Mainland, where I went before going back to Edinburgh - just one it two puffins. Out maybe they were all out at sea, fishing. Or maybe they were just hiding from me. There are certainly large numbers of birds around now, just as they are about to return to the sea. (The last time I was in Shetland, this time of year, one day we went back once more to watch the puffins and they had all flown away, overnight.)

Walking back to the car, it started drizzling. It had tried to rain once or twice in the afternoon as I walked north, but the rain had amounted to nothing, so I ignored it now, too. Suddenly it was bucketing down, and I was drenched, and my camera was drenched. By the time I realised how wet it and I were, it was too late; everything was wet.

When I got back to the house where I was staying, my camera had died. Completely. I took out the battery and the card, and left it to dry, hoping it would get better. It was still dead in the morning, leaving me to rely on my small, pocket camera; but by the evening it had fully recovered.

Which is nice.