The Orkney Spring of Bradley Driver – 1990
The Orkney Spring of Bradley Driver – 1990
needing time and space,
peace and freedom from city stress
to eke a long-blocked novel
threatening to be my best
I rang the number of an Orcadienne,
a widow – so she claimed,
advertising ‘room to let’
weeks of correspondence
induced an element of flirtation
the game was on –
cheap board and free bawd –
if my luck was in
the train north was unremarkable
aside from a chance encounter
with a mystic, Jorda,
who drew an Evian pentagram
on my forehead, went into a half-trance
and uttered a prophecy for me
“at the turn of the moon
you will stand in the centre
of The Ring of Brodgar and find
out who you really are…”
I did not get the rest,
the train pulled into Ardgay,
Jorda exited the carriage, calling,
“come for tea next time you’re passing”
from the deck of the Orkney ferry
I waved at the Old Man of Hoy –
he ignored me.
I met the ‘intended’ as arranged,
on the green outside St Magnus.
first impressions of her and the cathedral?
unfavourable
patched inaccurately at the back,
and clashing terylene slacks.
her hair was a fright of untamed curls,
a motif of skulls and bones – overdone
good for a séance on a wet afternoon –
it wouldn’t wash in Leytonstone
and a hike to her cottage beside a burn
where a dozen cats patrolled the door
she passed me a torch in lieu
to read her only book;
a coffee table special
detailing Danish peat bog burials
and was not ashamed to show it
while she slumped into a stupor,
I stayed stone-cold sober,
attention fixed on my page-turner
And eight of my thralls, well-born are they,
Children with me, and mine they were.
As gifts that Budhli his…”
the rest would have to wait for dawn
I stretched and yawned,
“bedtime for Bonzo.”
“well, a goodnight peck”
tight-shut eyes and puckered lips
I landed a quick peck
on a gooseberry cheek
and scurried the passage to my retreat
(it came as no surprise to me)
her virginity, which she offered like
a cherry bakewell off a plate,
bottle of Old Pulteney
raging that her maidenhood
would not be breached by me
I boned up on ‘Tollund Man’,
weighing my chances
of eluding her advances
and escaping the island
scrotally intacta
fired with frustration
she rat-a-tatted,
on my bedroom door
access denied!
she was nowhere to be seen
I packed my bags
and hotfooted to the harbour
at each approaching car
I knocked on a door,
“what time does the ferry leave?”
the ‘widow’ found me easily
begged me to go back with her,
“we can build a life together.”
she walked away wailing –
a hideous screeching
and stacked bales of hay
for a wall against night chills
and the eyes of a baleful
virgin still
slamming the hostel door
sad without her Lochinvar
one dose of The Wicker Man
meets The Thirty-Nine Steps
meets Misery
This has put me off visiting Orkney.
The descriptions of the “widow” and St Magnus are brilliant.
May the chthonic never catch up with you.
Bhi
I have long been fascinated by Orkney – it’s beautiful there – I was just unlucky – why, even a year ago I met, via a dating site, a second woman with an Orkney cottage – I spent a week with her in the North East – she was a nightmare – mea culpa – she was a vegan so I said I was one too (well hinted at it) anyhow she had ‘witch’ connections and a month later an extraordinary domino tumble of consequences left me hypo-thermic on a roadside in a deluge of biblical proportions – and only… Read more »
I love it. But you should go back there’s so much more than unwanted lust.