Relocation is an adventure in every sense. A journey, a new chapter in one's life, shaping us, changing us — for better or worse. If the move is because of enforced migration due to war or persecution it won't, sadly, always lead to a better life, but it will nonetheless be an adventure, even if the circumstances have much darker overtones.
My own story was certainly one of escape — one which, thankfully, led to a more satisfying, safer, contented existence. Some people enjoy living in cities, are invigorated and even inspired by the hustle and bustle of such places. Think of the beginning of Woody Allen's movie, Manhattan, in which he waxes lyrical about the city of New York where he has lived all his life. People like the opportunities cities offer — theatres, cinemas, restaurants, lots of shops. And that's great. I do understand those sentiments and certainly wouldn't dream of criticising or disrespecting anyone for their choice. We are all different, unique individuals. It's what makes the world an interesting place. Cities are simply not for me. Personally, I find them terrifying. The noise, the crowds, the danger. I grew up in the suburbs, but was forced to venture into towns and cities for college and work. Scared every day, my heart thumping up into my throat during rush hour commutes on buses and metro trains, I lost count, over the years, how often horrible things happened to me — being pushed off platforms onto the train tracks by impatient folk wanting to squeeze themselves onto already overcrowded trains, men who couldn't keep their hands to themselves, people who went crazy when life overwhelmed them. At least twice I had a knife held to my throat when one such individual either got on the wrong train or didn't realise it wasn't going to stop at the stop he wanted to get off at.
Some might say the incidents I've described were adventures in themselves, albeit Gothic in nature, but the day came when I said, enough is enough. I handed in my resignation at work, and after serving my notice period, packed two suitcases and boarded a flight to Orkney. I'd previously spent several holidays here and felt it was a place where I had a chance to make a good life for myself, free from the stress and constant fear that had ruled my life until that point. And so it proved, I am happy to say.
I suppose my true Orkney adventure began the first time I ever visited. To this day I remember the feeling. Looking out of the aeroplane window and watching the plane follow the coastline as it came in to land, felt special. I checked into the hotel and immediately began walking the streets of Kirkwall, Orkney's main town, exploring its wynds, nooks and crannies. It was an almost spiritual experience — and I say that as an atheist. For the first time in a long while — maybe ever — I felt safe. No one with bad intentions followed me. I listened to the locals chatting in lyrical voices, their light-hearted laughter echoing in my ears as I passed. I visited the magnificent twelfth-century Cathedral of St. Magnus, standing for a long time near the entrance, gazing down the long, elegant nave, towards the two red-stone pillars holding the bones of St. Magnus and his nephew, Rögnvald Kolsson, who instigated the building of Britain's most northerly cathedral. The tranquility of this house of God, as the afternoon sun streamed in through the lovely stained glass windows, was a balm to my frazzled soul.
For the rest of that first vacation I went on day trips, visiting the rich array of archaeological sites Orkney has to offer — the Ring of Brodgar, Maes Howe, Skara Brae, the Tomb of the Eagles. It felt as though here, in this beautiful Scottish archipelago, history was speaking to me down the Ages. I could imagine the people of the Neolithic and Bronze Age periods living here. I could visualise the Vikings walking in their footsteps, just as I was now following in all of theirs. I adored the long days of those summer weeks when it barely gets dark and there is only a short window of time before light begins to creep into the sky once more.
Now, more than thirty years after that first sojourn to Orkney, I am grateful every day to have been able to make a life here for myself. These days I am housebound, due to severely impaired mobility, but in the days when I was still fit enough to get out and about and revisit the places I'd grown to love, every day felt like an adventure. In the work I was lucky enough to find — tour guiding at the Highland Park Distillery and invigilating driving theory tests, amongst other things — I was able, in a small way, to give something back to the community which has been so generous in its welcome to me. I am fortunate to have fabulous memories of the places I saw, the work opportunities that came my way, and the folk I've met. Their kindness and generosity of spirit have helped me gain a sense of belonging I have never experienced anywhere else before. Even now, as I sit at my desk, writing and reminiscing about my years in Orkney, it feels like an adventure of a kind. Who said that being an armchair traveller is a poor substitute for the real thing? I, and no doubt many others in similar situations to myself, would beg to differ. The imagination can take us anywhere, as the Orkney poet and writer, George Mackay Brown (1921 - 1996) found. He rarely left these islands, but he allowed his imagination to soar, to become one of Scotland's best-known, best-loved and most talented wordsmiths known today.