kirkwall

I’m holding the cup to my face.

Anywhere else, this might look a little strange; but this is Orkney, and it’s an autumn morning with the promise of winter felt in every exposed extremity. I’m bone-marrow chilled, and my legs, shoulders and jaw have a convulsive life of their own. Around the cafe, people are peeling off layers in the steamy warmth, colour-coded into garish (tourists) and muted (locals), and everyone has a mug in his hand. I’m keeping hold of mine by squeezing it in my palms, scalding life back into my deadened fingers. They cramp when I curl them around the handle, like I’ve just completed a handwritten exam.

Outside, a half-hearted gauze of rain is turning into a drizzle. It’s a morning that affirms Kirkwall’s architectural emphasis on clean-lined durability – unembellished concrete walls and glistening slate roofs, stone and more stone. The streets through the town centre are a thousand shades of grey, but somehow the result looks far from drab. As in Stromness, on the eastern side of Mainland, it feels like the residents understand how to nurture their heat and light: little of either leaches out into the streets, and at night, you’d be forgiven for assuming Orkney homes must be as chill as the average Scottish castle.

I’ve got a warm scone in front of me, on a clean plate covered in fine scratches. The jam actually tastes of strawberries: I don’t know if it’s the jam or my tastebuds at work. I’m becoming aware that the last twelve hours simultaneously rank among the most bizarrely foolish and the most enlivening of my whole life. And that this cup of tea is the best I’ve ever had.

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