91Èȱ¬

No 1970s Englandshire upbringing was complete without the local schools (nominally C of E) holding a ‘harvest festival’, to which all pupils were expected to contribute a vaguely seasonal foodstuff. The resulting collection of tins of spaghetti and packets of dried soup would (I now presume, having given it little thought at the time) be distributed amongst the poor and needy of the parish. The ‘festival’ aspect largely passed us by, except for a slightly more enthusiastic rendering than usual of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, but I do remember gazing at the clever corn-wreath-made-out-of–bread-dough and thinking that it was clearly the same one as last September except a bit darker and shinier. Did they simply re-varnish it every year? And would an Orkney Harvest 91Èȱ¬ bear any resemblance to those childhood memories?

Having long been a ‘toon bairn’, I approached my first Harvest 91Èȱ¬ in Deerness with interest. We had been invited by friends who live in the parish, thus giving us a much-needed ‘in’ – I would have gone to one long before this, but always felt a bit of a fraud, having no actual connection to the country or farming community. Said friends breed sheep and recently helped us move house in return for a crate of homemade elderberry wine. The credit- and cash-based world economy may be crashing around our ears but the barter system is well and truly alive in Orkney. Come the day that potatoes are hard currency, we’re laughing.

Anyway. First adventure was the weather. Coarsest night of the year so far – lashing rain, Force 8-9 gales, plus a bit of thunder and lightning to stop us getting bored. The drive to the east took the best part of an hour – forgot to take my passport but was assured by the pals that they’d vouch for me. A bit of strategic parking at the hall enabled us to open the car doors without mishap. There were tons of folk – I counted well over 100 for the meal and another couple of dozen who came for the dance afterwards. It seems that the old traditions are kept alive in the East Mainland. The meal was a fine steaming plateful of mince and clapshot – I had the vegetarian option which was clapshot. Some cheek, you might say, a vegetarian going to a Harvest 91Èȱ¬, but haud yer wheesht, I reply. The plates were replenished from a jug of mince brought round the tables. Any deficiency in my main course was firmly compensated by two large bowls of trifle for pudding. Proper stuff too – home-made custard and topped not with girly whipped cream but with a muscular pink raspberry blancmange. No sooner were the bowls scraped clean than the finest collection of fancies were placed before us. What is the clear but indefinable difference between an ‘ordinary’ homebake and a fancy? Could be something to do with coconut. There was tea, tea and more tea. And more fancies.

Between fancies I took a deep breath and looked at the folk around me. At the table next to us were the grand elders of the Deerness farming community in their dark suits, both the shoes and the full sets of teeth polished to a high shine. Behind us was the table of youth. This was clearly a community event but the teenage element kept apart from their folks and grandfolks, enjoying the chance to dress up and impress. There were some absolute stunners – young lassies of 15 or 16 dressed in shimmery little dresses and killer heels, beautifully coiled hair and flawless skin. The lads tried their best (shirt ironed, hair gelled, plukes squeezed) but their plumage was drab by comparison.

The speaker was a well-known author and teacher from the West Mainland (sharp intakes of breath – ‘I spy strangers!’) who got everyone on-side by extolling the many virtues of Deerness and telling a few farming anecdotes and mildly risqué jokes. Our tea and fancies settled and the men got more beers in. After votes of thanks to caterers, barmen and speaker, the gents were asked to help clear away the tables in preparation for dancing. We quickly secured chairs at the side of the room and watched the band set up – turns out the bass player is member of the Orkney cricketing mafia and bowls a good line, so my husband got a wink of recognition.

I was very much looking forward to dancing (see previous blog) and had heard that not only was The Westray Band one of the best, but that this was rumoured to be their last live appearance in Mainland Orkney! I was, however, under no illusions. My man rarely dances, except at weddings and then only once or twice and under duress. Our pals are non-dancers, he having once famously walked through a Strip the Willow and subsequently never asked again. I decided my best tactic was to sit forward in my chair looking wistful and eager, but as I suspected, the good folk of Deerness danced mainly with one another. It was fun watching as the teenage boys took up their grannies and aunties and mums, and the lovely lassies danced with each other. It’s worth repeating what Ginger Rogers said about dancing with Fred – ‘I had to do everything he did but backwards and in high heels’. During the usual energetic Strip the Willow, one poor girl had a Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction and spent the rest of the dance clutching her halter top. We spotted her later on doing the same dance, one hand across her chest, the other clutching her mobile and writing a text. That, by God, is multi-tasking.

But the best was yet to come. The band called a Westray One-Step. The first half was danced and we clapped politely whilst I continued to look wistful: at which point my man stood up and announced that he thought he could manage this one. After a couple of rounds he had it perfectly, Waltz turn and all. I was amazed and delighted and when we sat down he said he’d just gone about it scientifically – observe, understand, copy. Flushed with success we sailed through several more dances and he was in serious danger of starting to enjoy himself. Don’t get any ideas, he told me. That was a one-off. But it was lovely! *sigh*

The band called a Quick Step and we left the floor to the professionals – couples who had been married and dancing together for decades. We gazed in wonder at what my husband calls ‘the Dark Arts’. Another Eva 3 Step, and the young lads were up again, a few shandies the worse for wear and dragging their poor aunties round the floor. A crush at the bar indicated a stag night had arrived and wasted no time joining in the festivities. When the band veered into Country and Western territory, the stags gave us a word-perfect and very spirited rendition of Blanket on the Ground to great acclaim. Yet another Strip the Willow and anyone over the age of 20 kept well clear. At the back of one o’clock our hosts left, and we were left in alien territory without our guides…….but of course, the folk of Deerness were warm and welcoming. As I waited with the coats, I was approached by a friendly, handsome young man who asked me if I’d had a good evening. Having assured him that I had, I then revealed to him that I was returning to Sandwick. The West Mainland! He howled with disappointment. Sandwick! Is the west not a bit ****? he asked. I put up a spirited defence but he was like a hound in full cry. Even the names he claimed, were better in the east. ‘Deerness…..’ (arms flung wide) ‘….place where the wild deer once roamed….’ (looking poetically at the ceiling) ‘…….Sandwick……’ (hissing with scorn) ‘……place with…….sand…..’ (withering sneer). Having established that we had met previously through my work, he then serenaded me with a Meatloaf song until my man emerged from the bathroom. I proffered the Duffel coat and our new friend assured my husband that he liked his toggles and that he bore great resemblance to Paddington bear. In fact, he claimed in a Eureka moment, my man looked just like a big bear and backed this up by throwing his arms around him and giving him a huge cuddle. I shall embarrass the poor chap no more but rest assured that the education of the youngsters of Shetland is in charming and safe hands.

By the time we had extracted ourselves, driven home and got into bed it was getting on for 3 o’clock, and we had experienced our first Harvest 91Èȱ¬. It was brilliant. All of it. And at the risk of getting all rosy-specced about it, it was a fine example of a rural farming community celebrating its year’s achievements. Next stop, Rousay!