First Impressions by Gabrielle Barnby
Gabrielle Barnby lives in Orkney and writes short stories, poetry and full length fiction. She has run creative writing workshops for may years, encouraging new writers and supporting creative discovery. She is the author of three books and her work has been included in numerous anthologies and magazines.
Here she describes her first impressions of moving to Orkney.
First Impressions - Orkney
We came from the airport to the town directly, although neither airport nor town accurately described either place by my southern standards. An airport was a vast sprawling, moving-floored shopping mall with shuttle buses and crowds of people from all nations, a city unto itself with flocks of aeroplanes gathering people up like a bird gathers worms. Not a simple strip of tarmac seemingly laid at random in a field with a building that was as homely as a school foyer for a terminal and a free of charge car park. And the town? Well, the sign said it was the city and Royal Burgh of Kirkwall, yet its scale from what I saw on the transit to Pipersquoy Road was the same childhood 'village' in Surrey.
The house, a three time extended one up, one down was barely large enough for a family of six. Flowers had been thoughtfully stationed in every room. Yet they did not delight my eye, wantonly critical after two flights with four children, the oldest seven and the youngest eight months. I wish I could have been more appreciative, but the trauma of dislocation overrode almost everything that gladdened the heart. Despite the fatigue, that deep, physical tiredness that comes with sudden irrevocable change, the first walk must be done. Shoes were replaced on every small foot, a blanket tucked around the buggy occupant, coats were put on even though it was July.
July? I thought to myself. But I felt cold, and my spirit withdrew even further.
In the south it had been humid and excessively warm all through the night; here wool was needed. My white, cotton shirt, ideal for travelling and feeding a small, hungry infant, did not protect me from the breeze. It had to do.
I had to do, as I was. I had no idea what else to be.
Out of the gate and onto New Scapa Road. (I still had to re-learn my pronunciation for so many words) and towards town. There was a Catholic church, Our Lady and St Joseph. I said a silent alleluia for the familiar yet different. I prayed that I would make a friend. We turned into a sinuous, flagstone street with buildings ranked loosely at its sides as it curls past the West End Hotel. This narrow joint pedestrian and vehicular thoroughfare is signed 'Main Street'.
Main Street?
That this gentle sweep had been given such a grand name made me think what would something humble be called? I was utterly bewildered, bamboozled, and yet also amused.
If this stretch of road had the good humour to be Main Street, could I also dare to take myself less seriously?
Maybe I could.
Maybe I could learn a new value of place, a new scale. A scale that is more personal and more challenging and more rewarding for that. If I laughed at this place then I would have to laugh at myself. The two were intertwined. I had a sense of newness. I was not simply invited to laugh, although that was an important start, but to learn to love the smaller places and the still, small self.
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