A garden in Orkney

Beyond the low hills at the back of the house, Hoglinns Water lies in a shallow valley. From home, as the crow flies, it’s a couple of pathless miles of tangled heather and soft bog, in reality more a squelch and a stumble than a walk.  A  longer, but much more sensible route is via Heldale, following for the most part a favourite walk into the hills that has been mentioned on here before.

I went there a while ago, on a day that started dry and bright and ended with rain pattering the hood of my coat. I took the sensible route, first a stone track that leads into the hills, then along the shore of Heldale Water, the islands natural reservoir. As can be seen from the photograph above, it’s an open and ancient landscape, cleared by the stone axes of Neolithic man. What once was scrub and low growing trees had by 3500BC become pretty much the landscape we see now. It’s not devoid of life, nature doesn’t do vacuums but it pays to look down, rather than up as you might do in a woodland. As I walked a flitter of sulphur caught my eye, a pale leaf carried low on the breeze, I walked to where it had settled – a female Northern Eggar moth. She looked the worse for wear, tattered and faded, coming to the end of her brief few weeks of adult life.

Brighter coloured Magpie moths were also seen, a relatively new species to Orkney, arriving around four decades ago. The bright colours are a warning to predators, it’s said that they are so distasteful that spiders will cut them from their webs rather than eat them. Their caterpillars are one of the easiest to identify, they wear the same colours as the adults, in bright body length stripes, and look as if someone has squeezed them toothpaste-style from a tube.

At the margins of Heldale water, Sticklebacks can be seen, small pot-bellied submarine flotillas that bask in the warmth of the shallows. They’d be an easy meal for a patient Heron but for whatever reason, on Hoy at least, the Heron is a bird of the coast. Heldale was also once the home of a much rarer fish, the Orkney Char, a relative of the Salmon and known only from specimens caught in Heldale itself, not seen since 1908 it was officially recorded as extinct in 2024.

As you reach the end of the Water, where shore turns to marsh, there’s a manmade abutment, cast concrete and driven piles. Built to stop water being lost to the surrounding low lying bog. A handy spot to pause for a bite and a drink and also a great way to avoid wet boots,  a lichen spattered walkway that takes you over the rushes rather than through them.

A bird I’d hoped to see was the Arctic Skua, a slender cousin of the commoner and much more thickset “Bonxie”, the Great Skua. As with the Bonxie they’re a bird of  Northern summers and Orkney is about at the edge of their breeding range. An alternative name is the Parasitic Skua, a moniker that they live up to. They’re often seen in pursuit of Terns – a brief  twisting dogfight ensues, an aerial ballet that usually ends with the pursuer getting a free meal, a prize of fish or sand eels, either dropped or literally coughed up by the pursued. In the end I saw a half dozen. They come in two forms, dark phase and pale phase, the former is dusky brown, the latter is two tone, cream below and mocha above. 

From the abutment it’s a short walk to Hoglinns, up over a low hill and back down into a valley. The ubiquitous Skua in Orkney is the already mentioned bonxie. The size of a Herring Gull on steroids they’re known as the Pirate of the seas. It’s almost a given here that if you’re walking in the hills a bonxie will take umbrage at your presence and buzz you for the sake of it. Sure enough as I crested the hill to walk down to Hoglinns there was a whoosh of wings as a bonxie, sneaking up from behind, applied the air brakes and passed within a couple of feet of my shoulder, returning for a second head-on pass a few seconds later. It’s not an attack of course, just a bluff where no contact is made. Stand still and the bird will veer off at the last second but that whoosh of wings and passing shadow is enough, when it suddenly interrupts the silence of your thoughts, to give a quick heart skip.

Hoglinns itself is a pool of peat-dark water, cupped in the hands of the surrounding hills, ringed by ferns and grasses that shiver on the breeze. I stayed for a while but as is often the case the journey is better than the destination. The origin of its name seems to be lost to the mists of time, in Orkney many place names derive from the Norse and the Norsemen who settled these islands and the best I could find was “Hoaglin”, a woodcutter or farmer. Definitely not the former, Neolithic man had beaten him to it, but perhaps the latter.

From Hoglinns the sea isn’t too many stone throws away, around a half mile or so to the West. Before turning for home I walked to a headland. Gannets were fishing offshore, cruising over a silver swell. Occasionally they would dive for a meal, half-folding their wings and falling vertically, like head shot geese.

The walk home brought sight of a Common sandpiper (pictured top) and a good number of Mountain Hares. The Sandpiper scolded me with a warning as it bobbed up and down, as Sandpipers do, on its fence stab vantage point. Like the Skuas it will leave soon for a Winter in Africa. The Hares were clad in their summer coats, blue-tinged brown, soon they’ll moult to white, camouflage for snow that in Orkney rarely arrives.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been working with a friend, fitting a weatherproofing skin of timber cladding to his new build house that sits just along the way. The weather was kind and for Orkney, as for most of this year, unusually dry. Of the fifteen days that we spent on it, we saw perhaps a half hour of rain. Tiring work but with moor and low hills to the back, and with the bay to the front, it wasn’t a bad office. As the days passed subtle changes were noticed, the moor slowly turning from brown to purple as Heathers came into flower. The island of South Walls, a mile or so distant, an evolving patchwork of greens and gold as grasses were cut and cleared and Oats slowly ripened in the sun. 

In the garden changes are also afoot. In Orkney we don’t get an Autumn where trees are clothed for weeks in lingering yellows and reds. As Summer draws to an end, leaves fade quickly, at first from bright to dull green and then, when a salt laden gale swings in, crisping brown overnight. As if scorched by a man with a blow lamp. What the trees can’t give though, perennials can, it’s the time of year for yellows and reds to show their hand. Crocosmias are a favourite, they grow well here and need little in the way of care. We’ve got the usual eye catching suspect of traffic light red Lucifer, a tall plant that looks good at the back of a border, but prefer the smaller species that sit and mingle with others. A favourite is C.Pauls best yellow, a compact variety that is said to be a spreader but for here at least, is pretty much well behaved. 

A late summer species that we tried, and failed, to grow in our old garden in Yorkshire is Eupatorium, the Joe-pye weed, On light sandy soil they first sulked, then succumbed to mildew, and then promptly died. Up here they thrive, no sulking or mildew in sight. A  favourite is little Joe who despite the name, can reach a leggy five feet.

Persicaria’s are another late Summer favourite that are doing better here than they did down in Yorkshire. They’re a member of the knotweed family and in times past some varieties were used as a flea repellent in bedding, earning the name “arsesmart”, which I assume means that the skins reaction to the plant was actually worse than the flea bite. The largest we grow is P.Polymorpha,  a tall (and wide) mid-summer flowerer that as with Crocosmia lucifer is better at the back of a border, ours is fading now, plumes of white dimming to soft pink seed heads. As polymorpha fades, others are just getting into gear, P.taurus, a much more compact and pretty much bomb proof variety, has flowered this week, its dark crimson bottlebrush flowers look best either early or late in the day, lit by angled light.

If we had to choose a favourite red for this time of year Taurus would get a double thumbs up. A favourite yellow is a split decision, for Jacqui it’s a toss up between C. Paul’s best yellow and Lysimachia ciliata firecracker (pictured top). Lysimachias belong to the primula family and have a long history. The genus gets its name from King Lysimachus, successor to Alexander the Great, who is said to have calmed a mad Ox by feeding it Lysimachia – livestock escapees are a fact of life here, the next time I meet a Bull wandering down the road I’ll know exactly which plant to reach for 🙂 My thumbs up for a favourite yellow would be Rudbeckia goldsturm, aka Black eyed Susan, one of those dead easy from seed plants that looks good wherever you put it.

Others help with the Autumn feel by fading gracefully, their job done for the year. One is Hosta Sum & substance, whose once bright leaves were recently crisped and mellowed by storm Floris. It will fade now, from pale green to yellow and by October, to a soft marmalade orange, there’s a real beauty in its slow decay.

Birds are coming and going, the Blackbirds that have graced the garden for the Summer, rearing cocoa brown youngsters that are drawn to half apples like moths to a candle, have gone off to pastures new. In Autumn new birds will arrive from the North, bringing with them their Redwing and Fieldfare cousins, eager to strip Rowans of their berries. As the blackbirds have left, Starlings have returned, pretty much absent for the past few months they’re back from pasture and shore, ready to cluster on feeders, doing what Starlings do, eat, squabble, rinse and repeat. The bird below is a this years youngster, newly moulted into adult plumage but given away by the jet black beak.

I probably really need to get out more but a recent sight that made me smile was a mouse turning over gravel, or boulders if you’re mouse sized, to get at seed dropped on a path from a Niger feeder. I’d first spotted him weeks ago, a tiny just out of the nest youngster with a slice missing from one ear. With no sense of danger, straying, in mouse terms, far from the safety of a dry-stone dyke home, I’d wrongly assumed that his days were numbered. 

We’ve christened him Wing nut.

Today it’s wild, high winds with a mix of sunshine and horizontal rain. All courtesy of storm Floris, currently tracking his way across Scotland. We’ve had the warmest July ever recorded in Orkney, ditto June, Floris is a reality check, a reminder of what Autumn will likely bring.

With or without Floris, by this time of year it feels as if Autumn is lurking in the shadows. The nights are drawing in, the seemingly endless daylight of the simmer dim already a memory. In the meadow the Ox-eyes, that in June turned the field white, are fading to seed. It’s now the turn of Cats ear to be dominant. The meadow on a sunny day is lit golden-yellow by their flowers. They’re heliotropes, turning their faces to track the sun, starting the day facing East and ending it facing West. A member of the Hawkbit family, when we first cleared the meadow they needed no reintroduction. Springing to life from the fields slumbering seed bank, growing as thick as grass.

It’s also the time of year for less dominant late summer wildflowers to put on a show. Common knapweed is a favourite, aka ‘hardheads’ – a great bee and butterfly plant. Reintroduced via home grown plugs, they’ve established well. Unlike the Ox-eyes and Cats ears, who seem set on world domination, they’re happy to mingle with others. Their purple-pink flowers noticed not from afar but up close, as you brush past them.

Another harbinger of Autumn is the Devils bit scabious, named for its stubby “bitten off by the Devil” root. Up here they’re more a plant of coastal heaths, the clifftops at this time of year are literally bejewelled with their blue pom-pom heads. At home they’re slowly establishing. Year on year the grasses have grown shorter, sucking up what little nutrients the ground had and weakening themselves in the process, in contrast the Devils bits have gained ground, reintroducing themselves as conditions turn in their favour.

The only part of the meadow where Ox-eyes and Cats ear, at least for the moment, aren’t dominant, is a spot close to the house. The ground is new, a bank of subsoil imported from a friends building plot just along the way. Once rotavated and cleared of stone, the bare earth was sown with a mix of native grasses plus whatever wildflower seed we had, almost as an afterthought I added wild carrot to the mix, a biennial, whose root as its name suggests, gave us the cultivated carrot. As with all biennials, sowing in year one gives flowers in year two. They didn’t quite get the memo, nothing in year one, as expected, but also barely a flower in year two. This year though brought an explosion, a sea of large white umbels, occasionally tinted pink. In the garden we treat them as annuals, sowing in cold frames in late Summer, planting out to flower the following year. In the wild they’re a plant of chalk grasslands and drier soils, not suited to Orkney and her winter wet. I’ve a feeling that for the meadow at least, this is their swan-song. Beautiful while they last.

A carrot family member that is much more at home here is Wild angelica. Legend says that Angelica came here with the Norsemen, the Vikings who started to settle here in the late 8th century. In a nod to this a local distillery adds Angelica to Kirkjuvagr gin. The distillery is based in Kirkwall, the Orkney Islands capital, the Northmen knew it as Kirkjuvagr – Church bay. 

In the meadow it’s a great insect plant, attracting everything from beetles to butterflies. They’re a particular favourite of both Wasps and Red Admirals. I’m happier getting closer to the latter rather than the former. Both were photographed last week, sipping on the Angelica’s energy giving nectar.

At the bottom of the meadow, close to the shore, three ponds were dug, each filling naturally with run off from the hills. The ground there is peaty, black as coal. A ‘soup’ of life was added, bucket fulls of mud and brown water, collected from a flooded peat cut, after that the ponds were pretty much left to their own devices. The ‘soup’ immediately brought tiny shrimp like invertebrates, whirligigs turned up within days, diving beetles within a few weeks. Wet and Rushy areas close to the ponds were planted with Coastal willow, salix hookeriana. In Summer Reed buntings nest among them, tucking their nests low, amongst the rushes and grasses that grow in the Willows shade.

This summer, for the first time, Damselflies are being seen over the ponds. Like the Scabious mentioned above, they’re tarred with the same brush, this time the Devils darning needle. It is said that if you fall asleep near a pond, damselflies will alight on your face and sew your eyelids together. The one below is the appropriately named Blue-tailed damselfly. Their eggs will hatch as nymphs, who will live an underwater life. Two years from now, providing my eyes haven’t been stitched together because I fell asleep near the ponds, I might just get lucky and see a nymph crawl from the water, bursting from its skin and becoming a Damselfly.

For Orkney, today excepted, which is grey and dreich, the past two weeks have been unseasonably dry and hot. Days that have brought mostly blue skies and light winds. I wrote a while ago that the front gardens were standing room only, now it’s the turn of the rear garden. A small oasis, beyond which are thousands of acres of open moor, that owes its existence to a thin shelter-belt of wind filtering Alders and Sycamores. At the moment plants are tucked shoulder to shoulder, barely a gap to be seen.

Thanks solely to J’s efforts, it is a garden that in Summer is ever changing. This week has seen Japanese Anemones at their best. Given their preference for damp soil and (mini heatwave excepted) cool conditions, they’re an ideal plant for this Northern garden. A favourite is September Charm, that despite its name flowers like clockwork in early July. It’s a member of the buttercup family and like its wilder cousins, can be a bit of a spreader. 

Three years ago we planted Anemone Bressingham Glow, a smaller, more compact variety. As is often the case here with new additions, it sulked for a year before deciding that Orkney wasn’t that bad after all. 

Trollius are another buttercup family member that do well here, we grow a couple of varieties, one is bomb proof Europaeus, mentioned in an earlier blog it flowers for us in May and June. The other is July flowering Golden Queen, an unusual dark orange variety whose colour gives no hint of its buttercup DNA. 

A plant that looks far too exotic for Orkney is the Daylily, Hemerocallis – from the Greek, day and beautiful. They are just starting to flower here and literally do what it says on the tin, flowering for a day or so before yielding their petals to the rain or the wind. For us a variety called Stafford is always the first from the blocks, throwing up multiple buds that collectively will last for a month or so. When backlit by the sun it glows with the heat of the day, a furnace-yellow centre, cooling outwards to dark red petals.

In a back garden shady spot, a plant that would wither in the sun but grows well in the shade, has also come into its own this week, a white Astilbe. We’ve had it for years, both here and in previous gardens, and its specific name is long forgotten. In the photograph below only the multi-trunked Sycamore was here before us, all the other trees are Red Alders, planted between four and seven years ago. It seems that in little more than the blink of an eye a small woodland has been formed. Beyond the simple driftwood fence there’s a work in progress, the new woodland floor is slowly maturing, the thickening leaf litter dotted with plugs of foxglove and red campion. Despite its small size, each Autumn and Spring, migrating Woodcock are drawn to it like moths to a flame.

We’ve tried a few red hot pokers here and most successful by far has been Kniphofia Fiery Fred, whose rockets of orange at this time of year sit well in back garden semi shade. An alternative name is the torch lily, and at dusk or on a grey day, they literally do light up the gloom. They’re a good foil for the cooler blues of geraniums and catmints, but on a clear day look best not in the shadier back garden but at the front, against the blues of sea and sky. 

It has been a good year for breeding birds, a pair of Wrens reared a family in an old hollow gate post. Robins have reared broods in open fronted boxes knocked together from offcuts of old ply.  House Sparrows, again in homes made of ply, are on brood number two, with time yet perhaps to squeeze in brood number three. A bird that when we first moved here was a rarity in the garden, fast forward a few years and with the addition of the basics, food, shelter and somewhere to nest, it seems every bush or tree has its own cluster of newly fledged youngsters.  

Whichever the species, parent birds are run ragged from dawn to dusk, finding food for never full bellies. Collared Doves are a garden favourite, gentle birds that first bred in the UK, in Norfolk, in 1955. So successful was their colonisation that in 1962, a mere seven years later, the first Collared Dove was recorded in Orkney. A few days ago I watched a pair of adults atop a stone dyke, each gently preening the other, having some us time after the kids had finally flown the nest.

June ended as it began, days of bright and breezy weather with occasional bouts of heavy rain. The Solstice weekend, when you secretly hope for a stunning sunrise or sunset, brought a thick haar on the Saturday and on the Sunday, after a monochrome start to the day, thunder and lightning with cloudburst rain. I wonder what the first settlers to Orkney would have made of it, the people who built Maeshowe and the Ring of Brodgar, to mention just two of many Neolithic sites that dot these islands, waiting patiently for a sunrise and getting thunder and lightning instead. Probably that in the eyes of whichever gods they worshipped, they were definitely in the bad books…

In the garden the high winds and rain have been shrugged off. You learn quickly in Orkney to be preemptive with staking, a task that Jacqui starts in early Spring and continues as plants grow, tweaking and re-tying anything that is wide or leggy. 

Some plants though don’t need support, Cephalaria gigantea, the Giant scabious, is one of them. It lives up to its moniker, comfortably reaching eight feet in height, at least half of which is a lattice of thin green stems topped with creamy-yellow pincushion flowers. We dot them everywhere, a few are in the guerrilla garden, pictured above, a roadside verge beyond the front garden dry-stone dykes. Part ours but mostly the county councils, a home for spare plants, waifs and strays from the garden proper. Last week the cephalarias shrugged off a 50mph southerly, flower stalks bending almost flat before springing back up.

A couple of other favourites that look far more wind delicate than they are, grow at the other side of the dyke, in the still very exposed front gardens. One of them is ligularia Rocket. As with the cephalaria it’s another plant that lives up to its name, shooting spires of yellow flowers, held on inky-black stems, to a height of six feet or more. A bit of a damp lover that needs space to look its best.

The other is linaria purpurea Canon went, a member of the toadflax family. Not quite as lofty as the ligularia it seeds freely, is as tough as old boots, and is pretty much left to do its own thing. It’s also a perfect bee magnet.

While some plants reach for the sky others are happier at a lower level, a white aquilegia that came as a gift uses others as a support, relying on catmints and geraniums to hold its flowers aloft. It never had a label but it might be Munstead white. The lady who gave it is no longer with us so much more important than a name is to keep it going, young plants grown from seed collected last year are doing well. One of those plants, like the cephalaria that originally came from my fathers East Yorkshire trackside allotment some 45 years ago, and has been split and re-split ever since, that you really don’t want to lose.

Bees are busy in the garden, I watched a small Bumblebee, a Common Carder, feeding on Lupins. A deep flower and a small bee don’t go well together. The bees technique for reaching into the depths of the flower was impressive, land on the lower petal and push down hard with your legs, opening the flower and gaining your reward. A reverse bench press for bumblebees.

On the moor beyond the garden, Oystercatchers tuck their nests amongst  the heathers and grasses. This year, on the small patch of moor that came with the house, at least three pairs have reared young, a fourth nest was lost early on to a Raven, spotted leaving the scene of the crime with an egg held firmly in beak, food for his or her family. The youngsters are out of the nests now and are carefully watched over by ever anxious parents. One day last week I walked up to check on young Rowans planted last year. I kept my distance but one parent still buzzed me, pleeping loudly and coming in at head height until the intruder, after checking the rowans, jumped the boundary fence and carried on into the hills.

Climbing higher, up through the old peat cuts, the settlement of Longhope on the island of South walls came in to view. A picture was taken of a Mountain Hare with the village as a convenient backdrop. A 600mm lens compressing perspective and pulling the three mile distant houses closer, just over the brow.

In the UK, moorland is sometimes much maligned, often seen as a desolate treeless waste. The reality is very different and internationally Scotland holds around 75% of the worlds heather moorland. Some species are unique to the moor, one is the Large Heath butterfly. Once so common that before the moors of Englands North-west were drained for agriculture, it got its own local name, the Manchester Argus. Now extinct in many parts of the UK they’re still a common sight on the moors here on Hoy. Easy to spot, as I walked further on into the moor I must have seen a couple of dozen, and hard to photograph. They fly fast and low in a direction that seems to be governed purely by the wind, briefly settling every twenty yards or so before lifting off again. Eventually patience paid off and the photograph below was taken. There are three subspecies, at least two of which I’ve seen in Orkney. This one, with its blue-grey colouring, is ssp scotica.

Our early June ‘normal service is resumed’ weather reset has continued. The past two weeks brought a true mixed bag, sunshine and showers, occasional gales, and on Friday through Saturday, almost biblical rain. One of the first, and best, things that we did when we started to make a garden here, was to dig a ditch to pick up the water running off the moor at the back and divert it around the garden. At the moment, after the weekends rain, it’s a mini river, rushing peaty brown water from moor to sea. After a three month dry spell an upside of the rain, combined with summers warmth, is that it has brought the meadow to life.

Most of the ground that came with this wee ex-croft house is moor but to the front, between house and sea, there’s a small field that had once been pasture. Not grazed or mown within living memory, it was thick with Soft rush and waist high grasses but potentially ripe for meadow making. For a perennial meadow, the field turned out to be pretty much perfect, dry in some places, wet in others, and topped with poor and thin soil. Once the ground was cleared we mowed hard in Spring and Autumn, adding home grown plugs of native plants that should have been here but weren’t.

An area thick with damp loving rush got plugs of Ragged robin, a plant that likes to keep its feet wet. The rush is still there of course but the regime of mowing weakens the rush and allows the ragged robin to hold its own, freely self seeding and spreading.

A member of the silene genus, its flowers have a look of closely related Red campion, albeit on a bad hair day.

A friends house along the way takes its name from the daisies that once grew along the verges here, so for drier spots Ox-eyes were a given. They’re a doddle from seed and once planted self sow easily. The picture below was taken with a fisheye lens, the deliberate millefleur paperweight look might have been better without my boot toe, bottom centre 🙂

Plugs of other species have also been added, Common knapweed and Yarrow have both established well. The knapweeds are a favourite food plant of the appropriately named spittlebug, a tiny sap sucking nymph of the Common froghopper that hides itself from predators in a foam of bubbles – Cuckoo spit. This year it seems that every knapweed has them, each yet to open ‘hardhead’ bud that gives the plant its alternative name, has a side dressing of soapy froth.

As some plants were being reintroduced many others returned without help, either from the fields own seed bank, woken by warmth and light, or carried here by the winds. Wind borne biennial Marsh thistles arrived in year two, they can be invasive but are perfect bee and insect food, like the yet to flower Scotch thistles that have also turned up, they’ll be thinned only if they get out of hand. Both are covered in long sharp spines that show no respect for gloves, the porcupines of the meadow.

While most plants stretch upwards, showing off their wares to passing bees and butterflies there are also low level lurkers. A home made mix of native grasses with added ground hugging white clover and birds foot trefoil seeds, sown on a bare bank, has grown well. As with the rest of the meadow Creeping buttercup has inevitably introduced itself to the mix, an invasive plant that is a pain in the garden but welcome elsewhere.

A wildflower that is equally happy at both ground or eye level, although for the latter it needs a handy shrub or fence to climb, is tufted vetch. A member of the pea and bean family that spreads by seeds cast from tiny black pods. Also known as the Cow vetch. It was believed in the 19th century that a cow grazed on vetch would be more easily wooed by the bulls advances.

A surprise arrival for this year is Common cotton grass, as its name suggests it’s not a rare plant, at this time of year the moors here are dusted white with countless seed-heads, bobbing and swaying in the breeze and giving movement to the land. There are three species of Cotton grass in Orkney and the surprise is where it’s growing. The common variety likes the wettest spots, happy in standing water. In the meadow it has popped up, after one of the driest Springs on record, in what is probably the driest part of the meadow. As with most of the plants pictured here, I photographed it just after rain. Once used for stuffing pillows its normally fluffy seed heads were sodden but still beautiful. I hope it spreads.

The one species we really hoped would appear, is the Orchid. A plant that is almost impossible to introduce unless specific fungi, with which they form a symbiotic relationship that allows seeds to germinate, and then seedlings to develop, are already present. Last year a single Northern marsh orchid appeared, this year there are three, from seed to flowering takes three to five years, the new meadow is four summers old. With 21 species of orchid in Orkney, fingers are crossed that others will pop up as time goes on.

Our dry spell came to an end on the weekend past. After weeks of barely a drop of rain, a period that has seen burns run dry and ponds shrink to a third of their size, the heavens finally opened. The Saturday was dreich, one of those days when the cloud clung grey and heavy, hard to tell where sea ended and sky began. A day to be inside looking out. The early hours of Sunday brought a slight change. High winds with accompanying rain, blattering against windows and skylights, loud enough to disturb your sleep.

Since then normal Orkney service has resumed, bright days and showery days, much more akin to a summer in the far North of Scotland. In the garden it also continues to be all change. The last of our camassias are fading to seed. The blues went over first, a later flowering cream variety whose name is long forgotten, is just about done, only a handful of spires have tight, yet to open, buds.

As the camassias fade others take their place. Spears of iris sibirica have unfurled this week, once open, their broad egg shaped sepals make perfect wide landing strips for bumblebees. As with the camassias the blues open first, of the half dozen varieties we grow silver edge and paler perry’s blue, (pictured top) are probably equal favourites.

The first bottle brush spikes of red hot poker fiery fred are lighting up the rear garden.It seems a little bit early for them, for us they’re a plant that is more associated with late summers hotter colours, crocosmia’s and day lilies and the like. Perhaps it’s down to our dry spell.  

A plant that doesn’t need bright colours to make a statement is euphorbia robbiae, the wood spurge. A perennial that as its common name suggests, is a lover of shade. The individual flowers are nothing to write home about but as a clump, it’s a different story. Dozens of small lime green flowers that are held above darker foliage come into their own, a plant that every garden should have. Saying that, for us it has proved to be temperamental, thriving in the back garden only in the shade cast by this low slung house. Jacqui, ever the patient gardener, has persevered and a second, this time front garden clump, that has been planted in the shade of a dry-stone dyke, is very slowly but very surely, establishing itself.

Hostas do well here and despite a healthy population of slugs, they remain pretty much hole free. The largest we grow is sum & substance, a variety that for us, grown in the shade of a couple of sycamore trees, by summers end will comfortably reach waist height. Each individual leaf, of bright yellow-green, measures perhaps eighteen inches in length and at this time of year, when backlit by a late evening sun, shows off a simplicity of curves and lines that any sculptor would be proud to emulate.

Sticking to the yellow-green theme, but this time with wings not roots, Siskins, a bird that when we moved to this garden was a rarity, but has since become a common summer visitor, have young in their nests. We’ve yet to see a youngster out and about but the parents are on invisible zip wires now, from feeder to nest, nest to feeder, rinse and repeat. A sisyphean task. Tame is the wrong word but they’re very tolerant of people, while Greenfinches and Goldfinches scatter if you stray too close to the feeder, the Siskins will pause, give you a glance, and then carry on as before. Sometimes, as feeders are topped up, they’ll sit a few feet away. A Siskin thought bubble would probably read “come on get on with it, there are hungry mouths to feed”.

Our spell of dry weather is continuing. May so far has brought barely a drop of rain. Most days have been sunny, those that haven’t came without threat of even the lightest of showers. A  camera I owned as a child had an exposure setting of ‘cloudy bright’, a perfect description for those rare days when Sol has hidden his face. Despite the sunshine what we haven’t had are many haars, thick sea fogs that usually roll in like clockwork after a couple of days of warmth, so far, for May, just the one. The island of South Walls, just across the bay and linked to Hoy by a now permanent causeway, drifted in and out of focus as the haar thickened and thinned, eventually coming second to the sun, burning off in the heat of the day.

Although there are still a lot of plants that have yet to come into flower, it feels as if the front gardens especially, are on speed. With an occasional evening watering you can almost hear the plants growing. As others grow, a sweet cicely, myrrhis odorata , a gift from a garden on South Walls, is already fading, rushing to set seed before summers end.

A front, and to be fair, back garden favourite, is the Capons tail grass, valeriana pyrenaica, despite our coastal aspect and often wild climate, it shrugs off salt laden summer gales and despite its height, needs minimal staking. It also looks nothing like a grass. One of those “will it grow here” plants that came from much softer climes, a plant stall on a lavender farm, that has proved to be bomb proof. 

Another front garden good doer is the Leopard plant, ligularia othello, grown just as much for its large greeny-bronze leaves as it is for its late summer flowers. Unlike its hosta companion it suffers the occasional slug bite. Why our hostas, which down in Yorkshire often looked like lace curtains, are now ignored by slugs up here, is still a bit of a very welcome mystery.

If a camera is to hand, a bulb that can’t be walked past without a photograph being taken, is the allium. A close relative of the onion and a bumblebee magnet. They’re a great cottage, or in our case, croft garden favourite, taking up minimum space and giving maximum impact. The books say they need a dry and well drained soil and in a normal year our soil is anything but that. Despite this they thrive and spread and clearly like it here. It’s a good thing that plants can’t read.

They say a garden is never finished and we’ve certainly got a few yet to start projects. Money is always tight and even if it wasn’t there’s a real pleasure in up-cycling or reusing. Our favourite shop is the shore, a place to find the ‘pennies’ (top stones) for dykes, sea worn slabs for stepping-stone paths and driftwood for fences. In winter past, a back garden slope that really needed a few steps, finally got them. As is usually the case, no expense was spent, the steps are old fence stabs, rescued from a steep sided geo, the supports are angle iron from an old bed frame that I found when we first cleared the garden with a mini digger. I can lay out the bones, construct a skeleton of drystone dykes and paths, but Jacqui is the one that adds the flesh and gives the garden life and love. A half year on, the steps with J’s planting and attention, look like they’ve been there for years.

In summer the best times of day here are either early morning or late evening. The light is angled, flowers and foliage are backlit, details are revealed that are lost to a harsh midday sun. On a morning, when the birds are just awakening, there’s the call of a cuckoo and the pleep of Oystercatchers starting to go about their business. In contrast, on an evening there’s a growing silence, a settling down, the sun dipping low, the light filtered by the trees before being lost to the hills to the west. It’s a close call but at this time of year at least, evening light just wins out.

We’re rapidly approaching the longest day, we’re in the ‘simmer dim’, a time when the sun will barely dip below the horizon before quickly rising again. There isn’t really a darkness to the night now, just a few hours of twilight. At this time of year, before you hit the sack, the last thing to do is walk around the garden or down to the shore, it’s a magical time. It’s also the time of year when we say goodbye to the the mirrie dancers, the northern lights. An app still pings of strong displays but they’re lost now to the twilight. More than once this past couple of weeks, when you got your eye in, there has been the softest of green glows to the North, like the faint street lights of some faraway town hidden way over the horizon. We’ll see them again in winter, at a  time where the sun rises and sets within six or seven hours. Days that at the moment, with our seemingly endless summer, feel like they’re a million miles away.

April ended as it began, bright days with little in the way of rain, occasionally made cold by a breeze off the sea. As with February and March, a local weather station recorded the driest April in almost forty years. The first days of May have brought showers and the Lambing winds, a gale or two, whitecaps on the bay and a sea rough enough to see the lifeline ferry, that runs from Scrabster to  Stromness, seek shelter by cutting a detour through the quieter waters of Scapa Flow.

The winds didn’t last and in the garden, where Spring and Summer curveball gales are a fact of life, no harm was done. Anything that is leggy or thin stemmed, has, depending on the plant, either a discrete stake or a couple of hoops or for the likes of Catmints and Geraniums, a supporting corset of Alder twigs. At this time of year changes are rapid, this week the back garden is suddenly white, the last of our Daffs, creamy white pheasants eye, have opened, ditto an inherited white form of the Spanish bluebell. The latter aren’t something you might willingly introduce, especially where the native Bluebell grows, but they’re good for insects, were here already, and at dusk or on a dull day, they bring a brightness to the garden. They get a free pass.

A few favourites have started to appear. In a front garden, Astrantia claret, which with regular dead heading will flower for most of the year, has come into its own. A new plant that has thrived despite our drought is Primula pulverulenter, they’re a genus that does well here, but as newly transplanted plugs in dust dry front garden soil, we had our doubts.

Another garden favourite is Trollius europaeus, a relative of the buttercup family that fortunately hasn’t the DNA of its wilder creeping cousin. It flowers for a while and then sits for the rest of the year as a well behaved clump of greenery. The bright yellows work well with dark flowered A.claret.

Camassia are yet another favourite – it’s a long list. They hail from the pacific North-west of America. The bulbs are edible, once a staple of Amerindians, who prepared them in fire pits. They’re a plant of damp meadows that thrive in our cool and, with the exception of this year, usually wet soil. We grow both cream and blue varieties and the blues are always the first to flower. They don’t last long, by the time the top flowers of a stem are out, those at the bottom are already fading. When the time comes to split them, the spares will go into a boggy spot where we’ve planted Alder and Aspen, once there they’ll be left to naturalise and do their own thing.

Despite all this growth and unseasonable mildness, most of our trees have yet to come fully into leaf. At the northern edge of the garden, tucked among a few inherited Larch and Sitka spruce, there’s also an inherited Horse chestnut. It’s thin and leggy, stretching for light. Not a tree for an edge of moorland spot in Orkney. I often wonder if it was picked up as a conker further South, grown on and then planted out in the best shelter that could be found.  However it arrived, it’s determined to grow, each spring the leaves  slowly unfurl in hope and stay bright and lush against Larch and Sitka, until we get a gale from the North. Green then turns to crispy brown. In some summers, depending on the will and direction of the wind, the leaves will last for a few weeks, in others until late Autumn.

A tree that does better here, but for us is a painfully slow grower, is the Sycamore. Three were here when we arrived and more have since been planted. The ones that were here must be many decades old. Their leaves are also just starting to unfurl, fat pink buds turning green. In a few weeks racemes of lime green flowers will hang in the canopy and the trees will literally buzz with life, time to crane your head and watch and listen as dozens of bumblebees busy themselves amongst the upper branches.

As the year goes on, we’re seeing more and more bees on the wing, as with the swallows and cuckoos, both of whom arrived in mid April, bees up here are slow to appear. I watched a queen bee, either a white or buff-tailed, go from various flower to flower, delicately probing each one, when she reached a pheasants eye daffodil she made me smile, ladylike manners forgotten she clung to the edges of the flower and dived in head first. Watching her woke a childhood memory, a cousin and myself, on a hot summers day, dunking for apples in a bucket of ice cold water.

With our unseasonable dry spell continuing, most of the past week was spent in other gardens. Like many islanders, when it comes to earning a crust, we wear more than one hat. One day you’re selling plants, another day antiques online, the next might be gardening or dry-stone walling. This week, for me, it was gardening, cutting and planting a double screen of grey willow for a new garden a few miles away. We don’t go mad, working part time, happy to work to live rather than live to work, enough to keep the wolf from the door. With willows planted, on Friday, while Jacqui prepped some plants for sale, I took myself off on a favourite walk, to the valley of Heldale. Walk half a mile along the road and then follow a stone track up into the moors. At first, as you leave the road, there’s a flat landscape of mixed habitats, Grasses and Heathers and wet spot Rushes. It’s a home to breeding Greylags (pictured top) and Curlews. At this time of year, the male Curlews rise over the ground like Larks, soaring upwards before falling leaf-like back to earth, marking their territories with a haunting bubbling call.

As the track climbs higher, heather wins out. To your left though there’s a shallow valley, a place where native willow scrub thrives. The willows are rarely more than head high, chastened by the winds. They never leave the valleys, there’s an invisible growth line that’s never crossed. Tucked among them are dozens of bird sown rowan, silver barked and leafless, buds just starting to thicken.

After a mile and a half or so, you rise a crest on the track and a natural reservoir, Heldale water, comes into view. A wide ribbon of silver in a landscape of browns and greys. Supplier of potable water to this end of the island. Out on the water, too distant to photograph, were the black shapes of a dozen Bonxies, Great Skuas, newly arrived from a winter in Spain or Africa.

To the North-west of Heldale there’s Bakingstone hill. I wanted to see Eagles and Mountain hares and close to home there’s no better spot. I cut up from the reservoir, following a fence line that had long lost its purpose, bleached stabs and rusted wire, only useful now to the Meadow pipits who keep a lookout from the post tops. It’s not much of a climb, but despite our dry spell the ground is boggy and soft, making the going far harder than it should be.

As expected, Mountain hares were seen in numbers, most are wary, scutting away at the first sight of man. One though sat up on hind legs and watched as I passed by, if a hare can look wise, he or she did. As with all the other hares seen that day, he or she wore a piebald coat, the Spring moult in progress, half winter white, half summer brown.

At this time of year  Emperor moths are seen. As I climbed higher I saw males on the wing, brightly coloured fast fliers that at a distance are easily mistaken for butterflies. The females are larger and paler, a bluish-grey, and unlike the males they fly only at night. Tucked down amongst the heathers they are almost impossible to spot, given away only by amorous males who are drawn to the females by pheromones. Follow the male and you’ll find the female. Eggs are laid in April and May and the caterpillars, after a summer of munching on heather, will spin a silk cocoon and overwinter close to the ground, they’re the UK’s only native silk moth.

At the top of Bakingstone the ground plateaus and dries out, yet to green up heathers are crunchy underfoot. Here and there are pools of bright water, homes to whirligig beetles that constantly skate and circle. A shimmer of silver upon the skies reflection. To the west there’s the glitter of a sunlit sea. To the North, nothing but open moor, low hills, shallow valleys and countless lochans. The silence, on a still day, is deafening.

At the end of Bakingstone there’s a rock, dropped by a passing glacier, that’s big enough to show up on an OS map. A good place to stop and eat a chocolate bar before setting off home. The rock is covered in a mini forest of brittle lichens, silver greys and soft yellows, each of them decades or perhaps centuries old.

To sit on the stone and crush the lichens would be an act of vandalism, so I sat on my coat on the heathers and realised, after a while, that I was being watched. The watcher given away by a bright eye and a pair of long furry ears.

I went home via the waters shore. From the ridge a steep, and careful, foot sideways descent that occasionally needs the reassurance of grabbed handfuls of heather. As the ground levelled out more hares sprung from their forms, none of them pausing, each showing a clean set of heels. To the West, way up high, soaring on the updrafts, I saw three broad winged specks, white tailed eagles, the hares nemesis, a pair and a single bird.

In addition to the hares and eagles, I’d hoped to see Hen harriers and Red grouse. For the former a sighting is pretty much a given here, at home they’re a bird seen almost daily, either hunting the shore or quartering the moor beyond the back garden. Red grouse are here but are much more often heard rather than seen. As luck would have it the Harriers were absent that day but a few dozen yards from the track that would take me home, a pair of Grouse flushed from under my feet. A glimpse of a brief few seconds, all sunlit red and ginger-black, curling away at fence post height.