Wild Isles

Last month I travelled to Orkney for a few days; a trip inspired in part by Amy Liptrott’s book “The Outrun”, and the film based on that book (Saoirse Ronan standing on a wind-battered cliff top conducting the swell of the ocean and the howl of the wind made me want to pack a bag and head north) and part by my fascination with the isolated and the wild. 

To me, there’s a distinct magic to wild and remote places, and the Orkney Isles embody that magic in a way that few other places I’ve visited have. 

In Orkney life is as it has always been – shaped by the wind, the sea, and the endless sky. It’s a landscape not just seen but felt. The islands’ drama isn’t found in mountainous peaks or dense forests but in stark, expansive beauty. Wind-carved cliffs drop into steel-blue waters;  moorlands roll beneath skies with seemingly no end to their vastness;  and curves of pale white sand melt into turquoise waters, the hue of which disguises their chill. 

The weather is a constant companion, changing moods in the blink of an eye  — mist drifting over standing stones in the morning, sun breaking over the sea by midday, rain spotted on the horizon mid-afternoon, and winds rattling cottage windows by night. To be in Orkney is to be in a place where nature still sets the rhythm and scale of life.

But it’s not just the physical wildness that makes Orkney feel special  — it’s the deep, grounding, sense of history. You can explore Neolithic tombs older than the Pyramids; stone houses built 5,000 years ago which still contain the shelves where the occupants would have displayed their most treasured possessions; and mighty stone circles like the Ring of Brodgar, silhouetted against the twilight. 

On the magical island of Papa Westray we stood inside the 5,000 year old houses of the Knap of Howar. Thousands of years ago, the Neolithic people who lived in those houses cultivated the land and reared livestock. Today, many Orcadians still rely on crofting and mixed farming — small-scale, sustainable methods well suited to the landscape. The rhythm of life remains closely tied to the seasons and the land, with sheep and cattle grazing fields shaped by ancient boundaries, and communities continuing a deep-rooted tradition of self-sufficiency and respect for nature that echoes across millennia. In a world that feels increasingly fragile, I found this constancy reassuring; a reminder of mankind’s ability to endure.

I often visit places and say that I will return; with Orkney, it’s a promise.

Helen