The ferocious seas and wide skies conjure up that falling-off-the-world feeling
What’s going for it? Nobody would think to look for me in Thurso. Well they would now. (Or is that my double bluff?) Passing through the town, once, on the way to Lybster, as you do, the thought occurred to me that this would be an excellent place to disappear to, were I on the run from Villanelle, or when the going got rough, or the end of the world beckoned (or all three). For here is the end of our particular world, the most northerly town – and, with Dunnet Head, the most northerly point – in mainland Britain. The ferocious seas and wide skies conjure up that falling-off-the-edge-of-the-map feeling, which always seems to accompany places that really are at the edge of the map (though which is probably psychosomatic). Here, the wild mountains and crofting villages a little to the west of Britain’s northern coast give on to gentler rolling hills of bog, gorse, heather and Neolithic cairns, which end abruptly in sheer cliffs inhabited by gazillions of seabirds. Humans are outnumbered here and, faced with that and the falling-off-the-edge-of-the-map feeling, one can’t help but get a little existential, staring out at the waves and the Orkney Islands and contemplating Brexit, Trump, the climate crisis and the state of the universe. What’s it all about, eh? Surrounded by the surfers and soft white sand of Dunnet Bay, it’s a fine place in which to hunker down awaiting Armageddon.
The case against A long way away, obvs, unless you’re from Kirkwall. It appears the memo has gone round Thurso: any colour so long as it’s grey. Come on... get out the Dulux and paint the town red, or turquoise, or lemon yellow.
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