Diary of a Shopkeeper, 7th September
Hourston Clouston’s caption says: ‘New Pier, West Ronaldsay. Note handle of Erik’s blood axe.’
Last week I related my discovery of a rare and mysterious pamphlet I stumbled across in Birsay Books: So Near Away Yet Far: Memories of West Ronaldsay by Hourston Clouston. Orkney’s preeminent literary historian, Simon Hall, confessed ignorance of the book and of Clouston. I turned next to Alison Miller, noted author, and instigator of the Orkney Voices writing group. Alison too drew a blank. ‘I’ve had a look in the archive,’ she emailed me, ‘But nothing. It’s as if he never existed.’
Perhaps a further extract from the work in question will prompt memories from older readers who were taking an interest in history and literature around the time of the pamphlet’s publication in 1952.
. . .
ALL WEST RONADSAY FOLK take a certain satisfaction, even pride, in the fact that their small island home is mentioned no fewer than three times in the Orkneyinga Saga. That’s twice more than Rousay, once more than Wyre and equal to the much bigger isles of Westray and Sanday. Kirkwall and Stromness are not mentioned at all. Tak tent toonies!
West Ronaldsay is first glimpsed through the mists of time – literally – in an early chapter where the skald relates the first settlement of these isles by the Norsemen. Erik had been sent west over sea by his father, King Harald Fine-Hair, to occupy the primitive backwater of Orkney. Sailing past the low-lying shores of West Ronaldsay in a thick fog, Erik caused his longship to halt, whereupon he called to the figures watching from the strand. ‘We come in peace,’ he shouted.
The West Ronaldsay men did not respond. ‘We come in peace,’ he went on, ‘Though having said that if you don’t help us we will kill you the lot of you.’
One of the figures stepped forward, ‘It’s a deal,’ he said, with native pragmatism. ‘What can we do for you?’
Erik wanted to set up a secure and comfortable base from which to pacify the islands. He had weapons, he had ale, he had bedroom slippers made of baby-sealskin. What he didn’t have was fuel for their first fire. ‘Listen to me,’ he called. ‘I need peat. Bring me peat.’
The islanders disappeared into the fog, and came back half an hour later, dragging a reluctant, tonsured figures in their midst. ‘What is this?’ shouted Erik, ‘I asked for peat.’
‘This is the only Pete we have,’ shouted the island spokesman. ‘Peter the Christ-lover from the Cave of the Monk on the south side.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ shouted Erik.
‘No, we’re not,’ said the islander. ‘Pete’s not that common a name here.’
‘Shut up,’ roared Erik. ‘What I want is fuel, not some god-botherer. Fuel for a fire. Bring it to me, now!’
The natives disappeared into the mist and gathering darkness, returning very soon with armfuls of their only fuel. West Ronaldsay was an island without peat banks: too low and sandy for any ever to have formed. So what they brought was their habitual fuel: clods of dried sheep dung. Gathered fresh by the islands’ children and dried for weeks on special beach-stone racks called drit-steethes, the dung burnt surprisingly well. And though the smoke was acrid and noxious, it had the significant benefit of exterminating head lice and other vermin in the hair of generations of island children. Of course, Erik was not to know this. All he knew is that these irksome islanders were throwing lumps of animal dung at him. The more he shouted, the faster they threw the evil-smelling stuff, even wading out into the waves to dump basketfuls of it directly onto his deck.
Finally, splattered in insufficiently dried-out dung, and enraged beyond measure, Erik leapt over the gunwale, battle axe in one hand, sword in the other, and slaughtered the whole welcoming party. The only man to escape was the Christian hermit, Peter. Unlike the untraveled, uncomprehending islanders, who simply stood and waited while Erik slaughtered them one by one, Peter had seen the Norsemen at work in the western isles, and knew to run for his life. It is his account, summarised by the Venerable Bede in his Historia ecclesiastica gentis Orcadium which allows us to recount this story today.
The Norsemen themselves recorded it in their saga in typically laconic fashion. As Erik’s longship left the shores of West Ronaldsay, sailing south towards the mainland, his bard composed this kenning:
The land of dung
Lies low and lergy.
Men of dung lived there
But live no more.
Erik-Bloodaxe smote them low
Laid them in the dung.
Not a good start to our viking,
Erik Dung-Axe!
On hearing the poem, Erik rose in a fury and struck the poet a mighty blow with the very same axe, then tossed the wounded bard, still declaiming verses, over the side of the longship. Without a poet to record his deeds, no more is heard of Erik Dung-Axe in the saga. It’s a lesson to tyrants and patrons: treat your poets well, or your glorious deeds will be written on the wind.
. . .
Sadly, the life and works of Clouston Hourston might as well be written on the wind, for all the knowledge we have of him. But who knows what further research will turn up. I live in hope. (NB not The Hope, just hope.)
*You can see Birsay Book’s list of Orkney books (and others) here. You can also visit their shop on the south side of Birsay Bay.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 11th September 2025. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations, and occasional small corrections or additions.