Diary of a Shopkeeper, 3rd May
In last week’s diary I recounted a drive around the West Mainland that started with asparagus spears in Rendall, and progressed to an antiques fayre in the Droothydale Hall, in aid of the Sleet Moss TT Fund. (Whatever that is.) But how did my Sunday afternoon adventure end? Read on…
All eyes were on me. Or rather on the open door behind me, and whatever was going on out in the carpark. The guttural roaring and revving of a hundred engines reached a crescendo, then suddenly stopped, leaving only throaty echoes bouncing off the walls of the old quarry, and the ticking of cooling metal. Then I heard low growling voices, and the sound of heavy footsteps crunching across the gravel towards the hall. I turned to face whatever was approaching – and my jaw dropped. Filling the doorway, blocking out the afternoon sun, was an army of hulking figures in black leather, torn denim, and full-face helmets. Bikers!
The hall held its breath as the first phalanx of warriors strode in and paused to survey the scene. Then slowly, dramatically, one large and leathered-up figure at the front raised his hands, and pulled off his helmet. A huge cheer came from behind me. The antique lovers were shouting, clapping and laughing in joy. ‘Hip hip hooray!’ someone cried.
The biker tossed his head and long blonde curls tumbled out, glowing sunlight from the door turning his hair into a golden halo. He flashed a grin of dazzling white teeth around the hall, then held up a hand for silence.
‘Hi aye folk,’ he said. ‘What like theday?’
A babble of excited voices replied. Folk pressed around him, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. A score of bikers took off their helmets and came into the body of the kirk, mixing happily with the crowd. I looked on in astonishment. What kind of gang was this, and who was the great blonde hero everyone held in such esteem? Then a gauntleted hand gripped my shoulder with great force, a swish of hair and warm breath brushed my cheek, and a voice whispered in my lug: ‘Your first time? Welcome. It’s good to have new blood.’
And with that King Biker was gone, followed by half a dozen of his posse, processing up and down the aisles, examining the displays of antique needlework and Victorian thimbles. Everyone had a cheery word for him. Their faces shone in the reflected glow of his nimbus of golden hair. I was starting to think I should quietly leave. I’d thread my van through the phalanxes of big biked lined up outside, and head home for some of that lovely asparagus which was meant to have been the most exciting thing of the day. But as I turned to leave, another roar went up. I looked back. King Biker was mounting the tiny stage at one end of the hall, flanked by two lieutenants. He gazed around, then put a finger to his lips. There was a murmur of excitement before silence fell.
‘Friends,’ he said, projecting his voice across the tables of antiques and the crowd of upturned faces. ‘We are delighted to be back at the Droothydale Hall, and honoured to be asked to say a few words in support of the Sleet Moss TT Fund.’
‘The honour is ours,’ someone shouted from behind a collection of rickety spinning wheels.
‘Nothing gives me more pleasure than to speak in support of the Sleet Moss TT,’ he said. ‘It’s a vision very close to my heart. For as you know, the original Tourist Trophy circuit was laid out by my great-grandfather, James Swordie.’
‘Good man!’ shouted someone.
‘He was a great man. And from his shop a little north of here at Komfortbreck, he rode out on the first motorcycle ever seen in these isles. That was in 1895 and he built it himself out of a message bike and a four-stroke engine imported from Germany. In tribute to his loving wife, Bertha, he painted the letters BS on the mudguards. So it came to pass that, a few years later, when the authorities wanted a vehicle registration scheme for Orkney, they followed my great-grandad’s lead and used the initials BS in their numberplates.
‘But that was not the greatest of his achievements. Far from it. For in 1901 he launched the first competitive motocross race in Scotland. From this very hall, the course ran all the way east to Howana Gruna and back, over some very rough ground. It was well into the grimlings when the roar of a low-geared bike was heard bouncing homewards across the heather. It was James Swordie! The first and, till now, only winner of the Sleet Moss TT.’
‘Not for long!’ came a shout.
‘Indeed. We have our route planned. We have a Crex 6-M Mini-Excavator. Best of all, we have thirty-seven lads and lasses from the Sleet Moss MC Club raring to go when the starting pistol sounds.’
The bikers shook their fists above their heads and whooped.
‘Now we need more funds to buy fifty tons of budduming for boggy patches along the route. I have just one message for you. Go forth! Buy antiques! Make Droothydale great again!’
The audience roared its approval. Under cover of the cheers and applause, I took my leave.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 7th May 2026.. 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.