The cottage we had rented was in East Orkney, at Gorseness, in the region of Rendall. Street View was used to get a feeling for its location, to facilitate its finding. We would be arriving late at night off the Aberdeen ferry, so some sense of direction for the arrival was needed in order to avoid a disorientated shambles, an ad hoc searching in a dim, dark maze. When approaching the turn off route 966 into Gorseness Road on Street View, a red ochre tourist sign was noticed just outside Norseman Village. It read: Rendall Doocot 3. What was this?
Goggle was asked sometime later, after we had settled in. An image of a beehive stone structure appeared. It looked interesting, and being only a mile or so from our rental, it was noted as a possible destination, along with the Gurness Broch that was further north on the coast. Not much more thought was given to these locations, other than that they could be visited if we had time. One day the weather changed; there were showers as the sky clouded over. Maybe we should put Skara Brae off and see how the day develops? We drove to seek out the dovecot. Comments online suggested that it was difficult to find, so we travelled slowly, carefully checking the surrounds of the secondary, coastal road north. Soon a small, dark mass appeared in the distance as we looked down from the rise we were on: that's the dovecot. The Google Images were recalled. We took the next turn right, and arrived at Rendall House. The dovecot, called locally doocot, was nearby. The showers started again. Would the grassy track to the doocot be sodden? No, so we walked in.
It was a simple beehive-shaped stone structure, with layers of projecting slates. Might these be for the birds to land on? Walking around what was thought of as an insignificant little building, one discovered a low door with warnings to be careful: the birds could be in their nests. Without any enthusiasm, and with some reluctance, we entered. It was a magical place. A pile of guano filled the centre: the doocot was operational. Holes had been formed in the walls for nests; a hole in the top was the entry/exit. It was a wonderful interior, a special place. It was photographed, the door was shut, and the showers returned as the path to the car park was retrod.
Like Lot's wife, one took one more look at this little wonder over the shoulder; such was its silent, mesmerising presence, one could not marvel enough (as Martin Lings said of Islamic art). It is a true, modest gem.
We journeyed up to the Gurness Broch, then retraced our drive to get to Skara Brae later in the day when the skies had cleared. Some days later we again drove north to complete the drive around the coastal road of Mainland to Birsay. It was on a day of extreme weather; our ferry back to Shetland had been cancelled. The oceans were raging white; the cliffs were being engulfed by massive heights of ocean spray. The tea house was a pleasant retreat, just as the antique shop was. Birsay Books was nearby, so it was decided to go there: down the road, a quick turn right, and then left, on again to a left turn up a rise and there is was, just a little further on - Birsay Books. The business card picked up in Kirkwall showed a lovely graphic using a curlew's head. For four months on Shetland, one had not seen a secondhand bookshop, so the visit was welcome. The only secondhand books in Shetland were those random donations on charity shop shelves, and the selection in the antique shop in Commercial Street. Might there be some good Shetland books here in the Orkneys?
We entered a well-appointed new extension to the home, a bright and white, high space with chunky slabs of timber shelving nicely made by a local craftsman. It was not overcrowded with publications; one hoped for quality. The bell on the chair was rung, the owner appeared, welcomed us and explained the setout: the browsing began. Yes, there were some Shetland items, old tourist guides, stories, and maps. It is always good to see the locations as different diagrams, recollections, and photographs, and to read the advertisements of other eras. These all add a context, some depth, to the present.
Looking in the history section, Wilfred Thesiger's book Desert, Marsh and Mountain The World of the Nomad, Collins, St James' Place, London, 1979, describing and illustrating his travels, was discovered, and purchased along with a handful of Shetland items. His journeys were iconic, like his photographs. Thesiger was first encountered in Gavin Maxwell's lovely book, A Reed shaken by the Wind. This book noted Maxwell's time with Thesiger in the marshes of Iraq. On page 174 of his book, Thesiger described Maxwell's writing as 'a brilliant piece of verbal photography,' and of Maxwell himself: 'I found him trying, inclined to be querulous and neurotic.' Thesiger seems to have got on better with Gavin Young 'who has recently written Return to the Marshes.' He continues: 'He had an instinctive understanding of and affection for the Madan,' as if Maxwell had not. 'I always looked forward to his brief visits to me from Basra.' This last statement on Gavin Young seems to carry a sting, suggesting that he did not spend much time in the marshes of which he wrote.
Pondering the function of the dovecot one subsequent evening, one thought again about the slate projections. No, these were not for the birds to perch on; it seemed that they were to shed water, to waterproof the nesting holes. It would be important to maintain a dry interior, and dry stone walls were not waterproof. Traditionally slate had been used as a damp proof course and a roofing material. Here it was both a damp proof course and a flashing: it made sense. The slate tiers would shed the water that penetrated the stacked stones, and stream it onto the lower slate levels away from the stones, like a waterfall, keeping the interior nesting holes dry. Water entering the top opening would fall directly onto the muck heap that had been raked into the centre of the floor space, keeping away from the walls that were sheltered by their slope.
Days later, the Thesiger publication was picked up to be perused yet again. Browsing through its marvellous photographs, a lookout tower was noticed: it reminded one of the dovecot. The tower was built of mud brick and had tiers of slate projecting in the same manner as the doocot. The associated text explained the slate as waterproofing, just as had been recently assumed for the dovecot. The parallel astonished. Was this Jung's synchronicity?
One thought of the Queensland architect, Russell Hall. His shrewd observation was that even the slightest profiling of an exterior surface that casts a shadow offers some environmental protection to the building, some shading, be this corrugated iron or weatherboards, or something more contrived. No enormous formal gesture was needed if one was careful with considered details and profiles: little things can be critical. Both of these old structures knew of this and incorporated the principle as the idea into the form with simple, unpretentious detailing to create functional, ordinary wonders. These functional structures remain as examples of what architecture can be beyond the theatrical and dramatic gestures contrived for extraordinary amazement, and clever bewilderment.
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