PARAFFIN, SELFIES, & THE SPECTACLE - UP HELLY AA 2023

The last act was to set the alarm; but this year’s link had not been confirmed. The site was opened to reveal the countdown: there were 5 hours 53 minutes and the tumbling seconds to go. Further scrolling found it: uphellyaa.com; that would be easy to recall - now it was time to sleep.

Why does one always wake just minutes before the alarm? The day had already revealed the soft, glowing grey behind the black filigree of the tall eucalyptus trees: there had been rain last night. The humid morning was silent; the stillness was stirred only by the gentle wafts of the ceiling fan. Kookaburras had not yet welcomed this dim light; nor had the currawongs or the butcherbirds started their wakening songs; the grunting koala was now quietly snoozing. Were they missing the glorious pinks of daybreak?

Kookaburra.

Butcherbird.

Currawong.

Koala.

The WiFi connection was refreshed to eliminate one potential problem; previous issues with the Up Helly Aa connection made one wary. The cup of tea was prepared; the log-in completed; the button pressed. The site opened to a black screen. Oh, no; not again.

The login was tried on the tablet; it worked. The television was restarted: the dim image of Lerwick highlighted by the bright spike of the town hall appeared. The voice was discussing Up Helly Aa and other events, noting that women were involved this year; that it had never been cancelled because of the weather; that the fiddle festival was coming; and the tall ships too: that it was an unexpectedly mild, but cold evening. There was half an hour to fill in as the camera panned in and out around the town hall.

Lerwick Town Hall.

The screen was enlivened by the glow of the test start up - ‘Don’t get excited yet’ - followed by more chat, readings of messages from afar, and sundry greetings interspersed with comments on the raven symbol: the time to light up came closer. There were more stories on the military precision of the occasion; and the delight of the marvellously familiar smell of paraffin, a wonder that was close to the promotion of solvent sniffing that has caused so many problems with our indigenous people. Expectations were heightened as the clock ticked down; now was a good time to go to the chip shop: the beginning of end of winter.

Safer petrol for remote communities.

Things meaningful and bizarrely trite were interspersed in the feed to annotate the silence with sundry asides and idiosyncratic comments as the streets of Lerwick stoically glimmered. The image returned to the original vista, only darker now, ready for the light up. Here the skies were brighter; the tall gums now greyer as silhouettes; the kookaburras, currawongs, butcherbirds and the koala all remained silent as the glowing clock faces dot-pointed the darkness that was soon shattered by the thumping crack that marked the start of the historic celebration. Not one bird stirred; neither did the koala.

The ruby glow of the white flare of flames silhouetted Lerwick and resolved into an array of individual torches. The voice spoke of the origins of Up Helly Aa in left wing politics and the temperance movement. It seemed a more than ironic beginning, now changed again with women guizers this year, a fact that was to be oft repeated: the procession had begun. There would be no Shetland ‘bangers’ this year; just proper buses to get to the halls. The parade continued with a strange silence as various random matters were mentioned. A snake of fire wormed its way along the streets that became defined by the dots of flames; the voice-over chat continued with the personal messages, adding copious thanks to the sponsors, Northlink, Shetland Broadband, and Promote Shetland as the speckled line grew. Eventually one could hear the music and became astonished at how quickly the snake lengthened as a twinned row that soon turned back on itself to become four.

One wondered if the paraffin was having its effect, as the commentator again eulogised, praising the smell that he described as ‘reassuring.’ Glimpses of the various quirky outfits worn by those in line could be seen in the blurred glow of the flames as the voice mentioned: women; fifteen years; and men dressed as women, a hallmark of Up Helly Aa; kilts and skits; the Guizer Jarl’s dog; his job at the Shetland Trust; his sterling 24 hour effort; and more individualistic pieces and hellos that had come in from a range of regions – ‘I’m making fish pie; It’s freezing here; I’d love to be there; I knew nothing of this - WOW!; I worked in Shetland once; I’ll be there next year; I’m on my first whisky; I was in Shetland last year.’ At times the procession seemed to be a decorative background to this collage of selfies. There appeared to be just too much distracting information. The censored lyrics of the songs were recited with some nostalgia to fill in the gaps.

Bright patches of blue between fluffy white clouds appeared here as the galley turned into the park. The gums were now coloured their grey-beiges and pale grey-greens. The wind had picked up, spreading dramatic sparks across the screen. The tommorton.live music link was suggested along with the warning not to wear inflammable clothes that could melt when close to danger. More song lyrics were recited as the procession spiralled around the galley preparing for the ‘military precision’ of the torch throwing, with a ‘Hello to my friend Harry,’ a message from ‘Jane who loves cooking,’ and another from ‘Garry who visited two years ago.’

The brilliant sun was finally breaking through the brighter, still cloudy skies as the circles of flames and that ‘unforgettable’ smell of paraffin, mmmm, encompassed the Guizer Jarl’s voice: three cheers; hip, hip - thrice, and once more for himself. After his climbing out of the galley, the torch throwing started. Soon there was a huge fire ablaze sending the galley ‘off to Valhalla’: the biggest fire festival in the world. Thanking the sponsors yet again, the chat diverged into Viking funerals and options for ashes as everyone waited for the symbolic fall of the crucifix mast, and the collapse of the dragon’s head. One hoped that the head might be filled with fireworks to celebrate the occasion with spinning Catherine wheels, speckling sparklers, and showering sky rockets – the grand finale: but no; it just fell. Reestit mutton and the very best of bannocks were mentioned as thoughts moved on to the halls; sponsors were thanked yet again, and the event was closed with a ‘Good Night’ as the flames became more subdued, changing to an image of digital flames behind ‘60 degrees North.’

It was a good morning here even without the birdsong and the breeze. There were no halls for celebrations; only a breakfast to prepare in the 24C heat; 32C predicted. The gum leaves remained unmoved; the forecast was for storms; the skies were clouding grey again.

One does wonder how the most recent member of the committee might envisage his or her turn as Guizer Jarl. Might the celebration remain the very same as it is now? Will fire still consume a galley, hundreds of pieces of wood, and hundreds of gallons of ‘reassuring’ paraffin? Might the impacts of climate change make such celebrations less politically correct? Will the thinking that has allowed women their new roles transform this occasion again? One only has to look at the Australian Open Tennis to see how drones can make astonishing displays. Might flames give way to the masterful glow of technology?

Australia Open drone display. 

Drone display Sydney.

The very nature of change is that it is unexpected; we’ll have to wait to see what the future becomes. Who would have thought that the roguish rolling of tar barrels would ever become a ‘military’ organisation? Might there be another way to include greetings: perhaps as scrolling texts, to allow the voice to concentrate on and enhance the spectacular power and drama of the occasion instead of shrouding it with what felt like a surplus of intimate trivia?

There were no daybreak kookaburras this dawn, on the first Wednesday of February; the currawongs and butcherbirds will be in later in the morning for their titbits; the koala will continue to sleep until late afternoon when the kookaburras will then cackle for their food, a marvellous sound that is not unlike a staccato: ‘Happy Up Helly Aa.’

Happy Up Helly Aa.

One hopes that everyone had a good one, with a memorable sniff of paraffin, a publicised selfie, a grand spectacle, and great fun and dancing in the halls.

SHETLAND DARK

After attending a talk on traditional Shetland basketmaking at the museum in Lerwick, Shetland, a session that was followed by a practical presentation of the craft, we drove back to Unst. Knowing that the event would finish late, we had booked the last ferry into Shetland’s ‘most northerly’ island. This geographic bragging has become the island’s cliché description, with nearly everything unique or north on Unst claiming to be ‘Britain’s most northerly.’

It was while driving through the clouded, moonlight hills** on this return journey that one noted just how dark the majority of places were. Frequently we drove through areas that had not the faintest glimmer of one bulb, with the only light coming from our headlights that helped to decipher what was ahead, sometimes with difficulty, such was the density of this drizzling darkness.

The thought occurred: if the country is so jet black in our ‘progressive’ age of ‘special enlightenment’ - a space station is being built on Lambda Ness, one of the ‘most northerly’ promontories on Unst: WOW! - what must have been the experience of those who lived with more basic forms of lighting like paraffin lamps; oil lamps; and candles? One should realise that this was not so long ago; parts of Shetland only received power and water in the late 1950s/early 1960s: the main roads of Shetland were only improved between the wars, to provide employment. The long dark evenings of winter that would have been a stark contrast to the bright summer days glowing with the simmer dim right through to the late and early hours, must have been grim, filled with every fearful horror that one could envisage. Little wonder that the traditional taatit rug* was woven with symbols to protect one from the evil spirits while asleep, when one was most exposed to the evil forces.

After having sensed the dominating dark of the long night, one can appreciate how stories of ghosts, fairies, and trows^ gained credence especially when travel between croft houses and settlements was by foot. The experience, even with the full moon, must have truly been forbidding. One was under a black sky, surrounded by blacker hills next to the pitch black waters of lochs, voes, and oceans. It was a world of unforgiving darkness where depth has no perceived limits: one was left facing the void – nothingness. Any neighbours might have been specs of light at best; the idea of walking to the neighbour’s crofthouse must have come with incomprehensible concerns when driving through the night’s darkness left one engrossed with worries about how one might cope in the dark nihility alone. Walking would have relied on one’s feeling for place and its intimate details, an awareness of its nooks and crannies that were all homes to the spirits.

We are so used to our illuminated world that we forget about the impenetrable depths of darkness, the huge inky void that eliminates all memories of place, supplanting this clarity with fearful uncertainties and formidable unknowns. It is a world that is now unfamiliar to us; but it is in this context that we have to consider not only the experience of the recent inhabitants of these isles who lived by pariffin glows and candles, but the broch dwellers too, who possibly used oil to light their nights around the glow of the smoking peat fire. Little wonder that the villages gathered close to the broch in a tight-knit community. One has to ask: how was the broch seen in this darkness that extended throughout the long winter months, with special celebrations to mark the nights' looming beginning and brighter end? This was the cold, black void that revealed nothing but the sound of another, an animal, a trow until one was upon the revelation of this phantom figure, or maybe not. We need to come to know this darkness again, not just its metaphor used in mental health. We also need to learn to manage light instead of flooding our firmament with an indiscriminate glow that reflects our arrogance and carelessness; or is it our insecurity? Sensing Shetland’s darkness would be a good beginning.+

The traditional ‘straw’ basket# evening was interesting. The museum’s Ian Tait repeated the presentation he had given a couple of years ago on the traditional baskets, outlining the history, and the materials and techniques used. Basket makers later displayed their skills hoping to interest others in their ‘endangered’ craft that was once so essential for Shetland croft life, and has left us with astonishing examples of both their patience and dexterity. The cheap imports from India changed everything. We need to learn from this lesson today too: the ‘economical’ solution might appear attractive in the short term, but it deskills us, and leaves us with less of everything substantial; literally keeping us in the dark.

**

Waning Gibbous 99% illuminated

Waning Gibbous is the lunar phase on 9 November 2022, Wednesday. Seen from Earth, illuminated fraction of the Moon surface is 99% and getting smaller. The 15 days old Moon is in ♉ Taurus.

https://lunaf.com/lunar-calendar/2022/11/09/

The weather on the evening of 9 Nov 22 was cloudy and showery: see - https://www.timeanddate.com/weather/uk/lerwick/historic?month=11&year=2022

*

https://www.shetland-heritage.co.uk/taatit-rugs-exhibition

For more on the taatit rugs, see: Taatit Rugs: The Pile Bedcovers of Shetland – Shetland Heritage Publications 28 November 2015 by Carol Christiansen (Author), Carsten Flieger (Photographer). 

^

https://shetlandwithlaurie.com/the-blog/shetland-folklore-series-trows#:~:text=Trows%20are%20a%20feature%20of,mischief%20in%20the%20human%20world.

+

Shetland is not alone in this world in being a dark place. There are still places where one can enjoy this mysterious quality. Australia has many dark places too, but its clear skies open up a dazzling display of sparking brightness that amazes, distracting one from the surrounding blackness. Shetland’s skies can be just as starry-brilliant too, but much less frequently.

# baskets use many different plant materials: see - https://heritagecrafts.org.uk/kishie-basket-making/

NOTE

See The broch - its intramural stair: https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-broch-its-intramural-stair.html

Did the perpetual, memorable darkness of the broch stair and its upper space self-consciously engage with the spirits of the night so that they could be managed - evoked, addressed and appeased? Was the broch their abode, a place to ensure their satisfaction, so as to encourage their help rather than their retribution?

16 APRIL 23

NOTE

'Little people' turn up in the dark in Australian Aboriginal experience too:

He learned first the social rather than the religious stories of the land. In the rocky ridge country dwelled the menumemeri, Marrithiyel-speaking little pygmy men, quite black, who were felt, or heard, at night or who twinkled at the edges of vision. They are dangerous. A man travelling by night or camping in their country is liable to be enslaved, a woman to be raped. Amongst the men of Bill’s generation, stories were told of Marrithiyel who had found themselves surrounded in the ridges, but who had talked their way out of trouble by speaking to menumemeri in Merrithiyel and by giving gifts of flour, tea or sugar.

Peter Read, Belonging Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership, Cambridge University Press, Melbourne, 2000, p.84