By Hamish Brown

Many a remote cottage welcomed this habit for the wind-borne clip clop of the weary nag with the beefy minister up gave warning enough for them to reel-up the room a bit and swing the sweep over the peat fire or replace the Highland Park with an imported blend.

The church and big manse of Tulna Voe nestled in a hollow below pastures that sloped up to the highest cliffs of the mainland. While quite unsentimental about his mount the minister enjoyed riding about his scattered parish. He would sing psalms in unmelodious content as he rode, the wind blowing out his dark coat or he'd cringe down under his hat before the lashing of rain and work out the castigations of the next Sabbath's sermon.

Alas, the horse had grown old and feeble and the minister eventually was forced to put him out to grass. Expecting some theological books to have come on the ferry he rode down into Kirkwall to see his cousin Erland who, among other activities, bought and sold livestock. Perhaps he could find a replacement.

Erland took him to a paddock where there was a splendid beast grazing, a chestnut mare, with flanks shining after a morning shower, all of 15 hands, neat in movement. Just right in fact. But not wanting to appear too enthusiastic Eric said he'd think it over while he went to the ferry office.

"£250 is a lot of money to be asking."

"What are you expecting off the ferry?" Erland and countered.

"Och, a parcel of books. Theology and such like."

"Then I can save you a journey. If they are your books you have a problem for the parcel is leaking.

So the tack was fetched and the minister swung himself up, energetically enough for a big man. He shook the reins. Nothing happened. He chuck-chucked. Nothing.

"Gee up!" he ordered. The beast never moved.

"What way do I get it to go, Erland?" "Och, it is a holy horse, Eric."

"What do you mean?" "Aye, a holy horse, just the very thing for a minister."

"It's nothing for anyone if it won't budge."

"It's a holy horse. You've to say the holy words."

"What words, man?"

"The words you give at every house."

"I give many words...."

"Och, when you leave man. You always say two words in parting." The minister's face lit up.

"Bless you?" he asked speculatively and then grabbed at the front of the saddle as the horse's sudden start threw him backwards.

To be continued

You can find more articles in the archive under The Bothy.