Each month we will be featuring a guest writer and this month is Tom McMahon from Tucson, Arizona He said about this story. The following was written as part of a series of trip reports posted on the AOL Scotland Travel Board. I have now divided them into each of the four days we were in Shetland. The first day's report is by far the longest and that has been divided into two parts in order to fit in e-mails. Tom and his wife Liz visited Eshaness Lighthouse last week.

Wellies, Whisky & Warm Welcomes - Day 1/ Part 1"
Saturday, April 22

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen..."

We are awakened by a voice on the ferry's PA system informing us of the time, that we will arrive in Lerwick about ten minutes later than scheduled, and that breakfast is now being served. This is followed by an extended concert of "elevator" type music.

Liz and I sort of snort and roll over in our berths. It would be unfair to say we did not have a good night's sleep, but it was not the most sound. While the North Sea remained calm throughout the voyage, both of us woke up several times during the night, slightly disoriented by the movement of the ship in the water. And so rather than hopping right out of the sack, we puff the pillows and slam our heads back into them.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is now 7 O'clock., and..."

Uh-oh, we'd better get a move on. I encourage Liz to shower first - not out of any gentlemanly gesture, mind you, but simply to allow me to snooze just a little bit longer.

When she emerges, she dresses and goes up to the grille for her requisite cup or two of coffee. Meanwhile, I address the shower. It occupies a tiny corner of the restroom and should have a flashing neon sign that reads: "Warning! Warning! Not enough room for both a body and bar of soap!"

The shower has a curtain to close it off from the rest of the diminutive WC. Once inside with the water flowing, the shower curtain tends to cling to my body like Saran Wrap™ to a leg of lamb. As a result, not only is there a whole lot of washing going on, there's a good deal of peeling away the curtain going on, too.

I find Liz in the Bon Accord Grille with her coffee and a roll. I am about to sit down when I glance out the window and see land. I'm sorry but I can't miss our arrival in Shetland. I excuse myself and race back to the cabin to scoop up the video camera and head out on deck.

It is here and at this moment that my love affair with this extraordinary place begins.

We are gliding up the Bressay Sound with the island of Bressay to the starboard side of the St. Clair and the island of Mainland to the port. I am on the Bressay side and the view is breathtaking. The only movement in the water is the nearly negligible rippling of the ship's wake. Other than that the Sound is perfectly still. The sun is fighting furiously to penetrate a heavy layer of fog that sprawls across the higher points of the island, and this conflict of light and cloud makes the entire setting of land and water look as though it is painted in mercury. It is absolutely stunning.

Here and there along the shoreline are clusters of what appear to be cottages and two-story homes. Interspersed among them are the stone skeletons of dwellings that long ago succumbed to the onslaught of time. There are no trees. From the deck of the ship the barren Bressay terrain could almost be mistaken for the stylized setting of some1930s horror movie. Except it generates respect. And awe.

Liz joins me and we cross over to the port side to take in the sights of Mainland. The St. Clair is now crawling past Lerwick toward its berth in the harbor. It is early Saturday morning and there is very little activity going on in the town. At this time and in this light, Lerwick looks like a toy model - a richly detailed, but somehow unreal, collection of miniature homes, churches, shops and warehouses.

What a welcome to Shetland.

We are brought back to reality by the voice on the PA system directing those of us with cars to proceed to the parking decks. We snatch up the bags in our cabin, drop off the key, and stumble down the stairs to our deck and our car.

Our destination is "The Westings, The Inn on the Hill" in Whiteness, just a few miles outside of Lerwick. Liz had come across The Westings on the Internet. Her initial inquiry led to a string of correspondence over many weeks with John MacRae, the owner. Our first inkling of Shetland hospitality came when we mentioned in an e-mail that we planned to take in a few sights before we came to the inn (we planned on doing this because we believed we would not be able to check into The Westings until 2:00 or so in the afternoon.) Mr. MacRae shot back an immediate reply stating something to the effect that we wouldn't want to be touring all day with our luggage in the car, so come by the inn in the morning and drop it off. He'd even make a suggestion as to where to have lunch, etc.

Traffic is incredibly light in Lerwick this morning and within just a few minutes we are out in the Shetland countryside. The fog is quickly burning off and the morning is proving to be remarkably fine. We are passing among and over golden, yet tree-less, hills on the best roads I have come across in Scotland.

In no time at all, we are turning into the parking lot of The Westings. Practically before I can turn the engine off, a shiny, lean, black dog has raced out to the car and is snurfing the doors. It is followed by a sandy haired, bespectacled gentleman in shirt and tie. John MacRae's gestures are open and welcoming, the grasp of his hand is strong, and his smile is winning. He insists we leave our luggage in the car and come in for a cup of tea and some biscuits.

Now, I have to hand it to John. He has his marketing down pat. He has set up a table for us in front of a window with the most extraordinary view of Whiteness Voe, or inlet

And he knows just what to say, too. "Shetland likes you."

"Oh?"

"She's welcomed you with this weather."

And, indeed, the weather could not be more perfect. It has become a glorious day. There are just a few thin clouds hanging in the brilliant blue sky. This skyscape is mirrored perfectly in the absolutely smooth surface of the voe which reaches deep into Mainland from the Atlantic. It is too early in the year for the hills that embrace the voe to be wearing the bold greens of summer. Instead, they display their spring apparel of softer shades of greens and pale golds. A sprinkling of houses dot the hillsides and shoreline. Even the island of Foula, way off in the distance, has shed her usual cloak of clouds to greet us.

And there is not a tree in sight.

As we sip our tea and enjoy the view, John informs us that Jim Ivens is going to drop by to meet us this morning. Jim is going to be our ghillie (guide) on a fishing excursion scheduled for Monday.

Liz and I have a theory about how Jim happened to become our ghillie. This calls for...

[A FLASHBACK!] It is sometime mid-March. I'd been leafing through some materials about The Shetland Islands when one sentence leapt right off the page:

"Shetland has hundreds of small, and some not so small, fresh water lochs brimming over with wild brown trout."

Mmm-mmm! It had been a dream of mine to fish somewhere - anywhere - in Scotland and I'd either missed or passed up the opportunities on our two previous trips. But how could I possibly pass up hundreds of lochs brimming with trout? So, I fired off an e-mail to John MacRae inquiring about fishing and how I might go about hiring a ghillie.

The next day there was a response in my mailbox which, in essence, said licenses for fishing in Shetland are quite inexpensive and one really doesn't need a ghillie for fishing.

Ahem.

A day later, I received another e-mail stating that John had "been re-thinking" the ghillie idea and that a patron of his pub would be our ghillie if we were still interested.

Now, here's where our theory comes in. Visualize along with us:

[We are in a small hillside pub on a dark, cold night in Shetland. A handful or so of regular customers, shiny-eyed on a few pints of ale, are conversing thus:]

JOHN: I got another e-mail from those Americans today. Wanted to know about fishing here.

CUSTOMER: Aye, that'll be a fine time for them, won't it, John?

JOHN: Wanted to know about hiring a ghillie. [A brief pause, and then...an explosion of laughter from all.]

CUSTOMER: A ghillie? Here? [He guffaws, and then is suddenly serious] Say, ya don't think they're daft, do ya?

[Laughter all around]

CUSTOMER: [Wiping tears from his eyes] Hoo hoo, so what'd you tell them, then?

JOHN: Well, I had to tell them the truth, didn't I? That they didn't need one.

JIM: [Stepping up to the bar] What'd you do that for?

JOHN: Well, I...

JIM: I could be a ghillie! I go fishing all the time, don't I? ER...how much do think they'd be willing to pay?

JOHN: I really don't...

CUSTOMER: They're Americans, Jim. They won't care how dear the cost.

JIM: Do you think they'd pay £ X.00?!!!

JOHN: Oh I hardly think so, Jim. But I tell you what - I'll send them a message and ask.

[Scene fades to black. Fades up on the same location, the next night.]

JOHN: Hello, Jim! Say, I heard back from that American couple.

JIM: And...?

JOHN: They said YES!!!

[Much hooting and hollering and knee-slapping, etc. from all the pub patrons]

JIM: [Dancing a wee jig around the tables and bar stools] I'm gonna be a ghillie, I'm gonna be a ghillie!

And that is our theory of how Jim Ivens became our designated ghillie.

[END OF FLASHBACK]

To Be Continued

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