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. Tom and his wife Liz visited Eshaness Lighthouse last week.

Part One here Part Two here Part Three here Part Four here

Part Five here Part Six here Part Seven here

Back at The Westings, John MacRae seems a bit relieved that we have come home empty-handed. And rightfully so. He had, after all, volunteered to prepare our catch for dinner should we be lucky. Soon, the whisky is poured and we all relish the sweet warmth the first sip or two sends throughout our beings.

Yes, there is a certain disappointment in not having caught any fish, but still, I have realized my dream of going fishing "on this side of the pond." Besides, Jim has been so much fun to be with and so kind to these two "tenderfoot fisherfolk" from the States, that even with the cold, it has been a great day. But I do need to put Jim on the spot, so I grab the camcorder, aim it at him and ask him to explain why it is that we didn't catch fish today. He replies [and forgive me for my poor attempt at trying to capture his dialect], "Let me sehy, why haven't we got any fish. Eh... it was..eh...the wrong time of die, the wind was in the wrong die-rection, and mostly" [his eyes grow wide here] "it was too bloo..." [he glances at Liz and quickly changes his choice of words] "...ooming cold!"

It is still rather early in the afternoon and we wonder what we might do until dinner time. Dave, The Palm Shack's resident expert on any and all things, has been in the bar throughout all this. He suggests that we might want to take a walk up the hill off to the side of The Westings. There are Viking ruins and the remains of a Viking road up there, he says. Then he bids us goodbye.

After he is gone, Jim says something to the effect that Dave may very well be the only person who takes Dave's opinions about things as the absolute truth. "Aye, and he gets all wound up if you question him about anything he says." There is a little gleam in his eyes as he says, "I'd like to wind him up about that Viking thing."

Our drams drained, we settle our account with Jim, thank him for his services and see him off. Now, John MacRae generously asks if we would like to use the computer in his apartment to check for and send e-mail. You bet!

Two days ago, we gave John's son, Sandy, an Arizona Saguaro Cactus pin as a thank you for guiding us through Jarlshof and across the Isle of Mousa. John, though, has looked after us and helped us in more ways than can be counted. We have brought along a few copies of Liz's CD to give to those people that turn out to be really special to us and who we think will appreciate it. John certainly falls into that category and so we climb the stairs to his and Sandy's living quarters with the CD in hand.

John sets me up on his computer. As I get into my e-mail, John joins Liz and Sandy in the living room. They power up the CD player and insert her album. The first song, "Walking After Midnight," comes on. Liz tells me later that while I'm clacking away on the keyboard, Sandy's eyes grow big as he listens to the music.

"Is that you?" he asks.

"Yes," Liz replies.

"Your voice is so deep. You sound like Oprah!"

I send off a couple of enthusiastic notes about Shetland to a few people and then ask Liz if she would like to e-mail some folks. We switch places.

The living room of John and Sandy's quarters is spacious and comfortable. Large windows look out on that magnificent setting of Whiteness Voe stretching out to and past a smattering of small islands in the distance.

Liz's album is playing in the background and John and Sandy are busily searching for something. "Sandy's mother had a beautiful voice, too," John explains. "We have a video of her singing here somewhere."

It is an awkward and heartbreaking moment when John realizes that the only copy of his late wife's performance has apparently been accidentally recorded over by young Sandy and is gone forever.

Though obviously distressed, John insists on being the gentlemanly host, seeing to refreshments, trying to look after our comfort and stimulating the conversation. I can't help but admire the inner strength and character of this man.

A while later we excuse ourselves to rest a bit and clean up for dinner.

The meal begins with another of those wonderful soups John serves up at The Westings. This is Shetland Seafood Soup. That is followed by Scampi and (what else?) chips.

Following this most satisfying meal, we wander into the Palm Shack Bar - into what Liz and I agree becomes an absolutely amazing, magical evening.

We take a table in the corner near the door. Sitting at the bar is the other guest at the inn. His name is Roger and he is a businessman up from the mainland. An associate, Graham, is seated with him and they are deep in conversation.

Jim and Pam Ivens are there, too, and this gives us a splendid opportunity to razz Jim about his "ghillie skills." And then it seems that nearly everyone we have met here over the past few days begins to arrive. Kate and John. Roger. Dave, who is pulled into the room by his two dogs, "Oscar" and "Charlie." ("Oscar-Charlie" is the designation of Shetland's renowned air/sea rescue helicopter.) John MacRae has taken a stool at the bar and is puffing on his pipe looking very much like America's Garrison Keillor. Even Sandy takes a break from his school work and comes in. Young John arrives. He buys us ales and scoots in next to us at the table. He has brought photos of his sister's wedding to share with us. With us!! Imagine.

In the meantime, John MacRae has slipped out and now returns with a silvery disc in his hand. "We have a star with us tonight," he proclaims and announces that he is going to play Liz's album in the bar. He inserts it into the CD player and presses "PLAY."

Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

They try it several times, but nothing is happening. I am disappointed because I'd love to have The Palm Shack Gang hear Liz's singing. I walk over to the bar to see if there is anything I can do, but the situation is useless. It seems the bar's CD player cannot read this particular CD. Nuts! I sigh and half-mutter, "Anybody got a guitar?" as I turn back toward a table.

Within minutes, Sandy delivers a guitar to our table. It's his sister's who is away at school. I excuse myself to run back to our room to get my guitar pick and a couple of other things. Young John precedes me out the door on his way to the men's room. It is the perfect opportunity for me to give him his tip.

"Oh no, Tom. I can't," he says, stepping back from me.

"John, Liz and I just want to thank you for looking after us so well."

"That's my job, Tom. That's my job. I can't take that."

"Please, John. Liz and I really want you to have it."

"No, really..."

Can you imagine a discussion like this taking place in the U.S.?

It takes some persistence, but eventually Young John succumbs to my pressure and reluctantly, but gratefully, accepts the tip.

Back in the bar, I tune up the guitar, and Liz sings a Patsy Cline song, "I Fall To Pieces." My playing is sloppy, but thank heaven no one is listening to that anyway. It's all Liz.

Well, this begins what turns into a spontaneous sort of "ceilidh," an informal evening of singing, dancing and, of course, drinking. Well, ours doesn't have the dancing, but it's as close to a ceilidh as I've ever gotten.

I have grabbed a couple of kazoos from our room (everyone should travel with one or two), and Liz and I launch into an inane old jug band tune:

"Washington at Valley Forge,
Freezin' cold, but up spoke George,
Singin' vo do dee yo, vo do dee yo do!

Crazy words and crazy tune,
All that George could croon and swoon
Was vo do dee yo, vo do dee yo do!

His ukelele, daily, he would strum
Beedle um dum,
Dancin', prancin', then he'd holler
'Red hot mama!'

Washington at Valley Forge..." etc., etc., complete with a raucous kazoo duet instrumental break.

I take it as a very good sign that the patrons do not heave us out of the pub at the end of this number. On the other hand, it is just about this time that Roger the businessman and Graham make a hasty retreat through the door.

There is a pause in the music as Jim tells one of his funny stories, and then John MacRae, who has resumed his place on the stool at the bar sings out...

"In Dublin's fair city, where girls are so pretty
Twas there I first met my sweet Molly Malone..."

And before you know it, everyone is singing along. "Alive, alive-o. Alive, alive-o. Cockels and mussels alive, alive-o."

I think Liz is absolutely right when she says to me later that she believes if we could have produced some lyric sheets, John would have been content to have music there all night long.

Rounds are being bought here and there and the atmosphere is getting more and more festive. Liz ducks out for a few minutes to move our jeans off of the radiator in our room where they have been drying since this afternoon.

Jim is now sitting at our table. He looks at me with a twinkle in his eyes and calls Dave over. "Dave," he says innocently, "Y'know...about that Viking road up the hill. I'm not so sure it's a Viking road." He then sits back as Dave launches into a whole dissertation as to why, of course, it is Viking. Jim has done it, he's "wound him up." I don't look at Jim. I'm pretty sure he doesn't look at me. I think we both know that if our eyes met right now we'd fall apart laughing.

When Liz returns, there is a request for another song. I begin plucking the strings on the guitar and she sings:

"Oh my bags are packed, I'm ready to go,
I'm standing here outside your door,
I hate to wake you up to say good-bye.
But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn,
The taxis waitin, he's blowin' his horn,
Already, I'm so lonesome I could die. .."

And then all these lovely, lovely people join us in singing...

"So kiss me and smile for me,
Tell me that you'll wait for me,
Hold me like you'll never let me go.
I'm leaving on a jet plane,
Don't know when I'll be back again,
Oh babe, I hate to go.."

For me, it is a terribly poignant moment. Here Liz and I are, thousands of miles away from home, sharing a song of farewell with people we didn't even know existed three days ago and who, in that short span of time, we have come to care so much about.

But it certainly isn't maudlin in The Palm Shack. Rounds are being bought. Roger is spieling off funny lines. Jim is telling stories. We're being questioned about what our Thanksgiving holiday is all about while John MacRae and Roger exchange little knowing glances. We're being mercilessly ribbed about how late America got into the great wars. And the folks who have been shooting pool in the Game Room come out to take photos of us with the entire group. It is, I think, the best evening I have ever spent in a bar. Unquestionably, it is the most memorable.

We stay until closing. There are handshakes and hugs and well wishes as folks leave.

And a sense of loss.

After the bar has closed, John MacRae pours Liz, me and himself a dram of fine malt whisky and we sit talking for perhaps another hour. We talk of our impressions of The Shetland Islands. We talk of John's earlier globe-spanning career with one of the world's major oil companies and how he eventually returned to Shetland. And how he and his wife opened a department store in an old church in Lerwick. How John lost his wife to cancer and the difficulties both he and Sandy have faced adjusting to life without her. And now, the challenges of running The Westings. These are rare and warm moments we share with our host...and friend.

Back in our room, I sit on the edge of the bed and try to fathom all that has happened this evening. Was it planned that these folks would come by tonight? Was it accidental? I guess it really doesn't matter. I am just moved that they came by and shared our last evening in Shetland.

I pick up our mini tape recorder to record a few reminders of this evening's events, but I find myself speechless. No matter. The events are already etched in my memory and my heart.

To Be Continued

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