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, Part Eight here Part Nine here

There is another spot on this piece of land that holds the promise of finding Puffins, so Liz and I start the hike up to the lighthouse. Halfway there, chests heaving, we decide to call off the expedition and find lunch instead.

Liz recalls that The Spiggie Hotel had "White Wife" on tap. This is the Shetland-brewed ale that John MacRae had ordered for The Palm Shack Bar for us to sample, but which had been absolutely decimated without shame by the pub's clientele before we ever stepped off the boat. So we decide this is where we will have lunch.

It begins with a wonderful vegetable broth. Liz follows this up with the tuna stuffed baguette. I order The Ploughman's Lunch. It arrives on a huge platter and consists of mammoth slabs of stilton blue cheese, goat cheese, cheddar with chive and onion, and Scottish cheddar. Plus there is a small, artfully carved tomato, slices of cucumber, slices of pickle, chutney, celery, onion, a half-dozen pickled onions, and three healthy chunks of baguette.

All of this is washed down with a pint of "White Wife." And is it ever good!

While we have been dining, the wind and sun have broken up the morning's canopy of clouds. Large swatches of blue hover here and there over the island and the sea.

We return to the main road and turn north. In the village of Cunningsburgh, we stop at "Shetland Designer," a Shetland knitware studio and shop. Here, Liz picks out a beautiful sweater of muted purples, blues, rose and black in an intricate, yet subtle design. I only hope it gets chilly enough in Tucson this winter to warrant wearing this very warm work of art.

We still have several hours before our ship leaves. I am half-tempted to drop in at The Westings one more time, but I know it would only be anticlimactic after the wonderful party in The Palm Shack last night. So, we settle on making Scalloway Castle the last site we will visit in Shetland.

Before Lerwick claimed the title, Scalloway was the ancient capital of Shetland. Today, the village is dominated by the ruins of Scalloway Castle. Built in 1600, it was yet another residence of the much despised Earl Patrick Stewart. Built with forced labor, it is said the mortar of the castle is made of mud, eggs, and human hair. It is also said that the Earl was fond of hanging his victims from an iron ring in one of the chimneys. Eventually, though, justice was served, and the Earl got his comeuppance. He was executed in Edinburgh in 1615.

The key to the castle is held at the Shetland Woolen Company next door. It takes a little while to get back to the castle as this store, too, is full of beautiful sweaters, mufflers, gloves and more.

We have Scalloway Castle to ourselves. Although smaller than a number of the castle ruins we have seen, the exterior of this one is pretty impressive. First, there is the fine corbeling of the turrets high above the ground. Then there are the great chunks of gray stone and large patches of mortar that make up the outside walls. Still, even in the bright afternoon sunlight there is something eerie about the place.

Liz inserts the large iron key into the lock and pushes on the reddish-brown, iron-studded door. It swings open acknowledging our presence with a most appropriate groan. I haven't heard any stories of the ruins being haunted, but considering its gory history, it would be hard to believe that there aren't a few unhappy spirits still stomping around the castle.

Stones and earth crunch beneath our feet as we proceed down a long hall lit only by a small grated window at the end. Here, we enter a vaulted chamber off to the left. We are startled by the snap of the automatic lights switching on. They reveal displays concerning the history of the building, the story of Earl Patrick Stewart and more.

We trace our steps back down the hallway and make a turn toward a door which opens on the great hall. The roof is gone here as are the floors above this room. The only indications they ever existed are the arched windows and fireplace openings that hang on the walls over our heads.

The great hall itself is floored with smooth, rectangular stone tiles. The walls still hold patches of what must have been some form of plaster. These are now home to some sort of greenish moss. The walls also sport towering niches, some with stone benches built into them. There are two massive fireplaces at each end of the room. Liz steps into one. The opening is nearly twice as tall as she.

We climb a set of stone steps, very narrow in depth, to the second level and the private chambers of the Earl. Its claim to fame is that the Earl had a latrine up here. He also had a window which looked down on the great hall. The better to spy on those who might be up to a little intrigue, I suppose.

From the window on the exterior wall, Liz and I stop and watch a young fisherman donned in yellow boots, orange rubber waders, black sweater and navy blue knitted cap. He wrestles with a huge net that has been set out to dry. He tugs at and folds the net in small bits, and weaves rope through openings in the end in preparation for tomorrow's, or perhaps tonight's, run.

Time is slipping by and we must be on our way. As Liz returns the key to the shop next door, I shoot the last footage of the exterior of the castle. Again, during the short time we have spent here, the weather has changed dramatically from a bright, sunny day with scattered, puffy clouds to being completely overcast. And now raindrops begin spattering over the entire scene. In this muted light, Scalloway Castle looks tormented and downright scary.

We return to Lerwick and the loading pier for the ferry.

Cabin 306 on the HMV St. Clair features a couple of differences from the cabin we occupied on the trip up. First, it is even smaller than the other cabin. But it has a window! And from it, we can see that the water in the harbor is getting a wee bit choppy. Still, it certainly doesn't seem like anything to worry about.

The call comes over the public address system for those who are not sailing to go ashore. Liz and I head up to the deck for our departure from Lerwick.

To prevent damage to other vessels and the shore, the St. Clair must leave the harbor without creating a wake. So it is an agonizingly slow farewell to the islands. The ship crawls away from town, past streets lined with tall, sturdy, boxy homes with sharply pitched roofs; past stone churches and concrete wharves; past the white headstones dotting a hillside cemetery that reaches nearly to the edge of the sea; past rocky points of land thrust out at us from Mainland; past the rust-washed hulls of a pair of ships snugged up together at their offshore mooring; past a cliff at the southern end of the Isle of Bressay which wind and water have carved over the ages to resemble an elephant's head, its trunk dipped into the sea.

The wind has not yet reached gale force 8, but the swells are growing and off in the distance we can see fleeting pillars of white foam as waves are dashed against the rocky shore of the Isle of Mousa. And from the far side of the island the awesome Mousa Broch peers at us momentarily between two low, rolling hills in a silent, solemn goodbye.

As we make our way down the coast toward Sumburgh Head, I turn the camcorder on Liz and ask her what she thinks of our trip to Shetland.

"It was phenomenal," she says. "I had no idea what to expect. The countryside and all - I sound like a postcard when I start talking about it. But the people we met were amazing. I think we made some connections with people in a three day period of time that...well, we haven't made that level of connection with some people we've known for years."

That pretty well sums up my feelings, too. With the Palm Shack Gang, I felt very welcomed and accepted right from the start. And I felt more capable of just being myself with them than I have with a lot of people I know back home. Here I could blurt out whatever nonsense came to mind and that seemed to be fine with everyone. No judgement. No searching for hidden meanings. That was nice.

Before we leave the deck, Liz points out that we were very fortunate to have stayed at a place that had its own pub and its own cast of regular customers. And we were most fortunate to have had a host who made sure we were introduced to these folks and who drew us into the conversations. We owe a lot to John MacRae for making those connections and for making so much of our visit to Shetland so unforgettable.

I have a friend in Tucson who has said to me on more than one occasion that "travel can be a life-changing experience." I really hadn't ever given it much thought until now, standing on this deck watching Mainland slip away. Now I can see that this trip to The Shetland Islands has, indeed, changed my life. If you asked me exactly how, I couldn't tell you. But inside, something is different...is better because we came here.

Liz and I went to Shetland looking for adventure. What we found was something far better. Friends.

Oh, Shetland -
"Hold me like you'll never let me go.
I'm leaving...
Don't know when I'll be back again,
Oh... I hate to go."

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