Storytelling in Shetland

The night was dark, and the wind whistled around the taek, screaming like a banshee as it forced an icy draft through every crack and crevice in the stonework of the peerie thatch-clad hoose…

Have you ever become lost in the pages of a book, exploring the intricate threads of a story as the narrative lures you into new, unexplored places? I love this escape from the world, and it’s one that has been a blessing in disguise throughout this year of uncertainty. I need and crave this escape in equal measures and, lately, I’ve been finding myself lost in old Shetland folk stories, enchanted by their magic, dipping in and out of their pages and wondering at the deeper meanings behind these stories.

I think about the storytellers behind the lore. Tradition and folk tales ground so much of Shetland’s culture and heritage, providing a strong anchor point that keeps us rooted to this one place, but what about the place of the storyteller in our modern world? It’s sad to think that so many of these stories – the very fabric of our society, the cloth that we’re cut from – risk being lost to history forever.

Should we grieve the fact that the seasonal patterns of life that went hand-in-hand with the storyteller are under threat in our modern world? In a culture where everything is found at the click of a mouse, are we more disengaged than ever? Or should we be glad that modernity has given us an immeasurable opportunity and an ever-growing connectedness to people and places across the globe?

At one time, stories and the storyteller played a prominent role in Shetland’s culture, especially at this time of year, during the dark months of winter when there was little opportunity for outdoor work.

Locking people into their magic for millennia, folk tales were at one time an integral part of the lives of our ancestors. These tales were passed down through the generations from one-to-another and were woven into the very heart of our culture.

Picture the scene as friends and neighbours gathered around a peat fire to listen to the stories of lore. It was cosy and intimate, warm, reassuring and familiar. It involved the meeting of eyes and the exchange of actual spoken words. There was no television or newsreel to break the silence. It was not an email trail, or a flurry of messages, likes and emojis on social media. It was real. It was tangible. It was a deep and profound human exchange that held communities together by a common thread.

Shetland endures a long, dark and often harsh winter. In its slow and wintery depths, the sun merely lifts her head above the horizon, nods an acknowledgement, offering a tantalising glimpse of light – a reminder that she is still there – before sinking, once more, below the western horizon and plunging the islands into shadowy darkness once more. And it’s in this shadowy darkness that the tales of time are spun, stories are webbed-out and mapped into our cultural fabric as the storyteller nestles into his easy chair for the evening.

Winter in Shetland was characterised by hard work, but a different kind to that of summer, it was a time of preparation, of forward-planning and making ready for the coming year. It was a time of hope, anticipation and of giving thanks for the year that had been. It was a time of patience, and of waiting on weather and light to return. Yet, it was a hugely sociable time where people could cast off the concerns of the day. The bitter cold and incessant wind were softened, the sharp edges of a winter’s day were dulled by time spent in the company of friends and neighbours. So, as the fishing lines were made, the yarn spun and the kishies formed, people chatted, whiling away the long dark hours in the company of friends.

It brings to mind a favourite poem by Shetland poet, Rhoda Bulter, where she describes the warmth of Shetland hospitality:

“Come, draa dee shair up ta da fire an bide a start wi me,
While I tell dee o da Hamelaand – da isles across da sea;
Whaar dir birds ta watch an fysh ta catch an hedder hills ta clim,
An times whin darkness niver faas idda Laand o da Simmer Dim.

“A’ll tell dee o a winter’s day wi da gaels an moorin snaas,
Whin da sea is hammerin at da banks an froadin ower da baas,
An we haal da boats high up idda boost an batten doon da taek,
While da peerie mare juist hings her head an skoags fornenst da daek.

“Can du hear da fiddle playin an someen safely hum
As we sit an waatch da lowin paets an da spunks gjaan up da lum,
An hear da clickin-clackin o da wires as da weemen mak dir sock,
While we spend some time tagidder wi da hamely Shetland fok.”

As the wind rattled at the window panes, and the rain lashed at the door, these tight-knit communities would find solace in the company of each other and the storyteller would gather momentum with the freshening winds. Nestled around the lowing fire and watching the spunks of peat dancing up the chimney, friends would share news from near and far, seamen would regale stories of faraway lands, exotic customs and unfamiliar fare. Bodies gathered close, listening, sharing guddicks [riddles] and, perhaps, as the night wore on, the chairs would be pushed to the side and the fiddle brought out to play and dance.

And as legs tired, and the lamp dimmed, stories ‒ the telling of a good yarn ‒ was invariably the end result of these friendly nocturnal gatherings. It’s not surprising that many a good storyteller has come out of Shetland, with stories that have been passed down through the generations and told around a glowing peat fire.

These stories were shared in a bygone Shetland. It was a Shetland that had no electricity, no running water and news from outside was slow to arrive, percolated in from passing ships and the infrequent out-of-date newspaper.

The late Lawrence Tulloch, one of Shetland’s most loved storytellers, and author of Shetland Folk Tales, wrote that:

What gave the story its greatest appeal was the gift of the storyteller who could stir in equal amounts of mystery, suspense and humour. It was that unique ability to tell a story, spin-a-yarn and captivate the imagination of the audience, no matter how insignificant the event or topic might be.

So this Christmas, tuck yourselves up in front of the fire and dive into some of Shetland’s rich folk tales with a cup of steaming hot mulled wine and enjoy some of the magic of the past. And with that, from me, and everyone at Promote Shetland, we wish you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas.