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scotianostra · 2 years

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On August 29th 1930 the population of St Kilda archipelago were evacuated.

Huddled together near the stern of HMS Harebell they were conveyed from Village Bay on Hirta, the largest of the St Kildan islands, on a 17-hour voyage to mainland Scotland. Most of the islanders disembarked at Lochaline in the Morvern peninsula, a Gaelic-speaking area, and, as planned, many worked for the Forestry Commission. The remainder alighted at Oban and dispersed more widely to Inverness, Portree, Culross and Stromeferry.

Whilst the authorities hoped the evacuation would receive minimal attention, it was inevitable that an exodus from such an iconic island attracted the exuberant media attention as it did, indeed 92 years later it still holds a fascination with people the world over.

Observing tradition, the islanders left an open Bible and a small pile of oats in each house,leaving the houses unlocked, and at 7am boarded the Harebell.

Although exhausted by the strain and hard work of the last few days, they were reported to have remained cheerful throughout the operation. Finally, at 8am the ship pulled away from the St Kildans’ homeland, the only one they had known.

As they steamed eastwards and the familiar outline of the island grew faint, the severing of an ancient tie became a reality and the St Kildans gave way to tears.

The women stood at the stern of the Harebell, their shawls around their heads, waving goodbye to the island until it was out of sight.

The shy people from Village Bay did not expect the throng that surrounded them” at Lochaline pier. One of the islanders, Lachlan Macdonald, recalled: “There was an awful lot of reporters and journalists there... As far as I can make out, they were thinking when they were coming from St Kilda that they were odd folk who didn’t know anything, they were more like wild beasts ... a curiosity, just as if you were going to the zoo to see some wild beast or something like that.”

Not for the first time in the historiography of St Kilda, the drama of evacuation further enhanced the island group’s iconic status popularly rooted in its environmental and cultural distinctiveness.

The islanders left behind their village on Hirta – the only island that was inhabited – consisting of a single street of stone-walled houses built in the 19th century to replace earlier dwellings known as black houses that still stand, their roofs covered with turf.

Generations had struggled to scrape a living from the unforgiving land far out in the Atlantic, but the 20th century had finally caught up with the harsh reality of existence there. It was a brutal process, as they carried their possessions and their furniture on their backs to the pier, the men had the unenviable task of drowning their working dogs in the sea, as they were not allowed to take them with them to the mainland, it was either that or leave them to starve, a very harsh ending to their life on the archipelago. Their cats were left to fend for themselves, but from what I can gather were eventually all killed off by the military over the next few years.

St Kilda is not unique, other Scottish Islands were abandoned beforehand, most notably, Handa, off Sutherland which met its doom in the 1840s. Mingulay, in the Outer Hebrides that was deserted by 1912. In previous posts I have also told you about one of the most recent islands to be “abandoned” Scarp, in the Outer Hebrides.

The Islands of St Kilda though had become a curiosity, a sort of freak show for tourists to observe, several operators take people to St Kilda to see what has been left behind, researchers and volunteers live on the island during the summer months and since 1957 people have lived on the main island of Hirta on a temporary basis to operate a military radar station.

In 2016 the last surviving resident of those evacuated from St Kilda, died. Rachel Johnson was born at Hirta in July 1922 and was eight years old when she, her family and other islanders left the isle. She settled in Clydebank and she lived there the rest of her life.

#Scotland #scottish #outer hebrides #st kilda #evacuation #history

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dierdra-jones · 4 years

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NAME Dierdra Jones HOUSE Hufflepuff AGE / DATE OF BIRTH 26, December 8th OCCUPATION Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies WAND TBD BLOOD STATUS Halfblood SEXUALITY bisexual FACECLAIM Laura Harrier

BIOGRAPHY

Emrys Jones lived a relatively quiet life after Hogwarts, which meant that his daughter lived that same quiet life--one that she should have been more grateful to have. Dierdra grew up in Caerphilly in a small wizarding neighborhood not far from the muggle population. Her life had been full of warnings, cautioning her to behave with made-up stories about how the muggles would take her away if she didn’t stay within those boundaries. It made muggles out to be much scarier than they were, though the only purpose of those stories as Dierdra would find out later, told by their neighbor Cardella Wopsle, was to keep the Ministry from coming in and causing everyone trouble.

Since her parents were always working, Dierdra was always at some neighbor’s house. If it wasn’t the stories of muggles, it was a fear of being disliked that kept her on her best behavior, understanding that the reason she hadn’t just been kept in her own house by herself for hours was because of the kindness of her neighbors. And it was really those neighbors who introduced her to Gwenog as someone who was much more than her auncle she saw at family Christmases and Catapults’ home games.

The closest thing she had to a role model, really, was her auncle Gwenog… or rather, Gwenog’s career. Spending time with a few neighbor kids made it easy to keep up with Quidditch every season, and Dierdra was a staunch supporter of her auncle—not quite realizing that their belligerent attitude on the pitch wasn’t just them being larger-than-life as they were during the holidays. Gwenog would still be her favorite relative, Quidditch player or not, but there was something to their brazenness that made Dierdra yearn for more than just the cul-de-sac she lived in. But hearing stories from them about their last match or their opinions on the Quidditch finals made it easy for Dierdra to see that they were in their element, and easier as well to be convinced that she too wanted stories like that to tell.

She did not, however, figure out a way to make a name for herself once she was in school. She couldn’t figure out how Gwenog managed to take up so much space and still glow in the hearts and minds of Harpies fans. Hufflepuff showed her that she didn’t need to be more than she was—but it was fortunate that what she was… was a Quidditch player. Anything else would have been acceptable, but she still hung onto Gwenog’s stories and their appearances on the sports pages of the Prophet. Everything else outside of Quidditch had been filled in by what her classmates had decided for her, her opinions molded by (if not a copy of) theirs.

Because of the unspoken rules of their magical community, Dierdra took the hint not to ask for a broom from her parents. The first time she had ridden one was the rickety older models in first year flying. It wasn’t that she had gotten a more functional broom by chance during her first class. After the second, third, and fourth meeting, it was clear that she could fly faster and higher than most of Hufflepuff house, receiving the first detention then when she strayed too far, but at the time she felt proud of herself for having proven that she had that natural talent.

Although she wrote to Gwenog about what had happened, the letter had gotten shuffled in the same pile as the fanmail their assistant slogged through for them. But perhaps by way of apology, even though Dierdra hadn’t felt like she was slighted, for Quidditch players were always just busy, Gwenog gifted her a broom after her first year to tryout for her house team, noting that the seekers are the speedy ones. Their advice made sense to her even if Gwenog didn’t tell her outright that she should be a seeker; what they said was barely advice so much as it was an observation. Dierdra did not have it in her to knock people off their brooms, nor did she want to get involved in the mid-field wrangle for the quaffle.

Dierdra’s life at Hogwarts did not revolve around Quidditch to the point where she had abandoned everything else; rather, Quidditch was a tool to remind her that the only thing worth doing was doing what she was good at. Sure, she did her due diligence, perhaps giving some of her favorite classes a little more attention than she should have--but her achievements academically were so patchworked that it was obvious that she hadn’t given much thought to how the combination of them could turn into a real career. Most of what mattered was that her marks were high enough so she could stay on the team.

While Dierdra made fast friends at Hogwarts in her first year, the peak of her popularity at school had come after victorious Quidditch matches, having broken the school record for the fastest snitch catch in her fifth year. It was then, she realized, that she didn’t need to be as boisterous as Gwenog to fill the space in someone else’s opinion of her… because most of that work was already done by whatever preconceived idea they had of what Dierdra should be. This didn’t mean that Dierdra was never honest; she had just become more selective about what she made sure to let people see, though there wasn’t much there anyway that would turn anyone’s heads. She didn’t mind; she was no trailblazer by any means.

Despite the fact that she had inherited the talent (if it worked that way), there had still been no guarantee that her Quidditch career would extend past seventeen. Even during her Career Advice meetings, she had been advised against pinning all of her hopes on the sport. She couldn’t find herself at all interested in the typical Quidditch-adjacent work: journalism at the Prophet or a Ministry position under the Department of International Games and Sports. A combination of the right OWLs and NEWTs would have qualified her to be a broom maker, had it not been for her lucky break.

Dierdra called it lucky. It was one of the matches where recruiters were watching, though she put that out of her mind and tried to treat this game like all of the other ones she had played in the last six years. For a Seeker, strategy didn’t seem to matter; no amount of height or speed mattered so much as Dierdra caught the snitch.

She was first signed to the Pride of Portree out of school and was traded to the Magpies after four seasons, though her rise to stardom didn’t start until she signed with the Harpies—though the media storm had been less about her record as a pro seeker and more about carrying Gwenog’s legacy. The Harpies were any player’s dream team to be part of, and barring being signed with them, they were any player’s dream to defeat in the finals.

Being signed on the Harpies didn’t make Dierdra work any harder than she already did. It felt as if Dierdra had done all she had sought to do, but she had wondered if being a Quidditch star had truly been a goal at all, so much as she was doing what she was good at doing. Perhaps that was the reason why she had always looked up to Gwenog: they were always so assured of themselves while Dierdra was convinced that her path to the Harpies was a series of events that just happened to be in her favor.

More often now, she wonders what her life would be like had she become a broom maker instead, understanding the magic between her and her broom and reliving the first time she flew. Maybe she’d be more enthusiastic about the muggle toys that started to take over the last few years, especially since GPS has become more prevalent as a broom accessory out of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Besides, what the helll was wrong with using a map? Dierdra had found herself lost trying to use the new muggle device, having chucked it in Cardigan Bay on a flight back to Caerphilly. It just felt wrong, the way it interfered with her and her broom. But that was the least of her muggle problems: having a phone now had been mandatory for the Harpies. Dierdra was wary of being forced to have a social media presence, unsure of what to fill her profiles with and unsure of how much autonomy she really had over what she was forced to give away. Now more than ever she was forced to channel the energy Gwenog had, with words like aesthetic and brand she never had to think about before. Quidditch was demanding more and more of her beyond catching the snitch nowadays.

As some of her teammates were talking about retirement because of a bad fall here, a pulled shoulder there, and bludger injuries everywhere, no one seemed to talk like their careers were over. They still had to carry the legacy through whatever they posted, and it seemed like all anyone spent their time doing off the pitch was creating something out of nothing for the sake of staying relevant.

Dierdra had never succumbed to her injuries too long to miss a significant portion of any season; how lucky was she to have fantastic healers behind the scenes. (Hell, they were even integrating muggle methods like physical therapy that kept her on the pitch, but she’d never understood how it works.) She wasn’t just in good health; seekers had a penchant for being injured often and she was doing better than most of them in the league as far as recovery time. She should be grateful that she has the next eight to ten years still to keep doing what she’s doing.

Or at least, what she thought she was supposed to do. What she thought her only job was. Muggle technology had more than just complicated what Quidditch was supposed to be. Playing the sport itself—getting on the broom, lifting off, searching for the snitch—had become less worthwhile because of the sacrifices she had to make for her career, beyond just becoming a good seeker. But even if she could cut and run, the lack of stability scared her into doing so. Dierdra had always been risk averse. On her pros/cons list, there were always more cons: it would be scandalous, she didn’t want to ruin her luck, she wasn’t qualified to do anything else, she didn’t know how to live without Quidditch…

That last detail grew into something beyond just a bullet point on her list; the mere thought of this hypothetical other life eroded her resolve and extinguished her passion. Dierdra had friends from school at this point who have had their luck lead them differently. She attended weddings and had her assistant send snitch themed gifts for their newborns. Dierdra couldn’t help but feel she had everything and nothing at the same time, missing out on something she was sure she hadn’t seen but had given up without even knowing.

CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

How does your character feel about their family?

As much as she admired her Auncle Gwenog, the two of them had never really been close—but that didn’t make them any less Dierdra’s favorite family member, if only because that was what people found interesting about Dierdra when she was younger. She modelled herself to be like Gwenog, but in failing that, she just ended up being more impressionable as she got to school.

Dierdra knew that they were proud of her rise to the top, especially after she joined the Harpies. Perhaps then she could say they were close, corresponding more often then, if only for the media appearances. As her career progressed, her auncle had become more of a caricature of what people found entertaining, though that didn’t mean she cared for them any less. It wasn’t disillusionment at all, since she still admired them even if it wasn’t the same sort of amazement she had in her formative years. Rather, she had come to terms with the fact that she would never deal with her Quidditch quandaries in the same way they did.

Some people called it going soft now that Dierdra’s taking the time to reconnect with her parents. The longer she played for teams far from home, the more she missed Caerphilly—even if it took missing several holidays because of the league’s schedule for her to finally admit it. Since going home more often when she can, rumor has it that she’s planning on signing with the Catapults—which didn’t seem like a terrible idea. The Catapults didn’t graze the front pages as often as the Harpies did, and maybe she could manage to look good as a hometown hero, especially since reputation was all the rage these days. Regardless of all of the Quidditch considerations, coming home and getting to know her parents better is her way of connecting to the idyllic life of being a kid in the neighborhood, and trying to capture what she had missed before. That always weighed more heavily every time she went back.

What does your character value in a friendship?

Whatever she says may as well end up in the Prophet, and whatever she posts may as well be picked to pieces out of context. Dierdra values someone who can be trustworthy. Someone who she can open up to about what’s on her mind without fear of having to hear her own news read back to her from someone else. She never thought she has much to say—but she’s never found someone she could truly open herself to.

How would your character describe their own work ethic? Is that an accurate measure of themself?

Dierdra is constantly worried she’s not working hard enough. Despite having the advantages of being well-off enough as a professional athlete, she’s terrified that everything she’s worked for would be swept aside. She’s willing to put in the work where she thinks it’s supposed to go, but very often her focus (on Quidditch) makes her blind to the bigger picture. So she’s right about having a great work ethic—whether or not she spends the time on the right task is another question.

How would a stranger who has just met your character describe them?

If this stranger knew anything of Gwenog’s threatening rage on the pitch, their niece Dierdra is much more behaved. A first impression of Dierdra is a quiet woman, having much more of her father Emrys in her than she thought. Friendly, welcoming, but not alluring by any means—someone quickly forgotten at the end of the day. Dierdra does not have a different face she puts on for the public; rather, she picks and chooses what she wants to share, and she really believes she has little worth sharing. There’s nothing she can say that hasn’t already been said better by someone else. The more she stays out of anyone’s radar, the less they care about her business—but the issue now is that there seems to be no escaping scrutiny since every witch, wizard, and wix could have a camera on their person.

What magical skill or talent is your character most proud of?

Dierdra wouldn’t consider it a skill, really, even though Dierdra wouldn’t know her way around an oven or a stove to save her life—so most of her cooking is done magically. What’s worse is that she’s incredibly out of practice. But she can confidently make two things: (1) Every year on her birthday, she bakes herself a cake from scratch as a tradition she insists on keeping, even if it falls apart as she tries to cover it up with icing. (2) She knows how to make her eggs any way she wants, realizing it takes patience to properly make them over easy without breaking the yolk. The process of cooking—getting the ingredients together, preparing them, and heating them just right—is meditative, and very rarely does she allow herself to have these moments.

PARA SAMPLE

Product sponsorships put the numbers on her paycheck, though once upon a time the products were simpler: weatherproof jackets, leather gloves, reliable scrunchies. Of all the broom attachments the Harpies could have sponsored, they had to pick the one that made the most noise.

The damned GPS beeped as Dierdra had taken off from Holyhead and somehow shouted at her as if it were trying to make conversation with the air rushing past her ears. She didn’t need a muggle box to tell her which city she was over; she had made the flight back home enough times, even in the worst of weather.

It felt like her broom was being weighed down by the device, though she shouldn’t have been surprised: the device could hardly stay on her broom to begin with. Dierdra thought she was adjusting her steering more than usual, like she was fighting with the broom to fly straight. Somehow her trusted Nimbus had become the worst broom she had ever flown on after having attached the device onto it. She gripped the handle tighter with her hands.

The device was supposed to keep her from getting lost, but she was the one who was supposed to be doing the flying! A bundle of wires was no equivalent for a decade and a half of practice and Merlin be damned if she let some muggle toy take control of her broom for her.

This voyage home should have been easy. She had given the device a fair enough chance to prove its usefulness for less familiar trips. Dierdra screamed into the wind as the broom jerked again against her will.

She fumbled to get her wand with her left hand, regretting using the sticking charm now to attach the device onto her broom. But as soon as she let that hand go, the broom skittered to her left. Her body wasn’t trained for stability like the beaters were, but seekers were only one-handed on a broom for a few seconds. Except now, the few seconds turned to a dozen soon enough as she fought with her jacket to take her wand back. She calculated the next move, biting her lip hard upon realizing that it was necessary.

Her right hand lifted from the handle and she felt the broom slip, losing elevation despite her knees still steering. She kept her eyes forward, though there wasn’t much to see except the clouds she had hidden herself in. She knew she wasn’t over any cities yet so no muggles could see some “ooh-foes” out of the sky, but a water landing was complicated by the fact that there was nothing solid to land on. She slowly lifted her fingers to her jacket, fighting the force of the wind to unbutton it with both hands.

The force of the jacket billowing out behind her nearly threw her off her broom. Her heart leapt to her throat, her left hand reaching for the broom handle as her knees gripped for control. The wind tore her wand out of its inner pocket as soon as the fingers on her right hand reached for it, and she pulled the broom out of its planned path to make a swift hairpin turn.

The device screen flickered wildly, taunting her for going in the wrong direction. Her teeth gnashed together as she dove for her wand, speeding down this time to anticipate catching it from above. She needed to be out of the cloud cover to watch for the wand drop, making a wide circle before she spotted the wind carrying it further from where she had opened her jacket.

Dierdra leaned forward as she sped off towards the wand. Her muscles tensed as the broom urged her to turn back, the pull of the device stronger than ever now that she forced the broom to steer in the opposite direction. Again, she’d have to risk the broom wandering of its own accord when she made the final catch, but her timing had been nothing but impeccable: it was only half a second to reach out and grab it, its slenderness much easier to grip than a rounded golden snitch.

She inhaled sharply as she let the device bring the broom back to its intended course, clinging to the broom until she was steady again. It was only when she let the broom cruise did it finally behave, but the benefit of this was lost on her as soon as she tried taking control again to lift her back into the clouds, defying even that simple command. Her wanded hand clenched into a fist and raked over the thick strap that held the device onto her broom, opening her mouth only to shout the severing charm in frustration.

The strap would have fluttered elegantly like a broken ribbon carried by the wind—instead it looked like a misshapen tadpole diving into the sea, watched by a relieved rider securing her wand in its pocket and buttoning her jacket. Dierdra leaned forward, not bothered this time with cloud cover; she was nearly crying as the broom accelerated home, finally unencumbered.

#bio #info

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aparecium-hq · 4 years

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Welcome to Aparecium, Pat! You have been accepted for Dierdra Jones. Look, we’re both familiar with your writing already and support any character you’d write, but your ideas for Dierdra are super fun. We can’t wait to see them in action! Check out the new member checklist, and jump right in.

Character Basics

Birthday (Age): December 8 (26 years old)

Gender (Pronouns): cisgender female (she/her)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Blood Status: Halfblood

Hogwarts House/School: Hufflepuff

Occupation: Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies

Faceclaim: Laura Harrier

Any requested changes? None!

Biography

Character Questionnaire

How does your character feel about their family?

What does your character value in a friendship?

How would your character describe their own work ethic? Is that an accurate measure of themself?

How would a stranger who has just met your character describe them?

What magical skill or talent is your character most proud of?

Para Sample

I usually write somewhere between 150-300 words per post! See https://alices-husband.tumblr.com/ for a recent sampling of my typical writing length.

#apareciumacceptance #rp #rpg #hp rp #hp rpg #dierdra jones

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myretreat1 · 2 months

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(97) ‘Dead Calm, Portree Bay’. 20x8” oil on box canvas. Another one using only secondary colours, Winsor Violet, Cadmium Orange, Veridian & Titanium White. Completed 02/03/2024

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mary-whoisleft · 4 years

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GENERAL INFORMATION ➤

Full Legal Name: Mary Aileene Macdonald Nickname(s): Mare (most of her friends when two syllables is just too much), Shortie (her dad and her sister, despite the fact that the two girls are the same height), Mac (her Quidditch teammates) Age: 18 Gender & Pronouns: cisgender female, she/her Sexuality: Straight and easily distracted by cute, tall boys. As much as she might like kissing them, though, she’s afraid she will never be good at being in a relationship. Once she gets close enough with someone to feel something for them, she gets too afraid that dating them will mean losing them one day. And she can’t stand to think about losing the ones that matter to her. Date of Birth: September 30, 1960 Horoscope: Libra Hogwarts House: Gryffindor Nationality: Scottish, as is clear by her very thick accent that she makes no effort to reign in Occupation: After graduation, Mary will further delay making a decision about her future. Through the war, she will be a bartender at a somewhat seedy but usually lively pub. After the dust settles, though, she will get her dream job at a magical animal sanctuary. Summarized in One Word: Survivor

APPEARANCE ➤

Faceclaim: Kat Graham Height: 5′1″ Hair Color: Black Eye Color: Brown Noticeable Features: An infectious smile and a room filling laugh. A tattoo she got over the summer of the Loch Ness Monster on her hip. Typical Outfit or General Fashion Sense: high-waisted jeans and crops tops, an abundance of band t-shirts even for ones she’s never seen, party dresses with short flippy skirts and bright designs, the obligatory school uniform that she pushes as close to an infraction as she can

HISTORY ➤

Hometown: Mary is from Portree, Scotland, the largest town on the Isle of Skye, surrounded by hills and overlooking a bay. She loves it with all of her heart, and sometimes imagines that returning home would be some kind of magic fix to many of her problems. After graduation, though, a rational part of her knows that’s not true and doesn’t want to risk bringing her troubles back to her idyllic home. She settles down in a small flat in London instead. Financial Status: middle class Spoken Languages: Only English fluently, but she also has learned bits and pieces of Scottish Gaelic and Hebrew from her parents. Bad Habits: She has trouble reigning in her cursing, and often feels bad for letting out a storm or curses in front of the new first years. She tends to doodle on all of her notes when she’s bored in class, though she’s been trying to be better at that in light of her attempts to actually pass NEWTs. She gets over excited and talks with her hands a lot, which normally is fine but has been known to knock over cups of alcohol that have been set too close to her.

FAMILY BACKGROUND ➤

Mother: Katherine, an English teacher and loving mother who does her best to keep the calm in a somewhat wild household Father: Niall, a fisherman who gave Mary his boisterous laugh and his love of music Sibling(s): Lydia, her older sister who is a free spirit traipsing the globe, and Alfie, her younger brother, who she would do anything to protect Pet(s): an orange tabby cat name Nutmeg Grandparent(s): Her paternal grandparents both died when she was younger, but her maternal grandparents live in a small town in the Highlands. They don’t see them much outside of holidays, but Katherine and her mother seem to talk on the phone every day. Cousin(s): A few cousins on both sides of the family. Katherine and Niall were both the oldest siblings, so the Macdonald children are the oldest of the bunch.

MAGICAL ABILITIES ➤

Wand: Black Walnut with Unicorn hair, 9 3/4 in, springy Patronus: Mary has yet to be able to cast a corporal Patronus, but when she is able to it will take the form of a Husky. To cast it, she thinks of a warm summer night her and her fellow Gryffindor friends spent at the beach. She can’t remember a single thing they talked about, but she remembers the laughter that rang out between them and how comfortable it felt when they were all cuddled up around the fire, and that is enough. Boggart: Mary’s boggart still takes the form of Mulciber. Not because he is what she fears most, but he is a good representation of it. The lose of control she felt the night of the attack, the feeling of being unwanted in a world she thought she could call hers, the fear that something worse could always be waiting around the next corner. OWLS: Mary had taken the OWLs for Astronomy, Charms, DADA, Herbology, History of Magic, Potions, Care of Magical Creatures, and Transfiguration. She got a few Es, and a couple As that left her talking her way into the class for her sixth year. The only one she failed was Potions. What Kind of Magic do They Excel at: Mary is best as practical, instinctual magic. She’s always done well in DADA because she can think on her feet and trust her cut in fast paced situations. More complex, theoretical magic, like Transfiguration, was always harder for her to grasp.

PSYCHOLOGY ➤

MB Type: Entertainer - ESFP-T Entertainers love the spotlight, and all the world’s a stage. Utterly social, Entertainers enjoy the simplest things, and there’s no greater joy for them than just having fun with a good group of friends. Though it may not always seem like it, Entertainers know that it’s not all about them – they are observant, and very sensitive to others’ emotions. People with this personality type are often the first to help someone talk out a challenging problem, happily providing emotional support and practical advice. However, if the problem is about them, Entertainers are more likely to avoid a conflict altogether than to address it head-on. Entertainers are welcome wherever there’s a need for laughter, playfulness, and a volunteer to try something new and fun – and there’s no greater joy for Entertainer personalities than to bring everyone else along for the ride.

Enneagram: Type 2 - 64% Match Type 2 can be described as The Giver. Twos want to be liked and find ways that they can be helpful to others so that they can belong.

Type 9 - 61% Match Type 9 is also called The Peacemaker. Nines like to keep a low profile and let the people around them set the agenda.

Type 7 - 54% Match Type 7 is described as The Enthusiast. Sevens want to have as much fun and adventure as possible and are easily bored.

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good A chaotic good character acts as his conscience directs him with little regard for what others expect of him. He makes his own way, but he's kind and benevolent. He believes in goodness and right but has little use for laws and regulations. He hates it when people try to intimidate others and tell them what to do. He follows his own moral compass, which, although good, may not agree with that of society. Chaotic good is the best alignment you can be because it combines a good heart with a free spirit. However, chaotic good can be a dangerous alignment when it disrupts the order of society and punishes those who do well for themselves.

Archetype: 53% Caregiver Friendly, sincere, and compassionate, the Caregiver finds their reward in helping others. No one could ask for a better best friend.

29% Explorer The Explorer is drawn to the unknown, whether that’s a Himalayan peak or the road not taken, and have a thirst for adventure. They take journeys, not vacations.

18% Athlete The Athlete's focus and drive are unparalleled. Staying healthy and being fit are paramount to them (as for winning, that doesn't hurt, either).

Temperament: Sanguine Sanguine people are boisterous, bubbly, chatty, openly emotional, social extroverts. In our distant past, the sanguine members of the pack might have played a supportive, encouraging, social role. They would have been the glue that kept the group together. In modern society, you might see them as entertainers, singers, dancers, or perhaps simply as the energetic people at parties.

#plot prompt friday

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isleofskyeafclub · 4 months

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December 2023

The December meeting began with the presentation of cheques to three local charities – Skye Crossroads Care, Portree Youth Club and Cram The Van Radio Skye's Christmas Toy Appeal with all the recipients making most appreciative speeches of thanks.

2023 also saw the Club celebrate 40 years since its inception in 1983 and celebratory cakes were cut at the interval and handed out to everyone present including visitors from Melbourne, Australia, who were enjoying a memorable evening.

Local players Calum MacAskill on accordion and Charlie Oag on drums got the music started with Inveresk House followed by some Irish tunes and the seasonal

Welcome Christmas Morning. They were followed on stage by Club regular, 13 year old Leela Brendon on fiddle who played My Home, Portree Bay and the Jig o' Slurs. Her young brother, Kiro, then followed Leela with his fiddle with a lovely rendition of Jingle Bells.

It was then the turn of Club Chair, Julia, to entertain with a selection on fiddle which included Lochanside and Hector The Hero. A special welcome then to visitor, Nick Mackay from Inverness, on his 5 row button box, accompanied by Graeme Mackay and they played a great selection of music including some favourites written by Nick's brother, the late Jim Mackay, including Memories of Mary Simpson.

Back to the fiddle when young local player Mairidhanne MacKenzie took the floor accompanied by Gillian Stevenson with some fine tunes including Mouse in the Kitchen and Silent Night. Following Mairidhanne was popular longstanding Club member, Wendy Riva, who gave her usual polished performance on fiddle ending with a selection of singalong Christmas Carols.

It was now time for our Guest Band – the Graeme Mackay Trio – to take the stage – Graeme on 3 row button box, Gillian Stevenson on fiddle and Iain Anderson on drums -

and they provided a fantastic selection of music commencing with Sandy's Shetland Stag Week and included several tunes composed by Graeme's grandad the late Jim Mackay and the first half ended with Jim Mackay's Compliments to Andy Ross and Jimmy Fraser's Farewell to Queensgate.

The normal break for tea and sandwiches was followed by the raffle and then Julia took on the role of auctioneer to sell a beautiful Harris Tweed shopping bag made and donated to the Club by Irene MacAskill, the wife of our accordionist Calum. This produced a hive of activity with eager bidders raising a grand sum for Club funds.

The entire second half of the evening was devoted to our popular visiting band and they certainly did not disappoint the audience as they played an amazing selection of 18 sets of music. The variety comprised a number of Graeme's own compositions including the Cabin Ceilidh Jig, Calum Keeps Coming of Age and the Best Present in the World. Also featured was the beautiful waltz – The Gift of Time – one of the last compositions of Jim Mackay. The tempo swiftly changed with an Argentine Tango and the Bluebell Polka before the band were encouraged to provide an encore with Kenny Gillies of Portnalong.

An excellent evening of a vast range of musical talent ended up with everyone being wished all the best for the festive season with a reminder that Alan Small will be guest artist on Thursday, 4 January 2024.

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encountersincamperland · 5 years

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Loch Seunta

On a cloudfull pressing day we planned to find a landmark not easily uncovered, Loch Seunta. We had got up intending to approach the loch along the sea line. Staffin Bay would not encourage sun bathers or surfers even in the most favourable weather. Boulders dab the shore like turtles laying eggs and sit among dark grey sand, when you can see it. But most of the beach is surfaced by cobbles big enough to step on but unsteady enough to turn you ankle. The beach is difficult to get to in any case with no obvious footpaths across the barbed encircled fields, and being cut off by a stream at one end and crumbling cliffs at the other.

We got to the shore zig zag half expecting some annoyed farmer's shout. The sea was blaring and breaking on the bay, the wind gusting snatches of conversation I could not make sense of, perhaps seized from some headland and brought round for us to hear. We picked and hobbled our way, the only ones on this open wasteland of marine debris, a rotting sheep carcass either dumped or ignored by a careless farmer, fence posts undermined and made horizontal by cutting waves, pointing like pikes in useless defiance in this battle between fields and sea, unable now to keep intruders out or sheep in. Skye is wild and what's been tamed has to continually assert that condition.

The difficulty of the journey made it feel like a pilgrimage of penance we were making in our efforts to discover Seunta. We gradually compassed the curve of the bay and made towards the headland. The cliff at this point was a slanting field chewed away by high tides. A taunting north wind seemed to be determined the waves would wet our boots before we got away. But defiles in the terrain, beguiling where streams poured off the land so that you could not climb up, still seemed to promise some easier access to higher ground. So it was we discovered a cattle track deeply indented with hoof prints, but drying out sufficiently to not threaten a breach of our footwear. We climbed up the path and after all that, suddenly there it was.

The preparation had made me aware this was a very small loch, the size of a pond really so when we found it at last we thought we had got the proverbial needle. On a 1: 50000 map it is too small to show. If it hadn't been for the helpful young guy in the tourist office in Portree, who drew our attention to it when we said we were booked to camp at Staffin, we might never have sought it out. The internet information explained Seunta means holy and said it was holy for its healing properties. But there are plenty of stretches of water that can claim the same. Indeed there is one famous holy loch called Holy Loch. So there you are. Still, other descriptions intrigued. It's a stones throw from the beach, and while the salty sea crashes away at the dark rocks in its foamy dark intensity, grinding them to pebbles and finally to dust, ever determined to get to the root of the earth, on the other side of a hillock this small stretch of water moves quietly rippleless, transparent so you can see the bottom that gives it an inviting clarity, lightness and purity. Seunta is fed by a spring that keeps it the same temperature winter or summer, perhaps at 7 degrees. If I had come across it in my mid twenties I would have stripped my kit and leapt in to yahoos and other less than reverential bawling. However, today was cold and overcast and I was content to take a hand dip and caress my face, hoping I would become more handsome. But the trivial nature of my desire ensured the healing process refused to accommodate my whim. Still, the time spent at Seunta felt precious.

The water is blue unlike the peaty troubling invisibility of other lochs and as it fills from the spring one end it slowly empties along a steam at the other sinking under the hill and emerging over the pebbles and down the beach to join the sea. So just as Seunta departs itself, we left it, walking up the hill on a track made by cows that winds like a fluttering flag up to the road. As we arrived at the tarmac we could see a gate out of the field to a small car park where there were no vehicles. Strange in this island inundated with visitors. On the other side of the gate was a sign warning 'Beware of the bull and cows with calves in the field', enough to put off half the population and probably intended to do that. Also this car park did not advertise itself as such. There were no signs anywhere to orient the traveller. And so it is that virtually everyone passes by ignorant of the experience waiting for them below.

I felt almost holy and I felt almost blessed when we came to see, finally, Loch Seunta. Maybe it was the foretelling of its ancient reputation and the preparation I had undergone. I had had a similar but more intense feeling years before on Crete in a coach on its journey up to the Sevaria gorge. That time it seemed god had spoken to me but certainly a strong feeling of being a part of the oneness of things played over my molecules and left me slightly amazed. I had then made a walk over several hours down the gorge to the sea in the company of other coach users. This time there was nobody with us, just us two. And the sense that this was an attraction that had not cut through to the consciousness of the ever increasing other tourists who travel the roads of Skye, made a very private event of it all.

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