MY DEAR MOTHER,—. . . Wick lies at the end or elbow of an open triangular
bay, hemmed on either side by shores, either cliff or steep earth-bank,
of no great height. The grey houses of Pulteney extend along the
southerly shore almost to the cape; and it is about half-way down this
shore—no, six-sevenths way down—that the new breakwater extends athwart
the bay.
Certainly Wick in itself possesses no beauty: bare, grey shores, grim
grey houses, grim grey sea; not even the gleam of red tiles; not even the
greenness of a tree. The southerly heights, when I came here, were black
with people, fishers waiting on wind and night. Now all the S.Y.S.
(Stornoway boats) have beaten out of the bay, and the Wick men stay
indoors or wrangle on the quays with dissatisfied fish-curers, knee-high
in brine, mud, and herring refuse. The day when the boats put out to go
home to the Hebrides, the girl here told me there was ‘a black wind’; and
on going out, I found the epithet as justifiable as it was picturesque.
A cold, _black_ southerly wind, with occasional rising showers of rain;
it was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of it.
In Wick I have never heard any one greet his neighbour with the usual
‘Fine day’ or ‘Good morning
bay, hemmed on either side by shores, either cliff or steep earth-bank,
of no great height. The grey houses of Pulteney extend along the
southerly shore almost to the cape; and it is about half-way down this
shore—no, six-sevenths way down—that the new breakwater extends athwart
the bay.
Certainly Wick in itself possesses no beauty: bare, grey shores, grim
grey houses, grim grey sea; not even the gleam of red tiles; not even the
greenness of a tree. The southerly heights, when I came here, were black
with people, fishers waiting on wind and night. Now all the S.Y.S.
(Stornoway boats) have beaten out of the bay, and the Wick men stay
indoors or wrangle on the quays with dissatisfied fish-curers, knee-high
in brine, mud, and herring refuse. The day when the boats put out to go
home to the Hebrides, the girl here told me there was ‘a black wind’; and
on going out, I found the epithet as justifiable as it was picturesque.
A cold, _black_ southerly wind, with occasional rising showers of rain;
it was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth of it.
In Wick I have never heard any one greet his neighbour with the usual
‘Fine day’ or ‘Good morning