The Shetland Islands lie around 160km north of mainland Britain, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea, and exposed to every swell and weather system they can throw at them. They’re not for the faint-hearted, yet for generations of paddlers they’ve become a sea kayaker’s mecca. That’s thanks to an extraordinary coastline of towering cliffs, immense sea stacks, cathedral-sized caves and countless arches, together with an archipelago of islands waiting to be explored. Yet it isn’t just the scenery that draws people back. It’s the wildlife—from thousands of nesting seabirds to seals, otters and killer whales—and the warm welcome from the people who call these remote islands home.
It is for these reasons that I, like so many other sea kayakers, have fallen in love with these remote islands and always look forward to returning. This year was no different. I was invited north to coach with the local kayak club during the biannual Shetland Sea Kayak Symposium, organised entirely by dedicated volunteers. The welcome, as always, was warmer than the weather. Despite the wind, grey skies and rain, more than 100 paddlers took to the water each day to enjoy the symposium and the unique Shetland experience. The paddling was, of course, fantastic, but it was probably the cakes, conversations, new friendships and the ceilidh that created the strongest memories.
Over the years I’ve learnt that sea kayaking in Shetland is all about playing the long game. The weather decides what you paddle, not your ambitions. With near-constant winds and swell for much of the time, opportunities to paddle some of the more spectacular exposed sections of coastline are few and far between. With this in mind, there has been one particular trip I’ve waited years to make. If Shetland is the icing on Scotland’s sea kayaking cake, then Muckle Flugga is the cherry on top. Home to Britain’s northernmost lighthouse, it stands at the very edge of our world and can only be reached when weather, wind and tide finally align.
With time to spare after the symposium, a rare weather window was apparent in the forecast; so, ferries were booked, and we headed to where the road ends, on Shetland’s most northerly island, Unst. It was a small window of opportunity, but with blue skies and sunshine, I headed off from the Lighthouse Shore Station with Muckle Flugga my hoped-for destination. Rounding Hermaness, the scale of the place became impossible to ignore. The Atlantic stretched away to the west, the North Sea to the east. Thousands of gannets wheeled overhead while relentless swell exploded against the cliffs. And this was considered a calm day.
A kilometre offshore, the skerries that make up Muckle Flugga stood clearly visible, with the incredible lighthouse perched high atop the tallest skerries cliffs. Although only a short distance away, with up to 5 knots of tide, a funnelling Force 3-4 wind and the ‘small’ 1.4m swell, the crossing did not feel easy. Arriving in the lee of Muckle Flugga, sheltered from the wind and tucked into the tidal eddy, you’d think it was finally time to relax. It wasn’t! It was now time to find the notorious landing, which may or may not be possible depending on the swell and how brave I was feeling. Sitting beneath the old landing platform, I watched the swell. Every set mattered. Landing solo on Muckle Flugga isn’t something to rush, and I was weighing up whether I could get ashore without damaging either the kayak or myself. Eventually a gap appeared. Fingers crossed, I committed. A few seconds later I was standing on Muckle Flugga.
I was particularly glad to be paddling my Lightweight Volan. The first 30 of the 250 stone steps climb steeply from the landing to a ledge I wanted to carry my kayak up to, well above any incoming swell. With it safely secured, I could tackle the rest of the steep stone steps that lead to the lighthouse. It was an incredible, if slightly tiring, climb; passing numerous puffins, nesting fulmars and arctic terns en route. I arrived at the top of the steps to be greeted by the awe-inspiring Stevenson lighthouse, first lit in 1858. From here the views stretched south across Shetland and north into empty ocean. After years of waiting for the right conditions, I was finally standing at Britain’s most northerly lighthouse. It was time to take it all in and savour where I was, because it was without doubt somewhere truly special that not many have been fortunate enough to enjoy; particularly in the sunshine!
With the relentless swell refusing to abate, it was soon time to return down the steps to tackle the launching; it was all well and good getting onto Muckle Flugga, but to be successful I now had to get off! I was not allowed to leave easily, but despite a bit of sponging out required, boat and body were intact and head was dry; so, all was good. As the tide, wind and swell carried me back towards Unst, I found myself reflecting on what sea kayaks make possible. Some journeys are memorable because they’re difficult; others because they’re beautiful. Every now and then one manages to be both. Muckle Flugga had kept me waiting for many years, but in the end the long game was worth every moment.
