5

Ponies in Jumpers

WE STOOD BY THE HORSEBOX, trying to dress Freckle in an overly large knitted jumper. She was understandably confused but was remarkably tolerant of the process. As Freckle tripped over her sleeves, which fully enveloped her hoofs, and the foal tried to chew at the unusual woollen garment, the ponies’ owner, Amanda, and her mum, Marion, wondered aloud why an American travel show wanted to film Shetland ponies in Fair Isle jumpers.

The track gleamed white in the sun as it wound its way between green fields to the sandy beach below. We made an odd-looking procession, with two Fair Isle adorned ponies, a lively foal and two fluffy Shetland sheepdogs. A surprisingly large group followed us, carrying bags of equipment, drones, cameras, and long poles with fluffy microphones that the ponies seemed especially interested in. I stopped for a moment at the brow of the hill, startled by the sheer clarity of the light that made land and sea shine with a radiance so different from how I had known this place in winter. ‘Won’t need much of a filter,’ I heard one of the crew say as he looked out to the turquoise sea, azure sky and golden sand.

The water rippled and there was a light whooshing sound as the breeze chased grains of sand. A family were having a picnic in the shelter of a sand dune, and at the sight of us the youngest child, also dressed in a Fair Isle jumper, squealed her excitement, with her mum urging her to ‘go peerie ways’ with the horses. After assurances from Amanda, the family approached, delightedly chatting to the horses and us and taking photos. Soon more people began crowding around, exclaiming at how cute they found the ponies, and asking if they usually wore jumpers. I could feel Amanda and Marion bristle as they answered politely but firmly that Shetland ponies were a strong hardy breed that did not even need to wear a winter rug. They were not usually dressed up in jumpers.

I sat with Marion as Amanda did an interview by the water’s edge. She said that ever since a VisitScotland advert had used the image of Shetland ponies in jumpers, everyone seemed to want ponies dressed up like that. The camera crew suggested that the ponies, loose, running the length of the beach would make a good image for the programme. Amanda was hesitant, saying that this was not a place they were used to and so they would need to be given space. They looked beautifully majestic as they cantered along the expanse of sand. Then suddenly, a drone rose, buzzing loudly, flying low over their heads. Immediately the horses swerved, and galloped up the track, away from the beach. Amanda called out but they were gone. We ran up the path behind them, worried they might reach the main road. Once they had escaped the drone, however, they had stopped a short distance away, and were found contentedly grazing.

After this, it was decided to keep the mares on the halter but the foal could be free, as she would not stray far from her mum. Marion laughed and said the foal was getting a bit ‘foo o’ herself” as she ran in tight circles, kicking up sand with her tiny hoofs and darting a few steps into the water before making a hasty retreat. As the day wore on, and filming took longer than expected to complete, she slowed, reminding me of a toy running out of batteries, until she seemed almost asleep on her feet. When the camera crew left and the now-jumperless ponies were loaded into the horsebox, Amanda and Marion chatted anxiously, concerned that people watching the programme might think that Shetlanders really dressed their ponies up in woolly jumpers. They spoke about it being such a silly thing to do to a pony that is so strong and independent, questioning why people would want to film something so misrepresentative of the ponies and the place, worrying they might be ‘making a mockery of us and our ponies’.

Island extinctions

That morning with the Fair Isle-adorned ponies started me thinking more about the power of representations. When we think about national and regional identities, we often consider how people see and describe themselves and other humans. If animals are connected to these identities, such as the British bulldog or the American bald eagle, they are considered symbols. Anthony P. Cohen, in his ethnography of Whalsay, describes symbols as vehicles through which communities represent and reiterate valued aspects of their culture. When Amanda and Marion had thought their ponies were being misrepresented they’d worried that ‘us and our ponies’ were being mocked, the representations of their horses extending to include the Shetland pony breed, the people who love and work with them, and Shetland itself. We often think of symbols as things that reveal a lot about people, but perhaps less about the animals being represented. However, across Shetland, island breeds are included as active participants in the stories of hard work and resourcefulness that are so central to local identities. Connections between animals, history and contemporary life are closely interwoven in ways that are powerfully symbolic, but the shared attributes between people and animals inform and are informed by everyday embodied relationships with the animals they love.

Pretty much everybody I spoke to drew contrasts between Shetland breeds and southern breeds, where the Shetland breeds exemplified the qualities of independence, intelligence and weather sense. In contrast, imported breeds such as Cheviot or Suffolk sheep have lost many of these qualities because of generations of domestication practices focused solely on increasing meat yield. But I soon learned that just because Shetland breeds had these qualities, it was not guaranteed that they always would. As they had been lost in other breeds, it was possible the same could happen here – that Shetland breeds could be at risk of becoming less ‘Shetland’.

For some, there is a fear that these connections might have been lost in the case of the Shetland sheepdog. The 2003 Shetland Times book on Shetland breeds says of the sheepdog:

A consensus is clear: the dog called ‘Shetland sheepdog’ today is not the animal that arose in Shetland, thrived there until some time in the nineteenth century when it was replaced by mainland dogs, and yet survived well into the twentieth century. While the modern Shetland sheepdog may have distinct merits, it is not the indigenous animal that inhabited the island crofts, richly earned its keep and animated Shetland life for generations.

I only met a few Shetland sheepdogs and was surprised by how rarely they were mentioned in conversations about Shetland breeds. When I asked specifically, the answers varied, some saying they were never proper working animals, and others describing the breed’s original purpose as one of herding sheep or staying close to the croft, barking to scare away animals that might damage the crops. Everybody agreed that they were now very different from how they would have been in the past. Although people occasionally identified attributes from today’s breed as originating from their time as croft dogs, most believed contemporary Shetland sheepdogs were not a true native breed. Several people referred to them as a ‘Victorian invention’. They are widely considered to be intelligent, but their tiny size and long coat means they are not thought of as a practical working animal and so not a ‘true’ Shetland breed.

I was still thinking about how the line is drawn between true Shetland breeds and those who have lost their identity when I went to meet Agnes, who had been working with Shetland sheep for over eighty years. Despite it being mid-June, the rain was driving on a force 8 gale as Agnes and I walked down the road. Dressed head to toe in waterproofs, her back straight despite the wind, she turned to me and asked if I minded being out in this weather. Agnes said she had been going out to check sheep since she was four and ‘a little wind doesn’t bother Shetland people or Shetland sheep’. When she reached the fence she called ‘Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka!’ then turned to me and said, ‘They’ll be disappointed. Normally when I call them down like this I have food.’

The flock moved towards us, stopping a few feet from the fence, watching. As we talked the flock stood, grazing, occasionally looking up at us, but didn’t come any closer or show any sign of demanding food or impatience that it was not given. Their thick fleeces were shades of grey, brown and white, and I noticed most of them had horns. ‘The auld-type yowes all had horns,’ Agnes explained. ‘When the Shetland Flock Book Society was set up in 1927, this standardisation led to changes in the breed. These’, she said, pointing to the sheep around us, ‘are more authentic than the newer flock-book sheep. The auld type can find shelter anywhere – they know the weather and can find food even in the depth of winter. The newer type are still tough, but they have lost some of those instincts.’ She described how one evening just before dusk, in the winter of 1947, she’d been confused to see her sheep standing in the full force of the gale, seemingly in the wrong place for the weather. In the night the wind changed direction, and the next morning the heaviest snow she had ever known covered the land. Had the sheep sheltered in the place that had seemed right the evening before, they would have been buried in deep drifts and perished. She said that all the old crofts would have had this hardy, old-type sheep, but over time, especially following the introduction of the flock book, the selection for softer fleece began to change the sheep. Although Shetland sheep are still independent compared with other breeds, they are becoming more reliant on humans for survival.

Agnes gestured to a distant hill where she kept sheep that didn’t need any extra feed and could fend for themselves, except for routine checks and essential welfare. ‘Flock-book sheep could never survive that way.’ She pointed to a white yowe in the field, standing with its shoulders hunched: ‘That one is cold, you can see from how she stands. And look at her fleece, the way it is parted down the middle – that can let the rain in. I won’t breed from a sheep like that.’

Agnes has devoted much of her time to breeding the old type of sheep and hopes to encourage people to value and preserve the unique abilities of Shetland sheep. ‘You have to remember the stories – they tell you about the place, the people and animals. I keep telling the stories and I hope the younger ones listen.’ Among those who work with Shetland breeds there is a concern about ‘over-domestication’, where through too much human interference the connections between breed and place are becoming lost, and with it, the ability of people to understand the land and animals they work with. These changes harm both humans and animals, separating them from the landscapes in which they thrive, and eroding the knowledge required to truly belong in Shetland.

Are Shetland ponies cute?

With their diminutive stature, thick, fluffy coat, and abundance of mane and tail, ‘cute’ is often the first word people associate with Shetland ponies. ‘Awwwww, that is soooooooo cute!’ was the usual response when I described my research project, and there were exclamations and cooing even within academic discussions at the university. At this time, an advert for the 3 mobile network featuring a moonwalking Shetland pony was being shared widely across social media, and dozens of people sent me the link commenting on the cuteness of the pony. Several times, early on, I joked that I might rename my thesis ‘Dancing Pony Club: Ponies and Landscape in Shetland’, without realising that the term ‘cute’ and associated practices could be considered harmful, potentially threatening the very future of the breed.

Something described as ‘cute’ will often have characteristics associated with infants: large eyes, endearing clumsiness, and a general air of juvenile dependence – the exact opposite of the strength and independence valued in Shetland breeds.

‘Would you look at this!’ Alice, a pony breeder, said to me as she showed me a video playing on her phone. Two Shetland ponies, one dressed in a top hat and the other wearing a bridal veil, were getting married. Although the idea that some folk found ponies cute was becoming familiar to me, I had never seen anything like this. ‘Pet breeders,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They’re ruining the breed with this sort of nonsense.’ ‘Pet breeders’ was a term I had heard often from people in Shetland, referring to a particular type of breeder, usually from the south of England, who would have a small number of ‘cute’ ponies that they would anthropomorphise and overly domesticate, practices seen as the very opposite of the responsible pony breeders in Shetland.

Many breeders told me about how pet breeders would, with little knowledge about horses, buy a cute Shetland pony and then keep it in a tiny field by their house or even in their garden. They would then decide their pony should have a husband and so would buy a colt, usually at a low price from a sale. Keeping a mare and a stallion together in this way would usually result in the arrival of a foal.

In some cases, pet breeders keep the foals they breed, to have the foal live with their mother and father. Breeders in Shetland were openly contemptuous of such practices. Ponies were being treated like human children, encouraged to live with their parents as a nuclear family. Having ponies ‘marry’ and live in this way is based on anthropomorphic projection rather than any desire to understand the true needs and wishes of the animals. By refusing to acknowledge ponies’ identities as equines, while simultaneously underestimating their intelligence and capacity to have their own opinions, pet breeders were thought to be acting in a very harmful way. Although, unlike many other UK native breeds, Shetland ponies are not deemed ‘at risk’, due to low numbers there are concerns that ponies could change into something that bears little resemblance to the ponies that have been such an important part of Shetland’s lives and landscapes. Practices to breed ever-smaller animals and treat them like cute toys, overly domesticating them by controlling too much of their lives and not giving them the freedom and space to have their own opinions, is thought, over time, to change the behaviour of ponies and the ways that people relate to the breed. Breeders in Shetland passionately believe that, even though their ponies are small, it is vital to remember that they are horses and ensure we treat them as such. Restricted living areas or unnatural herd dynamics were thought to be deeply upsetting for the animals, resulting in negative behaviours, which affect the reputation of the breed.

As the breed’s reputation changes, thought of as either a cute toy or a disagreeable ‘Shitland’, people may overlook the skills that make the breed a good rising pony, a trusted companion or a capable workhorse. Shetland breeders are not simply worried that the breed they love is changing – Shetland ponies have always been adaptable, but this threat is different as it could disrupt connections, formed over generations, between ponies, people and place. The breed exists as part of a complex network of relationships, through which people and animals create, and are created by, island life. If we treat ponies in a way that causes their bodies and minds to forget how they were shaped by the wild hill, the Shetland wind, the loving care of crofters, then they lose something very special.

June explained it to me: ‘Because o’ domestication, da wye dat a lot o’ dem is kept you canna tell whether they’re stupid or intelligent because dae dinna hiv da opportunities to show you. Things lik da wadder an’ predictin’ da wadder an’ bein’ able ta find your ain shelter an’ dat kinda things – if you ir staandin’ in a peerie paddock wi post an’ rail fencin’ an’ a stable, you dinna hiv da need tae do dat, an’ dat instinct must leave you … An’ dan if you hae foals you dinna hae dat knowledge ta pass ontae dem.’

Incorrect or inconsiderate domestication practices could, in just a few generations, change connections between pony and place, destroying centuries of intergenerational knowledge. This loss would affect how Shetland is experienced by folk who live there: those who see the hill herds and remember their grandparents’ stories, those who feel joy at the new foals in spring, and people whose everyday experience of land and weather is felt in relation to their ponies. For people and ponies to live together, to belong, both partners have a role to play. The ponies learn from each other, their owners and the land: memory of place, embodied in their genes and taught by those they live with. The attention pony breeders pay, to story and history, allows them to learn and respond to the land and animals, ensuring the continuation of these relationships into the future.

Spring to summer

Until I lived in Shetland, I hadn’t realised how much the journeys of trees – from bare branches, to bud, then leaf, transforming from delicate green to fiery vibrancy – affected my perception of season. Now, with no trees to tell this story, I felt myself drawn to the subtler signs of change: the colours of the ground, songs of birds, the feel of the light. The change of seasons was slow, almost imperceptible, but one morning, it was suddenly summer. The sun was high in the sky, the clarity of light intensifying the colours of this landscape of hill, sea, flowers and sheep. A mirror sea reflected worlds of rock, cloud and dancing fulmar, while turnstone and sanderling darted in and out of gently lapping waves. Seaweed along the ebb crackled and popped as the tide retreated. In the distance an otter hunted, each descent beneath the surface leaving rings of silver, stretching further and further before being absorbed by the gentle rhythm of the water. The lichen grew with renewed vigour, blue-grey, green, yellow, now accompanied by sea pinks, stretching tall from patches of green that appeared to grow straight from bare rock. From the hill, the sheep watched but made no move towards me, the newly growing grass more enticing than the sheep nuts I might carry.

Amidst the sounds of lark and curlew, I heard a sudden, loud exhale of breath. Startled, I looked around and saw nobody near that could have made such a sound. Then again, a snort this time, followed by a splash. From the sea, dolphins rose, exhaled, then slipped below the surface. There must have been thirty or more, the waves they created the only movement in the still sea. I soon learned that these were not in fact dolphins but porpoises, neesicks in Shetland dialect. The sound when they surface is so distinct that if someone is a little out of breath it is said they are ‘panting like a neesick’.

Flowers had emerged from seemingly barren ground, filling the garden with colour. I had continued to work, planting, weeding, enjoying the smell of earth and the feeling of touching life. When the large patch at the bottom of the garden was clear I had planted potatoes and carrots, following Robbie’s advice on what varieties would grow best. But as winter had become spring and spring moved towards summer, rain continued to fall. Days of low cloud and constant drizzle, and bright days where the wind brought unexpected torrential downpours; we had more rain than anybody could remember. This unusual weather filled conversations, with pony breeders, in the shops, and on the ferry as water filled my newly planted garden.

The earth was saturated, and a large puddle in the field beside the garden grew to such a size that it temporarily became home to two swans. I watched raindrops dance and splash on the water above where the potatoes were planted and knew they wouldn’t grow unless I cleared it, so I started to dig two large ditches from the vegetable patch to the field beyond. It was exhausting work, the wet earth difficult to dig and heavy to carry, but when I was finished, water flowed out and the puddles reduced. Feeling how wet the earth was, I dug up a young potato to see if they were surviving, and to my horror found it had disintegrated into smelly green sludge. The whole crop was ruined. Robbie assured me there was still time to plant more and they should grow fine if I could keep the area dry, so with determined enthusiasm I dug the ditches deeper, turned the soil to help it dry, added compost and raised the beds, and planted a new crop of potatoes and carrots.

The kale and cauliflower seedlings in the porch still appeared small and spindly, unlikely to survive even a light breeze any time soon, so I bought some cauliflower plants that were past the awkward seedling stage and were ready to plant out. As I added them to the vegetable patch and planted some poppies (whose packet guaranteed their hardy nature), Lowrie came over to see how I was doing. He reassured me that the weather was making things difficult even for experienced gardeners, but he wondered if the drainage of the area might have changed since Margaret and Willie had grown vegetables, with more of the water from the hill ending up in the garden. I asked if there was anything I could do. He shook his head and said to just keep trying to dig drainage, and hopefully the weather would dry out soon. ‘Next year, you can dig a patch up where I grow my veg – there is plenty space I don’t use,’ he offered.

He opened the boot of his car to reveal boxes of seed potatoes. ‘Look,’ he said, as he got a knife and sliced a small amount off a small, dark, knobbly potato. Inside was a beautiful purple marbling. ‘This is the auld Shetland type, the Shetland black.’ He explained that once this would have been the potato that everybody on the islands grew, but over time other types became prevalent and the native potato risked dying out. ‘There are still lots dey ca’ Shetland black, and on the outside they look the sam’ but inside they dinna hiv this pattern – that’s how you tell the difference.’ He handed me one from the box and said to try it in my garden. I was grateful, but terrified that my ineptitude might kill a member of an endangered breed. As Lowrie left, he said two of his geese had laid eggs for the first time since he’d got them. ‘I thought they were far too auld, but it shows you niver can tell!’ He smiled. In the sun, as I planted the Shetland potato in the driest patch, close to where garden flowers met wildflowers by the boundary fence, listening to the sounds of sea, swans and larks, I felt a renewed optimism towards my garden.

Hirta

Towards the end of June, as I walked with Yoda on the ness, I felt hopeful as he had been showing more interest in the sheep and they were appearing less wary of him. He trotted behind me as I approached the flock. Four White Feet moved closer, followed by two other yowes, one with a grey-and-white fleece and pink nose, the other completely black apart from a white V marking across her face. They stood back as Four White Feet sniffed at Yoda and then nuzzled his face. He stood still and then started to rub his head against hers and then start to sniff underneath her, looking for milk. Objecting to this, Four White Feet darted away, back to the flock and stood watching us. Bleating loudly, Yoda ran towards the flock. Starey Sheep stepped forward, put his head down, and butted Yoda, hard. Yoda ran back to me, hiding behind me, still bleating. Moments later he ran towards the flock again, straight towards Starey Sheep, who again butted him until he ran away. I led an angry, bellowing Yoda back to the garden, gave him his bottle, and watched as he bounced around, seemingly unaffected by the unfortunate sheep encounter.

When I returned from my walk I got a phone call from a livestock officer. When I’d got Yoda, his owner had given me paperwork to fill in, detailing where he had lived and where he was now living. These documents are a legal requirement for tracing livestock in the event of disease outbreaks. I had filled in all my information – name, address etc. – but had left the space for holding number blank as I do not have a croft. The woman on the phone told me that the details were incomplete, and when I told her I didn’t have a croft she asked me to explain exactly where the sheep was being kept. Although I had Lowrie’s permission for Yoda to be on his land, I didn’t know if this was official, or if by saying he was on his land if I might get Lowrie in trouble. I answered vaguely, saying he was a caddy and lived in the garden. She explained that this was not good enough and that I would need to provide correct information or my actions would be in breach of the law. As soon as I hung up, I started to panic. Lowrie had been so kind to give a home to the caddy I’d brought home, an action that I had not thought through, and I didn’t want to cause him any more trouble. If I couldn’t give his holding number then what would I do? And what would happen to Yoda?

The next morning, I nervously waited for the sound of Lowrie’s quad bike, just like I had on Yoda’s first day. Immediately, he reassured me that there was no issue with Yoda being on the land, and there was just a lot of paperwork with sheep. Even so, he was surprised that there was so much fuss over a caddy, which would never be a breeding animal and would not be moving again. ‘Jist doin’ their job I guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Call them back with my holding number – won’t cause any problems. He has his tags and is counted among my flock.’ Relieved, I thanked him, feeling terrible to have imposed, once again, on his kindness.

When I got off the phone with the animal movement department, who seemed appeased by my giving them a holding number, I got a text from Roselyn saying she was just going to do some work with Hirta, who was now in her care, if I would like to come along? As I walked along the road to meet her, the sky was heavy with cloud and the wind held a hint of rain. The steel-grey sea carried fast-moving white horses, their bright bodies lit by invisible sun. A brown-and-white stallion pranced by the water’s edge, lifting his feet high, tossing his head as his mane moved with the wind.

Roselyn pointed out the house she’d grown up in, and several other houses where her family still lived, as we walked up to the field. When I asked if her father working with ponies had influenced her love of horses, she said it was a bit different. Her dad hadn’t thought of them as Shetland ponies like we do now: ‘For him, she was Jean the horse, his friend who he loved, and who helped him bring home the peat every year.’ She laughed at how, as a child, he would ‘skive off school to bring in the peat fae the hill’. She paused. ‘But I am certain horses are in my blood. Always have been. I begged and begged and got a Shetland pony when I was thirteen.’ She had not previously known much about the breed, but when she got this pony she loved her so much she wanted to know everything about her. She’d had a slip of paper detailing her pedigree and where she was in the stud-book, ‘And I started to learn about the breed and its history. Folk working with the Shetland Pony Stud-Book Society could see my interest and invited me to be involved.’

‘She is here to find herself,’ Roselyn said, repeating the phrase June had used when describing Hirta’s move to Whalsay. She fastened the mare’s halter and led her to the gate, where she tied her up, before retrieving brushes from a shed overflowing with tack, grooming kits, riding hats and myriad other horse-related items. As we brushed Hirta’s sleek coat, Roselyn said that today we would just be doing a little work to get her started, and that her thirteen-year-old daughter Rebecca would be doing most of the work over the summer. Rebecca was away that week to compete in the Shetland Pony Grand National on mainland Scotland, and would start working with Hirta as soon as she returned.

Hirta stood quietly, ears twitching as I groomed her, and Roselyn began to place the bridle over her head, gently putting the bit in her mouth and fastening the buckles. She chewed at the bit, rolling it between teeth and tongue. ‘I think this is the first time she has had a bridle on,’ Roselyn said, scratching the mare’s neck. When I mentioned how calm Hirta seemed she replied, ‘You can tell June has worked wi her a lot. It makes a big difference when folk spend time with ponies like that. Means they are happy to be worked with. Look,’ she said as she ran her hands along Hirta’s flanks and underneath where a girth would go. Hirta stood calmly, not objecting to this touch. ‘You can tell she has been touched like this before. Makes it a lot easier when it is time to put a saddle on.’

Roselyn took a girth with a pad on it and started to fasten it around Hirta’s middle, explaining that it is best to start with something light. It allows them to get used to the sensation of the girth without the weight of a saddle. We led her down to the road. Hirta walked confidently, ears pricked forward; when a car passed she watched with interest. ‘Looks like June has had her oot on the road before.’ Roselyn smiled. We went along the road, alternating between walking and trotting, until Roselyn decided that that was enough for the day – she didn’t want to push her too hard on her first time. As Hirta trotted up the hill, back to her herd, Roselyn said she was delighted with how well Hirta had done, and she thought that she had the makings of ‘a very fine riding horse’.

I asked if that meant she had ‘found herself’. Roselyn laughed and said she thought she had but time would tell. She explained that Shetland ponies love to be useful, but what that means for each pony can be different – that was why they were giving Hirta a chance to try new things. ‘Take the likes o’ Idiot: he was born to race. As soon as his tack is on he gets so excited he bounces, runs his race, and wants to do more, loves every minute. Yitter on the other hand … Good horse, great wi bairns and leadrope, but would never want to race like Idiot. You have to learn what each one enjoys, follow their lead, and it looks like Hirta will love being a riding pony.’

I asked Roselyn why being useful was so important for Shetland ponies. She said that Shetland ponies ‘love tae do a job o’ work. They were always a workhorse and they thrive when they hae a chance to be useful.’ She worried that they were no longer seen as useful animals and so it was essential to ‘get the message out that they are not this dumpy, peerie dope on a rope. They are as intelligent, if not more intelligent, as any other equine. You shouldn’t dismiss them because they are peerie.’ She said that if that gets forgotten, and people breed without appropriate knowledge, then the future of the Shetland pony breed is at risk. ‘This is why it is so important to have good Shetland ponies in Shetland – this is where they came from, why they ir the way they ir. We ir, and need to remain, the centre of the Shetland pony universe.’ She asked if I was going to the stallion assessments due to take place the following week, and when I said I was she said, ‘These assessments are so important. Shetland is the only place in Britain that assesses stallions in this way now.’ After an EU ruling that prevented the mandatory assessment of stallions prior to breeding, many in Shetland feared that ponies of inferior quality were now being allowed to breed, passing on unwanted characteristics and threatening the future of the breed. The Pony Breeders of Shetland Association developed a voluntary assessment, where people could have their stallions evaluated by three judges and be awarded gold, silver or bronze. Roselyn said, ‘Lots o’ ponies in the assessments this year, an’ it’s in Unst too. Hopefully more an’ more people will enter: it’ll really help maintain the quality of island-bred ponies.’

Stallion assessment

As my alarm sounded at 5.30am, I could see golden light spilling through the curtains. I tried to rouse myself to be on time for the 6.30 ferry and the journey to Unst, but as waves of exhaustion flowed over my body, I lay back down and fell asleep. Waking in a panic some hours later, I rushed into the car, and drove to Symbister, hoping there would be space in the standby queue for the next ferry to the mainland. It was the day of the Whalsay Gala and Symbister was the busiest I had ever seen it. Women and children flowed into the public hall; outside a hand-painted sign promised FACE PAINTING, HOOK-A-DUCK, and GUESS THE MINION’S BIRTHDAY. By the marina groups of men, dressed in flat caps and Fair Isle ganseys, stood by tiny boats, more of which sailed in the sheltered bay for a miniature boat race.

Three ferry journeys later, I arrived in Unst and drove north to the furthest tip of the island, Hermaness. The ocean stretched vast before me, the island of Muckle Flugga the only land visible. Beyond that lies Greenland, Svalbard and the North Pole. Local legend says the island formed when giants Herma and Saxa both fell in love with a mermaid and fought each other for her affection by throwing huge rocks, one of which became Muckle Flugga. For a time the lighthouse, perched precariously on top of this tiny island, was the most northerly inhabited part of Britain, until automation in 1955 saw the last lighthouse keeper leave. Even on this relatively still day, waves splashed at the foot of the cliffs, and I tried to imagine how it would have felt to live there during Shetland’s wild winter months. I later learned that in rough weather, crew were winched from boats to the lighthouse, suspended on ropes above the crashing waves.

I followed a long wooden boardwalk that wound its way over rugged peatland. Around me the bog cotton was beginning to fade, fluff separating from stalks, strewn; those caught on heather potentially next year’s plants, others blown out to sea, lost. The rough, wiry heather appeared softer, dressed in summer green. In the spaces between, delicate pink and yellow flowers grew next to extravagant orchids. Towards land’s edges, there was thrift in abundance. I walked amidst a seaside flower meadow in summer, but the scent of the wind carried something far less floral than the surroundings might suggest. Nauseating, overpowering, like ammonia and fish, the unmistakable stench of guano hinting at what lay further along this track.

As I walked, I encountered bonxies, perched on top of tussocks, watchful. Some swooped above, but no divebombings; they must be used to sharing this place with people on the path. I was surprised to see how big the chicks were – it had only been a few weeks since I’d seen that comically long-legged fluffball on Foula. These babies now resembled the parent birds, their wings already adorned with some flight feathers, their beaks large and sharp. They followed their parents, hunch-backed, emitting continual peevish whines, reminding me of urban seagulls in both sound and movement.

Where the land stopped, cloud-marbled sky reflected its pattern onto the sea, and the world of birds truly began. Guano-coated rocks and stacks glowed bright in the sun, and the wind carried the clamouring cries of millions of voices. The squawks of guillemot and razorbill rose from ledges just above white-crested waves, fulmar croaked and cawed from below the thrift, while distant calls of kittiwakes echoed around the cliffs. However, it was the gannets that took my breath away. Towering cliffs, weathered into hundreds of ledges, with each available crevice inhabited by gannet pairs. Through binoculars I could see the details of their pale yellow heads: black lines crossed their razor-sharp beaks, and I was struck by their unblinking blue eyes. They seemed so close I felt I was intruding on their homes, a voyeur. On powerful wings, hundreds more filled the sky, as they journeyed out to sea in search of food, or returned to their nests with fish for their partner and chicks.

As the sun began to lower towards the horizon, I drove to my hotel, stopping at the Lund Stone. Standing alone, this stone has watched over this place for 5,000 years, witness to Norse settlements and ancient churches, to changing lives and landscapes. Feeling drawn to it, I reached out, touching its rough surface, the living moss coating this stone of stories. As curlew called, I looked from stone to sky, and spoke my hopes and dreams, my greatest wish. I felt the air shift, a gust of wind, powerful, intimate, part of day and night, land and sea, and I felt heard, acknowledged. The next day, my wish came true.

The next morning, under a cloud-laden sky that kept threatening rain, I watched ponies walking and trotting round the ring and tried to concentrate, but I was distracted, unable to fully follow conversations or keep up with my notes. I kept going to the toilet, partly as I seemed constantly desperate to pee, but also to check: was I bleeding? I was not, despite my period being due days before. My heart soared. I had felt like this might be the month I was pregnant, noticing subtle signs of change, but knowing how my imagination could get the better of me, I needed to take a test before I could allow myself to believe. I arrived home at dusk after the second day of assessments and immediately went to the bathroom. I watched the egg timer symbol on the test, nervous, but at the same time I knew what it would say. PREGNANT 1–2 WEEKS.

Back home, over the next few days, as I walked, my thoughts and feelings felt like they were overflowing, that there was more than could be contained within my body. At the centre of it all, I felt a strong sense of peace and happiness that this path to motherhood was the one I should be walking. The time was right and I was ready. Yet doubts niggled, about what I had to offer. I thought of the families I saw around me, networks of relationships, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, connections to land, animals and history. Roots. Something I didn’t have to give. I thought back to my own childhood. Both my parents were only children, my mum’s parents had died before I was born, and I’d lost my grandfather at four and my grandmother at fourteen. My parents rarely had friends visiting, and when I thought of the sounds of childhood homes, the only voices I remembered were those of my parents or Radio 4. Events associated with families, like Christmas, were celebrated with just me and my parents until their divorce when I was nine, after which it would be Christmas dinner with Mum and then a visit to Dad’s house.

I grew up rurally: my friends were the chickens, goat and donkey, the flowers, insects and my imagination. My first day of school was a shock. With no experience of siblings or children my own age, I just didn’t know what to do. Lessons were OK, with structure, activities and a kind teacher, but I dreaded breaktime. Shrinking back against the playground wall, I watched, not understanding the games and chatter, longing to join in but not knowing how. In the morning, I would wait by the school gate for the teacher to arrive, so I had someone to talk to. I tended a tiny oak seedling by the playground wall, dreaming of the day it would become a tree, fantasising about climbing high in its branches, escaping from that place of concrete and confusion.

Thinking of this in relation to a new life growing inside me changed my feelings about the past, intensifying the loneliness that I realised I still felt. I was adrift, always a little lost. When it was time to announce the pregnancy, share our joy, it would be over the phone to far-away family members. There was no easy solution – with mine and Steve’s families dispersed across the country, not tied to the places they inhabited, there was no possibility of us returning ‘home’ to start our family. Whatever belonging is, it was something I’d always had to work to find. Now, I wondered, would I be able to give a sense of security and home to my own child? Thinking of how people understood Shetland to be in their blood, a deep sense of home and belonging connecting them to the islands they love, I wondered if impermanence might be in my own blood. With no place attached to my family and a passion for change and exploration, I had moved house many times, the journey to Shetland just one of many new places. Even now, as I longed for a sense of home, I found it difficult to imagine being in one place for ever. Although it felt tempting and something I wished for, I simultaneously turned away from the idea, finding it limiting, claustrophobic. Did that mean contradiction was in my blood? And if I couldn’t figure out what I wanted from life, what would this mean for my child?

One day, as I stood watching the sea, a movement caught my eye: a long, curved back with a small fin emerged, then slipped below the waves in one fluid movement. Minutes later, a little distance away, I saw it again. In the sea, a minke whale travelled alongside me, alongside us. In the same moment, a rainbow materialised, forming a bridge between land and sea, earth and sky. A reminder that connection to place can emerge from these moments, opportunities and encounters to build on. A realisation that roots needn’t depend on specific histories – there are many ways to grow. In that moment, I felt a sense of calm returning. There was so much beauty in the world to share with my child. We may not have a home as such, but together, as a family, we would create one. Making home through a shared journey of love.