The Circle and the Morning Boat

The Ring of Brodgar sits on a narrow neck of land between two lochs, which is the only reason it feels high. The stones stand in a circle about one hundred and four metres across, cut off from the moor by a ditch hacked into solid rock. It was raised between four and four and a half thousand years ago, and it is part of a world heritage site.

There were around sixty stones once. Thirty-six are standing now, and the gaps are as much of the shape as the stones are. Polly walked the ring the long way, on the outside, with heather to her knees and the light going flat and wide across the water on both sides. Nothing about it is arranged for a visitor. It was arranged for something else, and whatever that was is not recorded anywhere.

Then the ordinary business of leaving. Back at the harbour office there was a shag behind a counter and a printed sheet on the wall. "What time does the ferry leave?" Polly asked. "How much does this cost?" She looked at the sheet with him while he found the line. "I would like to buy a ticket, please."

"How long does the crossing take?" she asked last, and put the ticket away. In the morning the boat pulled out past the same low headland it had come in by, and the islands went down behind it in the order she had learned them: a town on one street, a bay with a village in it, a chapel made of huts, a rock full of seals, and inland, out of sight from the water, a circle with most of its stones still up.