Orkney Islands, 2026: Faith In The Forecast

The weather had become more hostile as we reached our destination. The wind howled as an enormous swell filled the bay with whitewater. We’d crossed the country, to the farthest edges of the British Isles: a small team, a van full of boards and camera equipment, and a plan that depended heavily on the weather behaving itself. It was early morning, we were trying to make a day of surfing, filming and exploring one of the most remote corners of the island, and already our plans were looking optimistic...

Jack, our lead photographer, had been ill the night before and was trying to get some rest ahead of a long day of shooting. He forwarded me a text from someone back home: “There should be waves tonight, big swell and offshore winds.” I looked at the mess of onshore energy in front of us and sent a video back: “I think that might be an impossible dream.”

We had a day’s shoot to plan, so we walked in good spirits back towards town until dark clouds began to build on the horizon, holding the promise of inevitable rain. Wanting to avoid an entire day spent soaking wet, we hid underneath the scaffolding of a community centre, waiting for the rest of the team. They raced around the corner 10 minutes later and we all squeezed into the van, between Yeti coolers and piles of clothes, the cast-iron pot nestled on the lap of someone in the front. 

Arriving at the bothy, we opened the door to be hit by an unexpected wave of heat. Peering into the dark room, we realised the warmth was coming from a room full of people sleeping on the floor in sleeping bags, packed together, with not an inch of skin exposed to the cold air. We quickly closed the door, beating a hasty retreat. We’d have to come back later...

This was our glamorous island adventure.

Seeking shelter back at a café, the owner took one look at us, drenched from head to toe, and immediately lit the fire. “You're in for a wet day. The forecast doesn’t look promising at all...” We mumbled our thanks for the fire, ignored the comments about the weather and ordered several pots of tea. But before we knew it, our time had disappeared into the ether. The ferry was coming and we had to run. There was a brief period of utter chaos involving boards, bags, wet people, shouting, and the possibility that we might leave someone behind on the wrong island.

Finally with a full crew, we headed back to the same café to regroup. We stood around the fire, steaming. It was feeling increasingly less like a surf trip and more like being rescued from a shipwreck by a very hospitable family. But for now, at least, we were warm. We were fed. We had coffee.

We had spent months planning this trip, worrying about whether we'd made the right decision coming to one of the most remote coastlines in the country. The whole idea had been to follow the edge of the land, to find somewhere remote enough that the landscape, the weather and the ocean dictated the day.

In a way, we’d gotten exactly what we wanted. As if to prove the point, suddenly the dark clouds passed, and you could finally see the landscape. Yellow grasses turned to olive green, the two colours almost indistinguishable. Purple heather, blanketed in grey cloud, hung low over the hills. It seemed outrageous that this much beauty had been hidden behind weather.

For most of the morning, it had felt like we'd made a terrible mistake. Now we were standing in an enormous empty landscape, eating bacon sandwiches and laughing at how badly everything had gone.

We gradually made our way back to the bay, shooting along the way. As we peeked over the brow of the hill, the unthinkable had happened. The wind had turned offshore, and perfect, wind-groomed waves were marching into the bay. Not quite surfable yet, but close enough that we couldn’t look away. The same ocean that had looked completely impossible a few hours earlier, was shaping itself into something beautiful.

The weather brightened. The bothy emptied. The other adventurers went on their way. The beach slowly cleared until suddenly we were left with the entire place to ourselves. We stood, watching the waves, the hills disappearing into cloud behind us and the Atlantic stretching out in front of us in all its vastness.

Somewhere along the line, the plan had stopped mattering. The weather had dictated the day after all, and we had simply followed it. For a while, standing there alone at the edge of the Atlantic, that felt like exactly the point. Despite the uncertainty, the second guessing and the chaos of the morning, we’d ended up precisely where we needed to be...