From city lights to Northern Lights

As a teenager, growing up in the US, I attended a school with about four thousand full-time students.

Throughout my life, I’ve used that number as a rubric – a gauge, of sorts – to determine the size of a crowd. I know what four thousand people look like when they’re all in one place: through four full years, me and every other student in my school sat elbow-to-elbow in auditoriums on a weekly basis. We moved about the same hallways and classrooms every single day. We waited hours to exit the school parking lot after the final bell rang.

And since I left that school (many, many years ago), I’ve tended to gravitate towards universities and cities and offices where I’m part of a larger pack. Living or visiting somewhere without a tube or underground, or a large concert venue, or skyscraping buildings on every block never really appealed to me.

As it turns out, I just hadn’t been to Shetland.

Shetland has a population of about 23,000 people, spread over 15 inhabited islands. For this city girl, that number is breathtakingly, almost mind-bogglingly low. I haven’t crunched the numbers, but I wouldn’t be surprised if wildlife was more prevalent on the Shetland Islands than people.

And from where I’m sitting (a cosy B&B down a cobbled lane on what Shetlanders call the “Mainland”), that’s a pretty wonderful thing.

I had no idea what to expect when I touched down at Sumburgh Airport for the first time on a chilly November night. At the time I made my first visit to Shetland, I’d lived in Edinburgh off-and-on for over four years, and I’d travelled fairly extensively throughout Scotland, including trips to Inverness, Glasgow, and the Borders. I guess I’d expected that Shetland would be something like each of those places, each of which had its own charm, but all of which looked and felt very similar.

I was, in a word: wrong.

Shetland is unlike anywhere else I’ve been in Scotland, or the UK for that matter. It’s distinctly rugged, and a little bit wild, and I mean that in the all of the best ways possible. In places, it feels entirely untouched by sprawl and development, and where industry or commercialisation has taken hold, it’s been with much gentler hands than you’ll see in other areas of the country.

The main high street in Lerwick [Commercial Street], for example, is dotted with artisanal jewellers and crafts retailers, independently-owned coffee shops, and some seriously incredible local eateries that bring everything to your plate straight from farms nearby. Plus, there’s the added benefit that food always tastes better when it comes at the end of a day packed with hiking, walking, and wildlife-spotting.

While in Shetland, I was introduced to some of the most dramatic, awesome landscapes I’ve seen in a very long time. And the best part was that just when I thought I was starting to get to know Shetland a little bit better, we’d turn a corner and run into a location that had me wondering how so much geographic diversity could exist in one place.

In the span of four days, I walked along jagged cliffs that towered hundreds of feet above the sea; I dipped my (boot-clad) toes in the water of a white-sand beach that looked veritably Caribbean; I hiked gentle, rolling hills that reminded me of Appalachia country in the United States, and I did my best to silently trek through fields of heather alongside a harbour where otters and seals are known to make a daily appearance.

And I did it all with some of the nicest folks I’ve had the pleasure of travelling with.

I’ve learned that Shetlanders, much like the place they call home, are interesting, surprising, and inviting people. Each and every person that I met was friendly and welcoming, despite my out-of-town accent, inadequate winter wear, and relentless questions about Shetland and it’s fascinating history.