An early Portfolio paper On _the Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places_, as
well as the second part of the _Random Memories_ essay, written
twenty years later, refer to the same experiences as the following
letters. Stevenson lodged during his stay at Wick in a private hotel
on the Harbour Brae, kept by a Mr. Sutherland.[4]
_Wick, Friday, September 11, 1868._
MY DEAR MOTHER,-- ... Wick lies at the end or elbow of an open
triangular bay, hemmed on either side by shores, either cliff or steep
earth-bank, of no great height. The grey houses of Pulteney extend along
the southerly shore almost to the cape; and it is about half-way down
this shore--no, six-sevenths way down--that the new breakwater extends
athwart the bay.
Certainly Wick in itself possesses no beauty: bare, grey shores, grim
grey houses, grim grey sea; not even the gleam of red tiles; not even
the greenness of a tree. The southerly heights, when I came here, were
black with people, fishers waiting on wind and night. Now all the S.Y.S.
(Stornoway boats) have beaten out of the bay, and the Wick men stay
indoors or wrangle on the quays with dissatisfied fish-curers, knee-high
in brine, mud, and herring refuse. The day when the boats put out to go
home to the Hebrides, the girl here told me there was "a black wind";
and on going out, I found the epithet as justifiable as it was
picturesque. A cold, _black_ southerly wind, with occasional rising
showers of rain; it was a fine sight to see the boats beat out a-teeth
of it.
In Wick I have never heard any one greet his neighbour with the usual
"Fine day" or "Good morning." Both come shaking their heads, and both
say, "Breezy, breezy!" And such is the atrocious quality of the climate,
that the remark is almost invariably justified by the fact.
The streets are full of the Highland fishers, lubberly, stupid,
inconceivably lazy and heavy to move. You bruise against them, tumble
over them, elbow them against the wall--all to no purpose; they will not
budge; and you are forced to leave the pavement every step.
To the south, however, is as fine a piece of coast scenery as I ever
saw. Great black chasms, huge black cliffs, rugged and over-hung
gullies, natural arches, and deep green pools below them, almost too
deep to let you see the gleam of sand among the darker weed: there are
deep caves too. In one of these lives a tribe of gipsies. The men are
_always_ drunk, simply and truthfully always. From morning to evening
the great villainous-looking fellows are either sleeping off the last
debauch, or hulking about the cove "in the horrors." The cave is deep,
high, and airy, and might be made comfortable enough. But they just live
among heaped boulders, damp with continual droppings from above, with no
more furniture than two or three tin pans, a truss of rotten straw, and
a few ragged cloaks. In winter the surf bursts into the mouth and often
forces them to abandon it.
An _emeute_ of disappointed fishers was feared, and two ships of war are
in the bay to render assistance to the municipal authorities. This is
the ides; and, to all intents and purposes, said ides are passed. Still
there is a good deal of disturbance, many drunk men, and a double supply
of police. I saw them sent for by some people and enter an inn, in a
pretty good hurry: what it was for I do not know.
You would see by papa's letter about the carpenter who fell off the
staging: I don't think I was ever so much excited in my life. The man
was back at his work, and I asked him how he was; but he was a
Highlander, and--need I add it?--dickens a word could I understand of
his answer. What is still worse, I find the people here-about--that is
to say, the Highlanders, not the northmen--don't understand _me_.
I have lost a shilling's worth of postage stamps, which has damped my
ardour for buying big lots of 'em: I'll buy them one at a time as I want
'em for the future.
The Free Church minister and I got quite thick. He left last night about
two in the morning, when I went to turn in. He gave me the enclosed.--I
remain your affectionate son,