In October 2025, my partner of five years and I travelled to the Orkney Islands. We drove north to the very edge of the mainland and crossed the Pentland Firth by ferry, the sea stretching endlessly around us. Almost immediately, it felt like we were leaving for another world.
From the cliffs, abandoned barracks appeared in the distance, silent remnants of past lives. I kept watch for orcas, which had been frequently sighted in the area, but instead we were greeted by puffins skimming the water, tiny against the vast seascape, and seals briefly surfacing before disappearing again. It felt wild, quiet, and completely removed from everything familiar.
After arriving on land, we drove straight to Hoxa Head, home to WWII coastal batteries built to defend Scapa Flow, the Royal Navy’s vital anchorage. The Balfour Battery stood heavy against the landscape, its concrete structures blending almost seamlessly into the land. Orcas are often seen here too, just not, it seemed, for us.
That evening, back at our hotel, I noticed an alert on my Aurora app predicting strong northern lights. My partner was unconvinced and half-asleep, but something told me we needed to go. We drove out into the darkness, past an abandoned church that I joked looked like it belonged in a horror game. Then suddenly, they appeared: green and red lights dancing above us.
I felt overwhelmed with emotion. Standing beneath the aurora, I understood why Vikings believed in Valhalla. It felt spiritual, grounding, and deeply connective — just us, the land, and the sky. Nothing else mattered.
The next day, we visited the Italian Chapel, built between 1942 and 1945 by Italian prisoners of war while working on the Churchill Barriers. Despite captivity and deprivation, they created something beautiful. One quote stayed with me:
“It was the wish to show to oneself first, and then to the world, that in spite of being trapped in a barbed-wire camp, down in spirit, spiritually and morally deprived of many things, one could still find something inside that could be set free.” – Italian POW, Camp 60.
I’m not religious, more agnostic, but it was impossible not to feel moved. I said a quiet prayer anyway.
Over the next few days, we continued exploring Orkney’s deep past: the Broch of Gurness, an Iron Age village; the Ring of Brodgar, a vast Neolithic stone circle aligned with the solstices; and Skara Brae, Europe’s best-preserved Neolithic settlement, older than Stonehenge and the pyramids. Walking through spaces built over 5,000 years ago was humbling.
That sense deepened at Cuween Cairn, where we crawled into the dark Neolithic tomb. Standing inside, knowing bodies were once placed there felt eerie and intimate. At Maeshowe, Viking graffiti carved during a 12th-century raid added unexpected humour, boasts about skill and daring etched high into the stone. Even across centuries, the impulse to leave a mark hasn’t changed much.
We found lighter moments too: souvenir shopping in Kirkwall, continuing our tradition of buying a bauble from every trip, along with Orkney jewellery and a calendar. The only disappointment was failing to find the famous fudge cheesecake, something I’m still not over.
On the journey home, after a very choppy ferry crossing, we stopped at Taste Perthshire. Feeding Highland cows, especially the calves, was a long-held bucket-list moment, and I surprised myself by getting emotional all over again.
That trip was the reset I didn’t know I needed. Not long after returning home to the North East, I made the decision to go freelance. Shutter & Strategy was born, and now I write and create for myself. Orkney didn’t just feel like a place we visited — it felt like something that quietly changed me.
Author bio: Jodie Beardmore is the founder of Shutter & Strategy, a North East UK-based freelance business blending over seven years of digital marketing expertise with multi-award-winning photography.
Shutter and Strategy (@shutter_and_strategy) • Instagram photos and videos
(20) Jodie Beardmore | LinkedIn
