Our time in the capital of Mozam­bique, Maputo, was relaxed and high-living. We were staying in a big air-conditioned house with constant transport, good food and a plethora of old school friends wanting to head out and catch up on old times. It was a pleasant change from our couple of weeks of travelling, cook­ing for ourselves and staying in cheap hostels. For those few days we experienced more luxury than we do at home.

The look of Maputo is very dif­ferent to other cities in southern Africa and the city takes on a different atmosphere. Although I know next to no Portuguese I felt relatively safe wandering around the city without a translator which had always come in the form of one of the guys from school. We ate, drank and lived the highlife for what was, in some places, more expensive than it would have been at home. The con­trast between the wealthy drink­ers and the poor street sellers, both hanging around outside pubs and clubs, was all too apparent. Ricardo, a Mozambican student who was in the year below me at school, quietly professed one morning that he had drunk the same amount as the annual salary of two maids the night before. That says a lot more about Mozam­bican wages than Ricardo’s capacity for alcohol.

After a few days of such luxury we left half of our stuff in Maputo and got the 5am bus north to the beach. The hazardous road condi­tions, comprising giant potholes and drivers who rarely stay on their designated side of the road, were not helped by the process of building a new highway which meant half of the journey was spent skidding around on soft mud in our ageing Chinese bus. We stopped at one point as the radiator was overheating due to the mud caking the underside of the bus. Luckily a local mechanic had a pressure hose to chip some off, a canny business diversification for the situation which presented itself.

The destination, which we reach­ed about 10 minutes after Germany kicked off against Argentina, was Fatima’s Nest Backpackers in Tofo. Tofo is a small holiday resort outside the picturesque town of Inhambane (In-yam-ban). Inhambane’s Portu­gese architecture is still relatively untouched and little coloured houses with carvings and small porches line the winding streets. Tofo is largely a South African holiday resort but has developed a small following from international backpackers due to its unspoilt beaches, watersports oppor­tunities and general chilled-out atmosphere.

We stayed in a small traditionally built bungalow with palm leaves covering the roof and the modern additions of a shower and mosquito nets to keep us comfortable. The bar area was a hubbub of different lang­uages playing cards, drinking local beer and eating home-cooked food. Days were spent sunbathing and read­ing books, while we watched three South African students launch­ing water balloons at sunbathers with a large elaborate catapult.

The highlight of the few days was the diving. For around £20 we were taken out in a boat for a morning with flippers and snorkels as various local guides looked for interest in the water. The trip was designed for us to swim with the world’s largest fish, the whale shark. As well as being a pretty impressive animal considering its size and markings, the animal was a perfect candidate for such a trip due to its slow saunter just below the surface to allow us to swim alongside them for minutes on end. As a bonus the guides managed to find some dolphins, an altogether quicker, smaller and deeper-swim­ming animal but still pretty impres­sive to see in the flesh.

Its easy to be caught up in the holiday atmosphere here and to forget that you are in Africa with poverty still existent but manifesting itself in different forms. The market is overpriced in relation to other small towns and the stalls resemble a tax-haven in their provision of cigarettes and alcohol. Young child­ren stroll along the beach with home-made jewellery, cashew nuts and small savoury doughnuts that taste like coconut. Undoubtedly people earn less here than they des­erve but it is refreshing to see many engaged in various forms of micro-enterprise as opposed to begging.

The most impressive person I have seen here and indeed, in the en­tirety of my trip so far, was a woman who joined us on the bus from Inhambane to Tofo. She carried a baby in a towel strapped to her back, three bags of firewood in her hands and a 50kg bag of maize-meal, a filling staple resembling savoury tasteless porridge, on her head. Her arms were thin but rippling with mus­cle and her skin was leathery through work. It was clear that she had struggled through life but appeared to show all the hallmarks of someone who was determined to continue that struggle.

As I write this the Backpackers is gearing up for a night of entertain­ment with live music until late on, with a brief interlude for the Holland game half way through. We head back to Maputo on the early bus at 4am tomorrow morning and have one night there before jumping back into South Africa to visit another friend from school and have a look at his business development project in his home town in Limpopo Prov­ince, in the north of the country.

The first permanent settlers in Shetland arrived, we’re told, some 5,500 years ago – and there are tantalising hints of earlier successful journeys. All had to come by sea, in boats; there was no other way. Indeed, every visitor to our isles, temporary or permanent, made the same voyage until 1918 when a military flying-boat first landed in Catfirth, a mere 92 years ago.

For 54 centuries at least then, the boat has been essential to the exis­tence of every Shetlander, as the only means of arriving in the isles and the principal means of susten­ance, once settled. It’s generally accepted that sea-going craft assisted by sails were making voyages along the Mediterranean coast by 2000BC, and the rise of trade encouraged and spread the technology of hulls, keels, sails, seamanship and naviga­tion at an accelerating pace around the coasts of Europe. By the time the Roman invaders crossed the English channel there were decked ships capable of circumnavigating the British Isles, and most if not all of the traffic between Shetland and the rest of Britain would have been sail-powered – while in Scandinavia the planked longships capable eventu­ally of crossing northern oceans were steadily evolving.

Let’s make a reasonable estimate and assume 20 centuries of this kind of seafaring under sail to and from Shetland, or by Shetlanders. By contrast, it’s a mere 18 decades since steam power liberated sea-going ships from the vagaries of the winds in the 1830s. Our heritage of sail is therefore far longer-lasting and more deeply embedded in us than most people resident in our isles realise today, where a seafaring career is an option pursued only by a minority. For most of our recorded history seafaring was the occupation of the vast majority of Shetlanders, gener­ally through necessity rather than choice. I’m not going to pretend that this long era of sail was in any way a golden age – far from it. Throughout it, the sea took lives almost casually and brought many to premature in­firmity and incapacity through sheer toil. For the seaman under sail dis­com­fort, uncertainty, hardship and danger were never far away – more distant perhaps in the 21st century, but never completely absent. The acts of going and coming, exile and return, separation and reconciliation are central events in the seafarer’s life, contrasting strongly with the settled existence of the landsman snug at home with his family ever-present.

And yet, there remain good points; positives from this era that endure today. There was the satis­faction of making a passage; of reaching a destination safely; the challenge for inventive minds to improve ships, sails and gear; to increase speed or carrying capacity, and to do it safely. Learning the work of a seaman, or the arts of a navi­gator, brought rewards. Know­ledge was passed down to those who sought it – on the job, for it could not be gathered ashore. Where human muscle power was the prime mover, the proper applica­tion of effort required teamwork; teamwork required harmony and leadership. To survive in his vocation a seaman had to possess intelligence at the outset, and to develop qualities including tough­ness, stamina, deter­mination and patience. For survival ashore, his wife and family needed the same qualities – in almost equal measure. For centuries nearly every Shetland man went to sea for a living at some part of his life – mostly seasonally, it is true – and the people of the isles maintained these accum­ulated sea­faring qualities and skills and know­ledge through many generations.

Not every seaman is a fisherman, but every fisherman has to be a sea­man. Through most of our peacetime history, Shetlanders going to sea in fishing craft have far outnumbered those in other seafaring activities. Although most fishing was prose­cuted in small open boats relatively near to shore, the various fisheries were ideal training grounds for service in larger vessels when oppor­tunities arose, and provided a valu­able stepping stone for many a sea­faring man to rise through the ranks and attain the highest heights of the profession.

Today, sail power in every com­mercial sense has long gone, yet admiration, veneration, respect – call it what you will – for the posi­tives of life under canvas remain and flourish. Tall ships impress and excite even those with no idea of how or why sail works, for it’s four or five generations ago since such knowledge was universal and a seafaring man in sail lived in most Shetland homes. The second visit of the Tall Ships Race to Lerwick is only 12 months away so between now and then, I’m going to look back over Shetland’s heritage of sail, to try to shed fresh light on the days of sailing ships and sailors, mostly through some of the innumerable accounts and tales from the era and especially for those who have not so far encountered these. By the time I’ve finished, I hope many readers will have learnt that their links to the sea and seafaring are far closer and stronger than they first thought.

*** So, where to begin? Well, to cover the whole story, we should start with the early voyagers – those who ventured north first to explore, then to settle in our islands. We must bear in mind that the human brain was as agile in neolithic times as it is now and banish any preconception that so-called Stone Age man was less clever than his descendant of today. Innovative minds have cre­ated technical progress all through history, and one development led to another – especially after ores were mined and refined to produce metal in the Bronze and Iron Ages.

After those early immigrants, several thousand years passed before a sail was ever spotted on a Shetland horizon. It’s obvious there are no tangible records of any kind to assist an understanding of what was essen­tially a very slow but inexorable march of technology, so we have to look sideways to identify docu­mented advances elsewhere, and try to make these fit into a local chronology. The earliest seagoing boats – capable of safe passage from Orkney to Shetland via Fair Isle – were almost certainly made of tanned animal skins stretched taut over a wooden frame, and propelled by paddle rather than oar or sail. The Inuit peoples in Arctic Canada and Greenland made perfectly seaworthy craft right up into the 19th century without using metal tools or fasten­ings, their boats ranging in size from the one-person kayak to the umiak capable of carrying a dozen people and half a tonne of cargo. All the raw materials for such boats were obtainable in Northern Europe – stone and bone for tools, trees and animals for timbers and hides.

Oars pivoting on a boat’s gunwale were first noted in Egypt from around 4,500 years ago. Rowing is a much kinder process on the human frame than paddling; a given amount of muscular effort will take a boat much further, or for longer, than the same amount of energy expended with a paddle. Leather boats are flexible by their very nature, and hull coverings don’t take kindly to friction, so oars rubbing against skin-clad gunwales or even wooden kabes and rouths pegged through holes in the skin could not be used. The paddle remained the favoured means of propelling skin boats for a long time; the Inuit probably saw Europeans using oars before adapt­ing them. They solved the gunwale problem by sewing on extra sacri­ficial patches of hide where the oar slid, and instead of kabe and routh as a fulcrum the rower simply pulled the oar against a length of lashing that secured the oar loosely to a wooden stringer inside the boat.

What of sails? Generally, to make a sail you need cloth of some kind; to make cloth you need a loom to weave yarn that has been spun. To set the sail you need wooden spars and strong cordage. It’s known that there were seagoing craft in the Mediterranean with sails of cotton cloth 4,000 years ago, fairweather craft most probably. These had an ancestry going back many, many millenia beginning with log rafts and reed-bundle boats, paddled then rowed, then sailed downstream in the Nile or the Tigris or the Euph­rates. Agriculture had to develop widely before other fibres for cloth or cordage – flax and hemp for example – came into anything like widespread use.

Historians are very coy when it comes to discussing sails – even into Viking times; they tend to be more interested in hull construction and shape, building materials and tech­niques and so on. References to cordage and sailcloth are hard to find in the literature.

So, in our Shetland context, the paddle reigned supreme for thous­ands of years, possibly supplanted in due course by oar systems akin to those of the Inuit. During this span of time metalworking and weaving arrived in Europe along with more organised systems of agriculture – and the beginnings of trade, the exchange of commodities between communities and individuals. Felsite axes and mace heads from Shetland were traded as far as England, around 3,500-4,000 years ago. Archaeological evidence of chang­ing society over time, such as burial practice, is a clear indicator of fairly regular travel in and out of the isles.

Celtic peoples developed a sophis­ticated network of trade routes based on the navigable rivers of north-western Europe, linked by pack-animal trails and augmented where feasible by sea voyages. The Greek merchant Pytheas described the export of Cornish tin into Gaul in 330BC; although he gave no details of the ships involved, the cross-channel transport of tin ingots in any quantity needed robust sea­worthy vessels, while sails of some kind would have been almost essential. The Celtic peoples of western Britain would surely have embraced this technology, so it’s reasonable to assume that by roughly 2,200 years ago skin boats were being slowly replaced by planked wooden craft fastened together with iron nails. This is borne out by evidence in the form of coins and grave monuments of the period. When the Romans resolved to in­vade Britain in 55BC, Julius Caesar recorded the naval struggle that ensued, and described the ships of the Veneti – the defending Celtic tribes inhabiting both sides of the channel: “The ships were built of oak and as such could cope with all sorts of weather … the traverse timbers were attached using iron nails as thick as a man’s thumb … For sails, the Veneti used hides and soft leather instead of linen …”

Here, then, is an early clue regard­ing sails; the use of leather. In addition these Veneti ships had a single mast and sail but no oars, so sail power had essentially come of age. Turning back to the technology of cloth, it’s clear that Middle East cotton was the first fibre to be spun and woven, followed by flax in Roman times. The Roman invaders had “linen” sails; obviously this cultivation had not yet reached more northern regions. Similarly, before hemp became available in these regions, there is record of cordage made from heather, plaited walrus hide or lime bast – the fibrous inner bark of the lime tree.

In our Shetland context, we can postulate similar change in seafaring technology, albeit delayed by a few centuries as the new materials and ideas slowly percolated northward. So far, recorded voyaging of any kind is essentially “coastal” – in sight of land all the time. The sea route to and from Shetland was via Fair Isle and Orkney, thence along either coast of Northern Britain. (It’s true that a mariner leaving Fair Isle cannot see the north isles of Orkney, but there’s an easy meid to give the correct course until Orkney land is sighted ahead.) The existence of our many brochs hints at seaborne strife as well as seaborne trade; if these structures are indeed defensive, their numbers and design suggest a seri­ous threat by any account, and hint at events of increasing frequency.

To use a somewhat dated term, the Picts of Shetland would not have regarded a planked sailing ship as a novelty. As the brochs fell into ruin and decay, life went on; the ships came north and went south to all intents and purposes peacefully. The papar, the holy men who brought Christianity to the isles, were of necessity seafarers. Their leather boat technology took them north – and west to Faroe and beyond. To digress slightly a moment, it’s inter­esting that the account of the famous Brendan voyage of 1978 from Ire­land to Newfoundland devotes thou­s­ands of words to hull construction, but nothing whatsoever on sails of the period. Brendan was actually propelled by heavy duty terylene. Then, late in the eighth century, came the day that ships were seen on Shetland’s eastern horizon carrying aggressors from unknown lands bent upon strife, upheaval of a terrifying kind and finally con­quest; the Vikings had arrived.

Scandinavian boat technology followed a slightly different route to that of the Celtic peoples, its influ­ences coming north through Ger­many and the Baltic regions, temp­ered by experiences there. Hulls constructed with planks overlapping were favoured, the planks sewn together at first and lashed to frames through cleats carved when the planks were split and shaped from tree trunk, then later nailed when iron nails became readily available.

The longship was the favoured shape; by 100AD oars had sup­planted paddles and the Danish Nydam boat of 310-320AD was fastened with iron nails. Sail took some time to become commonplace in Scandinavia; the longship excav­ated at Kvalsund, dating from 700AD, was purely a rowing boat. By 800AD, though, the Scandin­avians had weaving looms capable of producing woollen twill, which when dressed with tallow and ochre proved suitable for sailcloth. Clearly identifiable by its massive mast step, the oldest sailing boat so far found in Norway is the Oseberg ship, dat­ing from around 815-820AD. It’s therefore probable that the first Norse arrivals came in rowing boats, and that the first cloth sails would have come into use later by settlers and traders after the initial colonisa­tion of the isles and the seeming extinction of the Pictish culture. Years of debate have blunted some­what the notion of violent conquest followed by “ethnic cleansing” for there is significant archaeological evidence favouring a peaceful assimi­lation of indigenous and im­migrant culture – not least the indications that the settlers were farmers first and fishermen second.

Be that as it may, among the many skills and techniques brought to the isles by the Norsemen for the first time was the ability to navigate the open sea, out of sight of land for a significant period. I can’t find specific mention in any of the saga literature or popular Viking histories to say which Norseman “discovered” Shetland and when, only the story that the isles were used as a wintering base for Viking raids on the Nor­wegian coast until King Harald Fine-Hair tired of their impudence, sailed west and brought Orkney, Shetland and the Hebrides under his rule. The discoverer of Shetland was probably not the first Viking to sail west, but he had to be the first to return east with the news. The early voyagers – sailing in the summer season with little darkness – used the sun by day and its afterglow by night, along with the Pole Star in early and late summer. Shetland lies almost due west from Bergen, but in poor visibility over several days a cumulative error of only 15° in the course made good would put a ship past Shetland without sight of land. Conversely, Norway is a virtually unmissable target when sailing east from Shetland.

The Norsemen also brought their boats with them, to give the isles a style of coastal and near-shore seafaring under sail that has endured to the present day – for more than 1,200 years.

After the excitement and hysteria of my first World Cup match and the mission of a two-day bus journey from Port Elizabeth (via Durban), I finally arrived back in Swaziland after an absence of three-and-a-half years. My two years of schooling here was an often surreal experience but one I enjoyed immensely and that instilled knowledge through experiences which I could not have received in any other way.

What was very plain from the outset was that the problems suffered by Swaziland had not changed much in my absence. The country boasts the highest HIV-AIDS rate in the world, one of the highest poverty rates in the world and the lowest average life expectancy in the world at only 34 years. The all-powerful King Mswati III claims human rights, political integration and pov­erty eradication have improved since the enactment of a new consti­tu­tion in 2005, but the story on the ground appears not to confirm that claim.

Swaziland’s capital Mbabane is a bizarre contrast of women selling fruit and vegetables on the pavement and beggars being moved on by the police, with expensive cafes and res­taurants serving imported food and beer to their mainly white clientele. As in many African cities, KFC dominates the main shopping area, although catering to local tastes, bread is available with every fast-food meal.

The poverty in the city pales in comparison to rural poverty with images of hunger and desperation that the makers of Oxfam adverts would be proud of. Aid often does not reach this section of the popu­lation due to the difficulties in locating the needy and the adverse and often unpredictable political situ­ation. Recent government legis­lation requires all aid agencies to register their intentions, progress and future plans on a regular basis, purportedly for quality control pur­poses. This extra complication, as well as the possibility of being ejected from the country if standards are not met, may drive more aid agencies away from being able to provide help where its needed most.

Political parties are banned in Swaziland and freedom of speech, press and association are severely curbed. Democratic opposition to His Majesty has long been present in the illegal group People’s United Democratic Movement (PUDEMO) and its affiliate youth, international and paramilitary wings. A recent spate of targeted bombings in the country of police, government and royal targets has intensified restric­tions on human rights but also turned a lot of people against the rebels. As we were hitching into Mbabane one morning, the lady giving us a lift explained the view taken by a maj­ority of Swazis about the bombings. “Swazis are peaceful people. Maybe things are not great here and there needs to be change but bombings are not the way. These people must find another way of finding democracy because now they are losing the support of the country.”

Swazis are polygamists, seeing the number of wives a man has as a status symbol. The King currently has 14 wives with the chosen women becoming younger for every new wedding. The late King Sobhuza II had 70 wives when he died in 1982, bearing 210 children. This mentality, coupled with vicious rumours about the heresy of contraception, does nothing to combat the level of HIV prevalence within the country.

Waterford Kamhlaba United World College of Southern Africa (Waterford for short) stands at the top of a hill, a 10 minute drive from Mbabane. It is attended by around 400 students ranging from Primary 7 to Secondary 6, most of whom board on campus. There is a large diversity of nationalities and indeed ages with students from countries affected by civil war tending to be a lot older due to fragmented educa­tion. My time at Waterford was characterised by a large workload, huge social opportunites with people from across the world and the ability to study, travel and work in southern Africa.

The reunion consisted mainly of eating, drinking, socialising and the compulsory seven-a-side football tournament. My year, the class of 2006, was one of the best represented with a large Mozambican contingent, South Africans and Swazis making the journey and a couple of overseas students, such as myself, turning up too. Our team, “Pedro’s Party”, was the skeleton of our school team which won the questionably honour­able title of runner-up in the Swazi­land National Schools Tournament 2006. We boasted five different nationalities in the team but due to various reasons, including collect­ively bulking up while enjoying the student life, we could only make the semis. The final was contested in true World Cup style between the all-Ethiopian team of current Water­ford students and the all-Swazi team of the school maintenance workers with the latter showing the students and graduates how it is done by dominating the final as they did the entire tournament. Their captain, Bongani, a short smiley man who I knew well when I was at school, asked if he could borrow my boots for the final as up until then he had only been wearing sandals. I hadn’t noticed his footwear previously and it made me even more embarrassed that Bongani had scored both goals in our 2-0 defeat to the maintenance guys in the group stages.

The World Cup atmosphere is more diluted after crossing the bor­der into Swaziland but still exists in certain pockets. The school assembly hall shows every game to an impres­sively large audience and certain pubs show matches on televisions of varying modernity. We watched the England v Germany game in one such pub where a large majority of the locals were supporting England due to their colonial connections with the country; the small number of the mainly elderly black male clientele supporting Germany were doing so for exactly the same reason.

On Monday we travelled to Moz­am­bique. Swaziland holds many memories of school and friends but will always be inferior to the Moz­ambican capital Maputo in terms of entertainment, atmosphere and inter­esting places to be. We intended to travel by kombi, a small minibus which is widely used throughout sub-saharan Africa for public trans­port, both short and long journeys. The advantage was the cheapness, the disadvantages were the lack of absolute safety, the uncertainty of departure time and the lack of legal accountability should anything go wrong – which it didn’t.

We took the short kombi ride from Mbabane to the financial cap­ital Manzini around lunch time, arriving to find a relatively empty bus destined for Maputo at about 1.30pm. The bus was slightly bigger than a kombi. Like many others in Mozambique it was an import from China, a former communist ally, and still bore Chinese figures, I assume safety instructions, on the inside. In Swaziland, as in most of Africa, buses leave when they are full, and very rarely before. As this was the last bus of the day it was taking its time and it only became financially viable to run the journey at around 3.30pm. The passengers on the bus were mostly black Mozambicans, of varying displays of wealth. One man advised me on the best exchange rate for my money and translated some of what was being said in both Portuguese and SiSwati. There were a couple of UN geographers on their holidays from the Democratic Rep­ublic of Congo and one woman who appeared to be eating chicken for the majority of the journey who insisted on transporting large quantities of large heavy boxes wrapped in black bags. The weight of these bags in the trailer, the lack of power in the aging bus and the multiple police stops encountered made the journey an awful lot longer than it should have been.

Much is said about police in Africa and I’m sorry to say that many of the criticisms of corruption, bribery and preferential treatment have been confirmed in encounters I have had with them. We were stopped at two police checkpoints in Swaziland, both of which examined every aspect of the bus’s functions and facilities. Even the fire exting­uisher was inspected and much deliberation occurred between the driver and the policeman behind the back of the trailer, hidden from view from the bus and passing traffic. The first policeman found some kind of fault and a bribe was paid to satisfy his qualms. The second policeman wasn’t aware we had already been stopped but the driver wasn’t able to tell him as there was understandably no paper-trail leading back to the first stop. This man didn’t appear to find the same, or any other fault with the bus and smiled smugly as he let us away with no charge and only another half hour delay to our journey.

The Goba Border Post is open 24 hours and is as entertaining as it is infuriating. “Thank you for visiting Swaziland. Please come back soon” is posted in happy red and yellow lettering above the mandatory photo­graphs of His Majesty, the Queen Mother and the Prime Minister Barnabas Dlamini on the Swazi side of the border. Then there is the short walk, or jog, across no man’s land to the Mozambican side. There is a mad rush to fill in immi­gration forms and throw passports to the very relaxed border staff on the other side of the desk to get stamped and return to driving. Me, Celisse and the UN couple needed visas and so held up the bus for a further 20 minutes while a sour-faced woman with a very large behind sauntered off with our passports. The building was large and airy with wooden desks and a variety of little rooms. There was a line of office chairs in front of a small TV, blaring out in Portugese with the final result of the Holland v Slovakia game and we could see one short bald official on the other side of the room playing Connect 4 on his computer.

An hour and a half later we were in Maputo and were picked up by Ricardo and Alicia, another two friends from school and who had also been at the reunion. We are staying at Alicia’s house, a large detached structure close to the heavily guarded American embassy. The atmosphere and feel of Maputo is very different to other parts of southern Africa. Its wide, straight boulevards and latin architecture accentuate the colonial style and its communist history has given those boulevards the unforgettable names of Mao Tse Tung St, Karl Marx Avenue and Vladamir Lenin Rd. Although I speak next to no Portu­gese I feel relatively safe and content in Mozambique, being able to com­municate in a similar way to how I spoke French in school – the com­bin­ation of infinitive verbs and large hand gestures.

Today I find myself at a loss as for the first time in three weeks as there isn’t any football on TV. I’ve tried to balance my football watching with various other activities to make the most of this trip but it is always pleasing to know that there will never be a dull moment. This coming week will probably be spent travel­ling somewhere in Mozambique, out of the comfort of our Mozambican friends who act as both taxi drivers and translators. As my most advan­ced Portuguese allows me to count to 10 and say “potato peeler”, I am excited, if a little apprehensive, about the trip.

Friday 11th June was a big day – the build-up of years of excitement and the hysteria of the last few weeks was finally being recog­nised.

The World Cup slogan “Feel it, it is here” captured the mood as the country ground to a halt over the biggest event people have ever witnessed and may ever witness in their lifetimes. The dampener on the day could not have been felt more either.

The 13-year-old great-grand­daughter of Nelson Mandela was killed in a car crash while driving home from the pre-tournament concert in Soweto. This led to an understandable absence of Mandela from the first game and served only to heighten emotions further.

We were still in Cape Town and intended to watch the game at the Grand Parade, the official FIFA fan park, on the big screen. The park opened at 11am so we confidently wandered up at midday, four hours before kick-off. We were disap­pointed to find it packed out to its 25,000 capacity. Apparently people had been queueing since 7am. The pub would be a better option.

As we walked through central Cape Town the atmosphere was electric. Roads were impassable due to the volume of people walking up and down them, car horns were drowned out by the constant drone of the vuvuzela, and people of every colour were wearing their colours while singing and dancing in the streets.

After finding some bars fully reserved or completely booked out we settled in Zula, a music bar on Long Street, the most renowned area for pubs and clubs. By kick-off it was full to capacity and expectancy was growing.

I’m not a huge fan of opening ceremonies and I can’t say that this one changed my mind. The questionable imagery of a giant dung beetle rolling the controversial World Cup ball, Jabulani, off the pitch was enough for me.

However, seeing the ever-dancing, ever-smiling Archbishop Desmond Tutu decked out in green and gold and swaying in time to the diet of South African “urban flavas” instilled some comedy into the situation.

Zula Bar is in the minority of nice pubs which have not chosen to ban the vuvuzela, due to its loud droning tone and its apparently addictive nature.

South African coach Carlos Alberto Parreira has claimed that the noise of the vuvuzela acts as his team’s 12th man. An unconfirmed rumour is circling that South Africa is ordering emergency supplies of ear-plugs to combat the situation. The most sound advice I’ve heard is that anyone sitting in the lower tier of the stadiums is advised to bring a waterproof jacket, for hygiene reasons.

South Africans have been politely requested to refrain from blowing vuvuzelas during national anthems, I imagine so the country’s fledgling democracy can avoid any diplomatic skirmishes with any of the 31 countries in attendance.

So far this has been valued for the most part, especially during South Africa’s emotional anthem. The anthem is comprised of verses in Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans and English, creating the situation where, akin to a barbershop quartet, different members of the team sing their different parts, all culminating in the last line in English which everyone in South Africa knows – “Let us live and strive for freedom, in South Africa our land”.

The game kicked off and despite a shaky start it was clear Bafana Bafana were out to cause an upset to Mexico, ranked 64 places above them. The goalless half-time gave South Africa further hope, demon­strated aptly by an impromptu 10-minute street party below us and the vuvuzelas getting louder.

I don’t think I’ll ever see a reaction to a goal like that of when Siphiwe Tshabalala rocked the Mexican net halfway through the second half. The national outpour­ing of emotion was a release to the tension, which had built up since the competition was awarded to South Africa, which forgot racial and political differences and restored a common pride in the country.

Shame Mexico scored too. But nevertheless, the party raged out on the street, the millions of extra litres of beer ordered for the tournament were flowing freely and my half-Mexican travelling partner Celisse was contented.

The main tourist spot in Cape Town is the V&A (Victoria and Albert) Waterfront. It consists of expensive shops, cinemas, fancy pubs and restaurants and more than a smattering of references to the English gentry. It commonly attracts tourists from all over the world but during the World Cup it is simply easier to identify them.

The brand new Green Point Stadium is a 15-minute walk away, past scaffolding-clad footbridges, being hastily built over the busy road. The police presence is impressive, as are the hordes of information people, dressed in yellow and more than happy to offer any form of advice on staying, eating and travelling in Cape Town. Everyone feels safe and happy.

Johannesburg is the crime centre of the world and parts of Cape Town are not far off. Every house has gates around it and bars on all the windows. The South African author­ities are not attempting to hide this fact though they are devising ways to stem the flow.

A special court has been set up to deal with World Cup-related crimes, a term that probably relates to crimes affecting the 400,000+ tourists which have descended across the country.

At the time of writing this, three people have already been convicted under this court. Two of those three were Zimbabweans who robbed two foreign journalists of their equipment.

To demonstrate how annoyed the authorities were, and to show the international community that they are acting aggressively, the two got arguably disproportionate senten­ces. The first man was convicted of robbery and given a 15-year prison sentence; the second was given four years for handling stolen property.

Personally, the only aggression I have been aware of was a Uru­guayan man threatening a police­man with a sky-blue vuvuzela. I am unsure of the motive for the threat but was pleased to see the situation resolved amicably with the offender stumbling away in the other direction, blowing said vuvuzela, back to the safety of the pub from whence he came.

Cape Town is nicknamed Little Europe, not only for its high density of white people, its expensive shops and restaurants and its royal family place names, but also for its climate. It is winter in South Africa so most days have been overcast, a bit rainy, 15 degrees through the day and a bit cold at night.

Thankfully, Friday was beautiful, full of sunshine and had a warm wind. I think I prefer the weather now than what it will be like in summer, as I’ve hardly had to touch the factor 50+ since I arrived.

After the disappointment of not making it into the fan park for the opening match, we headed back the following day for the England v USA game. Although there were very few queues and enough space for everyone, there were still a good few thousand fans watching in the spitting evening rain.

The fan park housed a traditional market, two five-a-side football pitches, plenty of food stalls and a couple of beer tents, as well as kids entertainment and music – not unlike the Fetlar Foy in many ways.

Grand Parade is overlooked by the impressive Town Hall, the site for Mandela’s first speech after his release from prison in Robben Island. I’m sure he would be proud of its current use.

We left Cape Town to travel along the coast to Plettenburg Bay and Port Elizabeth. I liked the atmosphere here and everyone seemed to take life at a slightly slower pace than in Glasgow. I didn’t witness any crime and the weather was good, tourists were happy and the average pint costs just over £1.

After two weeks of relatively hedonistic eating, drinking and watching football, we left the buzz and noise of Cape Town to head east along the coast. Our last day there was marred by a dramatic loss for Bafana Bafana at the hands of Uruguay. This result dampened spirits to an extent though there were still similar party scenes around Long Street to what it had looked like after the Mexico game.

What was clear was that maintaining the stamina of this hysteria was proving difficult, especially as the hosts looked not to be progressing to the next round. This seemed a good time to head on our way. Our mode of transport was the Baz Bus, a valued and intuitive business which provides daily hop-on-hop-off transport along the main backpacking routes in South Africa.

Our first driver was a slightly overenthusiastic Madagascan called Mark. He regaled us with history and travelling tips and was on first name basis with many of the petrol station staff we passed by on our way. What was clear was that exiting Cape Town led to many differences, the most obvious being language.

Afrikaans is traditionally the white person’s language, derived from the Dutch settlers and in my opinion is a particularly ugly language. In cities, where tourists and multiculturalism requires English proficiency, Afrikaans is either not spoken or is the second language.

In small towns along the coast, it was many people’s first language and some people’s only language. One such small town was our first stop, Plettenburg Bay which is just over halfway between Cape Town and Port Elizabeth.

The people in the bars, cafes and shops were all very friendly; even the people in the cars would wave as they drove past, something I hadn’t experienced outside Unst. What was very clear in Plett, and still in too many places in South Africa, was despite the political equality, there are blatant economic and social inequalities, which the newly free South Africa has not yet addressed.

Many non-white people have jobs but very few are in a position of power. The biggest cars and houses are owned by white people and bars and restaurants are rarely frequented by different races. This bizarre reality seems to perpetuate itself seemingly without the need or desire to change it and I imagine that is replicated around the country.

What the Eastern Cape is famous for is adventure, everything from elephant rides to cuddling cheetahs and white water rafting to skydiving. What Celisse had her eye on was bungee-jumping.

The Bloukrans Bridge Bungee is the world’s highest at 216m. It is set on an impressive bridge over a sheer ravine and attracts adrenaline junkies from all over the world to jump off it with only a big elastic band around their ankles to stop them from hitting the stream at the bottom.

I am not such an adrenaline junkie so as Celisse made the impressive journey along the rickety walkway under the bridge, I sat in the well-placed bar that overlooks the bridge and had a pint. The decision was due partly to lack of funds but truthfully due mainly to lack of balls.

The next day we jumped back on the Baz Bus to complete the journey to Port Elizabeth, one of many major cities in South Africa that are being officially renamed to try and shed their colonial heritage. Many are reverting to traditional African names to reflect linguistic and cultural distribution but PE is now to be known as Nelson Mandela Bay, a further great dedication to the great man.

We are staying in backpackers’ hostels this week, a cheap staple when I travelled during my last stay here and a sociable and accessible way to experience the country. During the World Cup backpackers have, on the whole, doubled their prices and still find themselves full to bursting in all cities which host stadiums, plus in many that don’t. Fortunately though prices are still more manageable than in Johannesburg where hotels have on average inflated prices by 400 per cent.

We took the opportunity to experience the city’s fan park, a petite cricket stadium with a generally more relaxed atmosphere and reaction to what was a very eventful encounter between Brazil and the Ivory Coast. We were guided to the stadium by Christopher, one of the many young volunteers involved in the massive logistical undertaking of staffing the event.

The most relaxed part of the staffing machine we came into contact with were two elderly black men sitting on the grass in front of us, watching the game. They barely moved for the entire game, despite people clearly standing in their way of seeing the big screen. One of the men was wearing a high-visibility vest with “Operations Supervisor” emblazoned on the back. I was very impressed both with his supervising abilities and his calm demeanour as the event seemed to pass without incident.

Our main reason for being in PE, however, was for our one and only taste of a World Cup game. We took our time in buying tickets, for reasons of cash-flow and general lack of organisation. By the time we booked them, days before the opening match, the only game with the cheapest tickets still available was the seemingly mundane clash between Switzerland and Chile.

However, as Switzerland pulled off the shock of the tournament in their first match by beating tournament favourites Spain, the game now had the potential to qualify one of the two for the prospect of playing Brazil, Portugal or Ivory Coast in the last 16. An added attraction was my family links with my Swiss granny, while Celisse’s Latin roots led her to supporting Chile.

The South American fans were certainly making the bigger impression with flags decking out the city and Spanish songs reverberating through the bars and restaurants. Conversely the Swiss fans tended to fit a certain stereotype – tall, short hair, small round glasses, stone-washed jeans and a nice warm fleece, varying in their choice of conservative facial hair. The pace and indeed result of the game reflected these impressions with Chile winning 1-0.

Tomorrow I start the two-day journey from PE to Swaziland, via Durban. The all-years reunion at Waterford Kamhlaba (my old school) should bring together the remnants of most of the last 40 years of the school, giving me the opportunity to see folk from school that I lived intensely with for two years that I haven’t seen for nearly four years.

What will also be interesting is how the political and social situation has changed since I was in the country last, and I look forward to examining the progress.

Bill has strong Shetland links – his father William was born in Fetlar in 1902 – and he heard last week that the first Gardner may have come to the isle in the 17th century.

Bill was brought up in Dalmeny, near Edinburgh, and has been coming to the isles since 1948. In those days he stayed with his grandmother Andrina Gardner and cousin the late Alastair (father of music promoter Davie Gardner) at Clickimin Road, Lerwick, and took the Earl of Zetland to stay with his father’s cousins at Funzie in Fetlar.

In 1959 as a young teacher he returned to the isles with his wife Moira and baby daughter to be the teacher and missionary in Papa Stour, while Moira, who died two years ago, became the district nurse. There were 16 families there at the time, with eight or nine pupils in the school.

Last week Bill returned to Papa Stour and was delighted to meet his last pupil Gordon Jamieson (son of former mail boat operator John Jamieson) and hear news of other former pupils. He was impressed by the developments that have taken place in the isle but saddened by the population decline.

He said: “It was quite emotional going across by ferry from Burra­firth, in my day it was the mail boat from Sandness and the airstrip happened after I left.

“It threw me, seeing cars on the ferry. When I was there I had a motorised bike, the only other motorised thing was a tractor owned by Alec Jamieson.

“The living conditions have changed so much for the better now but the people aren’t there – it makes me sad.”

Conditions were very primitive when he was there, he recalled, with no electricity or running water: “We had to walk to the well 100 yards from the school house. It would dry up in the summer and we would have a yoke with two pails on to get water from the loch.”

Soon after arriving in Papa Stour the family suffered a setback – Bill developed a brain tumour, suffering headaches so bad that he could not stand up. The mail boat made a special run to take him to the Mainland and the Gilbert Bain Hospital pronounced him so ill he went straight to Aberdeen.

Moira, who had accompanied him to Lerwick and by this time was pregnant again, was left pushing a pram around Lerwick, unsure as to where to go. The 22-year-old told a taxi driver she was thinking of checking in the Queens Hotel, but he insisted on taking her to his friends, the Cheyne family.

She lodged there for the next three months until Bill had finished radio therapy in Aberdeen. The family would take no payment – proof, said Bill, of the “absolute hospitality” of Shetlanders.

The Gardners left Papa Stour in 1961 for Bill to take a teaching job in Scotland. His last contact with Shetland, until last week, was when he brought a party of schoolchildren to Shetland in 1964. They went to Papa Stour and saw a Tammy Anderson rehearsal. “Everything was an adventure to them.”

In 1967 Bill, Moira and their growing family, eventually to number eight children, emigrated to Canada where they thought there would be more opportunities for their offspring.

Bill, who could speak French, opted for the French-speaking prov­ince of Quebec, where he became the director of the only English-speaking school in the district. The children became bi-lingual and the family now boasts 23 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, all in Canada.

Bill had always been interested in exploring his family tree and had wondered where the name Gardner came from. He heard last week from a fellow Hamefarer that John Gardner, allegedly a survivor of a shipwreck (having possibly been press-ganged) might have been the first of the family to reach Fetlar in 1683. Bill said: “It was a complete and utter revelation to me.”

This story confirms his opinion of Shetlanders, whether emigrants or not. “They are so adaptable, the original DIY people.”

Peter, who was born in Chester and who now lives in Linlithgow with his wife Enid, had already holidayed in Shetland without realising he had a link to the isles.

It was only in 1997, after his nephew mentioned a Shetland connection, that the couple went to the Family History Society and discovered Peter is descended from the Ratter family.

Peter’s great-grandfather Charles Ratter, born in Uyea in 1820, went to Liverpool in the 1840s and married Liverpudlian Ann, living in Toxteth with their large family.

Charles, who was first a servant in one of the poshest streets in the city (Rodney Street, populated by private medical practitioners) and later a grocer, and his brother John, a seafarer, are mentioned in the 1861 census. Charles died in 1864 when Peter’s grandfather was only four years old.

Somehow, Peter thinks, the name Ratter became Rutter, as everything was handwritten at that time. The family never returned to Shetland and Peter said his late parents never spoke about the isles.

Peter and Enid are now enjoying their eighth visit to Shetland, and he is grateful to landowner Maurice Laurenson for showing him the old family sites, in what was a fishing community.

Peter said: “I can’t understand how they lived there – we have so many mod cons – it must have been a very hard life.” Poverty would have driven people to leave Shetland, he surmised. “If they couldn’t get a place on a sixereen they would have to leave for lack of work.”

One interesting anecdote of the time concerns the church. Charles’ father Henry, baptised in Uyea in 1782, became interested in the new religion of Methodism that was sweeping the isles in the early years of the 19th century.

He received permission from the Church of Scotland to go to meetings, but was not allowed to pledge himself to Methodism by giving his name and address.

Henry and his relative Christian, who would have had to travel to meetings by boat, did pledge themselves and were subsequently hauled up before the Kirk Session. Their punishment is not recorded, but one of the earliest Methodist chapels in Shetland is in North Roe.

He will not remember it, but he was presented with a Burra bear on Tuesday by the Hamefarin commit­tee, to the delight of parents Scott and Chika (who is originally from Japan), aunt Amanda Hilton (Scott’s sister) and grandmother Jamie Hilton (Scott’s mother).

Jamie brought her son Scott to Shetland when he was 10 – he remembers the brochs and the fish and chips – and the family feel that baby Jamieson already has a strong connection to Shetland through his Japanese middle name Takeru, meaning per­sistent or strong (like the Anderson High School motto, Do weel and persevere).

Chika, who comes from Hirosh­ima and moved to the USA three years ago, said: “I love the landscape, it’s so different from where I come from in Japan although Japan is an island too. But it’s cold, I didn’t expect to wear sweaters.” She was delighted with the Burra bear gift, she said: “I almost bought one.”

And the warm welcome Scott and Jamie experienced first time round has not changed. Jamie, who lives in Colorado, said: “There’s such a warm feeling of home, as I have my cup of coffee in the morning I can almost feel my roots. Everyone we met has been so sweet.”

Jamie’s grandparents were Wil­liam Goudie, born in 1879 and Edith Jamieson, born in 1890. Although from Shetland, both the Goudie and the Jamieson families lived in Glasgow at the time (William Goudie had been taken in by relatives when his father was lost at sea).

As a young man William Goudie learned about the rubber trade and this took him to America. The Jamie­son family also went there and the families re-connected in Rhode Island in 1900. William and Edith later married and their daughter, Betty Jean Goudie, married David Clarke, Jamie’s late father, who started research on the family tree.

During their visit the Hiltons have been catching up with relatives, including the Inksters from Sand­wick, related in the Goudie side, and other family members from as far away as New Zealand.

Scott said: “It’s been fun meeting our cousins. And it’s so beautiful here, the rocky bluffs are so lovely.”

His sister Amanda, on her first visit, said: “I wasn’t sure what to expect but I’ve been loving it. It’s so beautiful and so green. In Colarado it’s high desert. And we’ve had such a warm reception everywhere.”

There was such as feeling of home, she said, that “Mum’s looking at the For Sale signs.”

Although she was enjoying the light nights she admitted to feeling slightly cold: “I’ve been buying woollen garments and mittens.”

That was not the case for Scott, however. He did not feel the cold, he said, as their home near San Francis­co is often “fogged in and not too hot”.

The Jamieson family came from the now uninhabited isle of South Havra and the visitors were taken there by Bobby Hunter, which Jamie described as an “amazing, wonderful trip”.

Relative Rosemary Inkster from Sandwick, who was also on the trip, said: “It was moving to see Jamie and Bobby with their pieces of paper and the research they’d done into a common ancestor, and to hear Bobby say there should be no romantic image. [Life there] was a hard struggle.”

The ceremony marked the official start of a two-week adventure for nearly 600 Hamefarers, who had made journeys of up to 12,000 miles to discover their roots, catch up with relatives and explore the isles.

Many spoke of their feelings of being at home, their sense of welcome and their wish to see and do as much as they could.

Addressing the gathering, con­vener Sandy Cluness said that at the time of the first Hamefarin in 1960, Shetland had been a very different place. The population had been only 18,000 and falling, the fishing industry had been in decline and people were leaving to seek a new life elsewhere.

Now, however, largely thanks to the oil industry, the isles had infra­structure and services to be proud of. He was proud, too, Mr Cluness said, of the young Shetlanders, some of whom, in the 50-piece traditional band Laldy, had been playing as the reception got under way and who would go on to thrill the audience with their music.

He was flanked by two large quilts, the suggestion of a “mad moment” by Ann Hill who created them from blocks made by Hame­farers – visible symbols of what Shetland means to them.

Dedicating the quilts to the event, Mrs Hill, who grew up in Lerwick’s Russell Crescent but who now lives in the Borders, said the project had brought back memories – “I’ll always be a Shetlander” – and had started many new friendships.

Originally Mrs Hill had expected around 16 blocks, she said, but ended up with 48. “I’ve loved every minute,” she added.

Mr Cluness was then presented with a gift from the Shetland Society of New Zealand – a miniature green­stone adze (arched-bladed cutting tool). It was “made from our old rock” said society vice-president Ross Mainland.

Mr Mainland said later that his father Tom, born in Gonfirth and who later lived in Dunrossness, had emigrated in 1928 under a scheme organised by the New Zealand government, the sheep producers and the shipping com­panies to give orphans (as Tom was) the chance of a new start in agriculture.

The 15-year-old had travelled alone and never returned to the isles. This was Mr Mainland’s third visit, he said, and it was “like coming home”.

A brief cheer on stage by the Jarl’s Squad was followed by dialect songs from girl band Laeverick, who performed a Hamefarin song, fol­lowed by Rowin Foula Doon by Vagaland and Evergreen by Rhoda Bulter.

It proved highly emotional for Robin Hunter-Smith from South Africa (who with his wife Nicky and daughter Sharon form the total South African contingent) who admitted to “getting his handkerchief out”.

Mr Hunter-Smith is the grandson of Shetlanders who emigrated before the Boer War and set up a building contractors business. He himself, with his brother, does stone quarry­ing (and has family connections with Shetland firm Hunter & Mor­rison) said being in Shetland for his fifth visit felt “like being at home”. Laeverick were followed by all 21 pupils from Nesting School, also singing dialect songs and who, like Laeverick, had been taught by Maria Barclay Millar.

Head teacher Anne Peters was “very proud” the pupils had been invited. She said: “They didn’t realise what a big occasion it was – they realise now.”

Their renderings included What Shetland Means to Me by Eddie Barclay, and were followed by pieces from the newly-formed Laldy, with more Hamefarin themes and compositions from great Shet­land fiddlers such as Tom Anderson and Willie Hunter.

Hamefarin organiser and MC Douglas Irvine said the Forty Fiddlers would be proud of Laldy, whose members had been invited to play by Margaret Scollay.

The band impressed Hamefarer Jim Coutts, originally from Scallo­way, now of New Zealand and in Shetland with around 13 of his family.

Mr Coutts said: “Those kids were just brilliant – how so many of them can play without a conductor – it was quite emotional.” Summing up the whole ceremony he added: “It was wonderful.”

Featuring some of Shetland’s best known fiddlers and those who knew or were influenced by the man, the line-up included Catriona MacDonald, Shetland’s Heritage Fiddlers and Aly Bain and Phil Cunningham.

Hosts for the evening were Mary Blance and Charlie Simpson, who did a fantastic job of introducing the acts, but more than this – and with the help of some lovely recordings of Tammy talking – helped to paint a picture of the man and bring him to life for the evening.

First to play were the Shetland Fiddlers Society. Originally formed in 1960 by Tammy for the first Hamefarin, the group is still going strong, although with different members, who played a selection of traditional tunes.

While the concert was mainly made up of those taught by Tammy, it included music that had inspired him, and the Norwegian Hardanger fiddle music from the Telemark region is one example.

Annbjørg Lien studied Har­danger fiddle from Hauk Buen, of the renowned musical Buen family in Norway with whom Tammy was great friends.

Annbjørg was joined on stage by Per Anders Buen Garnås, nephew of Hauk and Knut. They played several Hardanger tunes, which to my unaccustomed ear had unusual timing.

Their set also included a trio of tunes written by Knut, one of which was inspired by a trip to Shetland, and I Vesterveg, which features a poem written by Rhoda Bulter which Annbjørg recited.

Next up was the Heritage Fiddlers, a group known when they were youngsters as Tammy’s Peerie Angels.

Their lightsome set included some of his best known tunes, including Da Slockit Light and Peter’s Peerie Boat, as well as some tunes written for Tammy and the Young Heritage by Bob Mc­Quillen.

While respected for this playing and reciting, Tammy’s legacy lives on thanks to his teaching and Shetland music may not be what it is were it not for his insistence on teaching fiddle in schools.

One of his best-known pupils and one of the original Peerie Angels was Catriona MacDonald, who played a truly fantastic set.

Joined by another Peerie Angel, Margaret Scollay, Catriona explained she had been bequeathed a Hardanger fiddle by Tammy, with the condition she visit Knut Buen to learn that style of music. While by her own admission this was not as successful as it might have been, the impish tune, Tuddal Troll, that she wrote as a gift to Knut well made up for it.

She was also joined by Annbjørg Lien, who she met while in Norway with the Young Heritage Fiddlers. The two have become best friends, and played a beautiful, mesmerising slow air, Shingly Beach, written by Tammy after a walk on Stenness in Eshaness.

The final act of the night was the duo of Aly Bain and Phil Cunningham. Aly is Shetland’s best-known fiddler and one of Tammy’s most successful pupils, and while his music was the main feature of the night, the anecdotes and snapshots of Tammy’s life that he shared made the concert all the more special.

It was a brilliant night of music and remembrance which Shet­landers current and returning should be proud of.

Some 19th century jumpers and hats from Fair Isle show the characteristic horizontal pattern for which the isle, and Shetland in general, is famous. Bright colours thanks to dyes of madder and lichen are used in these garments, whereas Shetland Mainland knitters favoured natural colours.

Mainland knitters also knitted plain undergarments at this time and were involved in the Truck System – a barter system in which knitted goods were exchanged with the merchants for essentials such as tea and paraffin and which kept the knitters permanently in debt. These undergarments were in demand from the middle classes in the big UK cities.

The upper classes, however, favoured fine lace knitting. This came into vogue through the endorsement of Queen Victoria, who had been sent a pair of stockings by a Shetland knitter and asked for more. The one-ply (or sometimes two-ply) wool was whitened over smoking sulphur and the best knitters excused from heavy work because they had to keep their hands soft.

Later, in the 1920s, the Prince of Wales popularised V-neck Fair Isle jumpers and patterns began to be written down. The 1930s saw experiements with various necklines and fabrics – a slip-over in rayon is on display – and during the Second World War a Norwegian influence comes to the fore with vertical patterns.

The Voe firm of T M Adie was prominent at this time and sold its tweed fabric all over the world.

By 1960s knitting machines were in many households, with the men making the body of the garment and the women “finishing” by adding collars and cuffs.

Hamefarer and knitter Colleen Hannan from Napier, New Zealand, is the great-great-granddaughter of knitter Williamina Sinclair from North Dale, Unst, whose name features in the Unst Heritage Centre as “knitter of worsted”.

Mrs Hannan said Williamina, her husband and five children emigrated to Napier at the time of the clearances. They were locked into the barter system and an emigration agent from Napier suggested the move. The family sailed in the 1850s, with another baby, Michael Clarence, being born on the ship (which bore the name Clarence).

Mrs Hannan said: “It was the women who pushed for a better life.”