Baltasound, Unst

World Heritage Sites Air Adventure: No Time to Die – A Shetland Whodunit
Episode 3: Unst – 21st May 2025
DI Jimmy Perez, Shetland Police—your ongoing guest log writer on the Sky Podcast series, with support from Starlink Aviation Solutions.

Baltasound, Unst
Before heading north, I spent a memorable evening among da folk of Out Skerries—the sort of place that lingers in your mind long after you’ve left its shores. Out Skerries, perched far to the east of Shetland, is a place shaped by the sea and the wind. The islands are small, but their spirit is anything but. Here, I was struck not just by the rugged cliffs and stories of shipwrecks, but by the quiet industry of the islanders—especially their knitting.

On Skerries, knitting is more than a pastime; it’s a lifeline. With patterns inspired by sea and sky, islanders have always turned local wool into garments tough enough for the wildest weather. Even now, the tradition endures, each stitch a testament to resilience and ingenuity.

As a small mark of their welcome, Mrs. Williamson—the island’s most renowned knitter—presented Lani and Kai with knitted tactical vests, crafted in the unique style of Out Skerries: warm, durable, and patterned with the island’s signature motifs. She knelt down beside the dogs, her hands gentle as she fastened the wool around their shoulders.

“Noo, look at you twa,” she said, smiling at them both. “Dis’ll keep du warm when da wind’s up an’ du’s oot on da job. I’ve put a peerie pocket here for a treat or a compass—never kens when du might need it. Mind, Skerries wool’s tough as anythin’, just like you. Tak care o’ each other, an’ come back for a scratch if du’s ever by again.”

Lani, usually reserved, nuzzled Mrs. Williamson’s hand, tail wagging in rare approval. Kai, ever the optimist, pranced in circles and leaned in for a scratch, clearly delighted by the snug fit and the scent of fresh wool. It was a gesture that spoke volumes: a blending of tradition and purpose, made especially for my two loyal companions—and a memory I’ll carry with me long after we’ve left these shores.

I was especially taken wi’ @79-Airtime, a man who’s left his mark on da island in more ways than one. He shared his story over a mug of strong tea and a slice of bannock.

“Aye, I wis born here in ’79, left for da mainland for school in ’95. Came back in 2006 wi’ da wife and twa bairns, biggit a hoose while she was expectin’ da third. When da salmon farm folded—ye’ll see da old cages rustin’ yet—we had tae move back tae da Shetland mainland for work, been there a bit over ten year now. But Skerries is aye home, ken?

Du kens, at one time, Out Skerries had da shortest commercial airstrip in da world. Da Islander would land here—sometimes had tae go via Whalsay if da weather or da load wis against us. Tingwall tae Skerries—folk still blether aboot those flights.”

We shared a dram and a laugh, and I left with a deeper appreciation for da island’s spirit—and for those who keep its memory alive.

The next morning, we flew north, da dogs restless, Muckle Flugga Lighthouse blinking at da edge of da world. Here on Unst, da land feels like da end of da road—closer to Norway than to Shetland’s southern isles.

Baltasound is quiet, da main road lined with daffodils and da odd sheep. In da Baltasound Hotel’s lounge, da locals are talking about da price of diesel and da ferry running late again.

Salt beef and tattie soup warms da bones, served with thick slices of beremeal bannock and a dollop of butter. I wash it down with a pint of Valhalla Island Bere, the local ale—malty, with a hint of sea air. Shetland Reel whisky follows, smoky and warming.

A mechanic, hands black with oil, glances up as I approach.
“Du’s lookin’ for dat English body, is du? He cam by da shed, borrowed a spanner an’ left a page fae some auld spy book. Said he wis keen on da ferry tae Fetlar. Strange een, dat. Left half a cigar burnin’ on da windowsill—smelled like he’d nae taste for it. Mind du, he wis bletherin’ awa’ like a peerie wren in a gale. It admires me how some folk can blether so!”

Later, I notice a faint scent of expensive aftershave lingering by the pier—a note of something foreign, out of place among the salt and diesel. Kai’s nose is twitching. The scent’s fresh. Fetlar’s next.

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