Hellyraisers

Published on Saturday 28 January 2006 02:36

WHEN A chilly, grey dawn broke, it revealed seals basking on the rocks right outside my hotel bedroom window. That's not something I see every day, but I resisted the temptation to rush outside and take a closer look. I had to remember that I wasn't in Shetland to watch the wildlife and, in truth, there really is only one reason to be in Lerwick, Shetland's capital, on the last Tuesday in January.

That reason is the fire festival they call Up Helly Aa, but it seems that nobody can agree on exactly what those words mean. Some say that when the Christians purloined the old Yule celebrations for themselves, the pagan Norsemen were forced to wait until the 24th night after Christmas to indulge in their own midwinter revelry, so they called this night "Uphalliday", or "the end of the holy days".

I can't imagine any Viking worth his salt meekly twiddling his thumbs until the Christians had finished praying, so I prefer a slightly different version, which states that Up Helly Aa evolved as a riotous end to the lengthy Yule merriment and was just an excuse to continue the carousing as long as possible. Knowing there is still some festive fun to look forward to, even at the bleak end of January, certainly makes the winter seem shorter.

Shetlanders also believe that immediately after Up Helly Aa, the days start to get longer and lighter, as though their bonfires have successfully banished the winter darkness. All I knew for sure was that after years of anticipation, I was finally going to experience this ancient, authentic Viking celebration for myself.

Or not, as it turned out. To get a real flavour of old Lerwick, I joined local historian and storyteller Elma Johnson on a guided walk around the town's narrow streets, and as we wandered along, side-stepping crowds of large, hairy men in horned helmets at every junction, I asked Elma when the first celebration of Up Helly Aa was recorded.

"In the mid-19th century," she replied. I was so shocked, I nearly impaled myself on a nearby battleaxe. The 19th century? But I thought it dated back to the Vikings?

Apparently not. The Shetland Vikings probably did have fire festivals, but Up Helly Aa as we know it is a purely Victorian invention, born from the need to control some extremely rowdy Christmas Eve behaviour on the part of Shetland's young men. To discourage gangs of boys rolling huge barrels of burning tar around the lanes of Lerwick and fighting each other, it was decided that these riotous urges should be channelled into something more civilised. Both the name and the date of the revels I'd imagined to be so antique were decreed by a local committee less than 150 years ago. They didn't even dress as Vikings until 1877.

Still, I followed the Vikings of 2005 as they marched around the town, escorting their 30ft longship. My illusions about the authenticity of the spectacle may have been dashed, but its magnificence couldn't be denied. Obviously, the men - and it is only the men - of Lerwick take Up Helly Aa very seriously indeed.

About 1,000 of them take part, divided into "squads" of about 20 men. The ordinary squads choose a theme and dress up in whatever costumes take their fancy, but for one squad - a different one each year - the festival is especially significant, because they get to be the Vikings.

The men participating in ordinary squads are called "guizers", because they're supposedly in disguise, but Viking squad members are called "jarls" or earls, a Viking title, although I doubt any real Viking ever looked so dazzlingly splendid as these perfectly polished gentlemen. Even the severed head they were parading on a pike looked tidy. Gleaming and immaculate in their tailor-made chrome chain mail and velvet tunics, beards beautifully combed, and displaying the feathers of many unfortunate ravens on their winged helmets, the jarls were obviously going to enjoy every moment of their big day.

Wondering what qualifications you needed to be a jarl, apart from the ability to win a David Bellamy look-alike contest and bellow a lot, I asked the man beside me in the crowd why he wasn't taking part. He sneered slightly. "I'm a working man. I can't afford to be a bloody jarl." He had a point. The costume of the chief jarl, known as the guizer jarl, cost 1,500.

But this is a once in a lifetime chance for the guizer jarl. It won't happen to him again, so he has to make the most of it. He becomes a freeman of Lerwick for the day and takes his squad with him, traversing the town doing charitable deeds - as well as taking a wee dram in every place they visit. There is great pressure to put on a good show, since they are by far the most important men on Shetland that day. Not only must they design and make their own costumes, they also have to build their own ship, or "galley", so preparations for the next Up Helly Aa start as soon as the last one is over.

But while the glorious costumes and superbly crafted galley were the worthwhile results of nearly a year's painstaking planning, some people weren't quite as true to the tough, Viking spirit as they might have been. The jarl closest to me was experiencing some discomfort with his embossed leather wristband. "It's really chafing me," he whined. "Has anybody got an Elastoplast?"

Back in the centre of Lerwick, I spent ages staring at the Market Cross, trying to make sense of the highly decorated proclamation attached to it, otherwise known as "the Bill". After struggling with such cryptic messages as "When SIC swallowed the Welfare Trust did it leave a Groatie taste in their mouths?" I realised that I wasn't expected to understand. The Bill is a collection of satirical in-jokes for the delectation of the islanders alone; the humour is as impenetrable and obscure as watching the Azerbajani version of Have I Got News For You.

Perhaps one of the more endearing aspects of Up Helly Aa is its refusal to pander to the tourist market. There have been suggestions in the past that the festival should be moved to a more visitor-friendly time of year, but these heresies have come to nothing. Although I felt extremely welcome in Lerwick, I understood I was a spectator at someone else's party. Up Helly Aa is a local festival for local people (witness the unyielding declaration: "No postponement for weather"), and as far as they are concerned, tourists can take it or leave it.

I decided to take it. Despite knowing that nothing I would see dated back further than a few generations, the relaxed good humour of the event had won me over, especially when darkness started to fall and the various squads began to assemble for the torchlight parade.

It was like every rugby club knees-up you could ever imagine - and then some. Some of the costumes were beyond surreal and as 1,000 men of Lerwick marched behind the wooden longship, carrying aloft flaming bundles of paraffin-soaked hessian, I saw more multi-coloured bubble wigs and varieties of false breast than I could ever have imagined. There were men dressed as French maids, as fairies, hippos, clowns, sailors, foxes, and even policemen in tutus. You name it, it was carrying a torch around the streets of Lerwick, singing the gung-ho Up Helly Aa song.

After the parade had snaked around its circuit, the ship came to rest in a field, and a thousand blazing torches were simultaneously thrown on to it. As the galley burned, the sky over Lerwick shimmered with heat and light, fireworks exploded and a brass band played Sousa marches. It was a truly fantastic sight. But even at this climactic moment, the pagan roistering simply didn't ring true. Up Helly Aa plays at having Viking roots, but it's pure Victorian hokum. It's jolly, silly, good-natured fun. It's occasional transvestites dressed as fairies, singing music-hall songs and burning a boat while a band plays end-of-the-pier music. It's a wonderful way to say goodbye to Christmas.

But the night was still young. After the torching of the galley, each squad visits around 30 local venues, performs a carefully-rehearsed skit or musical number to divert the audience at each function, has a dance and a drink, then dashes off to the next one. The result is a wild, all-night party, which I enjoyed in the baronial splendour of the town hall - one of the few venues to accommodate outsiders.

A 20 ticket buys 11 hours of entertainment: dancing, live music, food and amazement. I watched the Incredible Hulk dance with Madonna, jived with an inflatable hippo and was swept off my feet by a bearded witch. As dawn broke, I staggered home, thanking God it was a public holiday. The streets were littered with tired and emotional Cossacks, ballerinas and members of ABBA.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but the morning definitely seemed lighter and brighter than the previous one. Maybe the fires really had driven away the winter gloom. The breakfast room was full of Vikings, so I went back to my room and looked out of the window. And there on the rocks were a clown and a policeman in a tutu, watching the seals.

FACT FILE SHETLAND

HOW TO GET THERE

• British Airways flies to Shetland from most Scottish airports from around 150 return. Tel: [phone] or visit www.ba.com

WHERE TO STAY

• The Lerwick Hotel costs from 49pp per night. Tel: [phone].

AND THERE'S MORE

• Elma Johnson's Island Trails cost from 8pp. Tel: [phone].

• For all information on booking your trip, tel: [phone] or go to www.visitscotland.com

• Scotsman Reader Holidays offer departures to Shetland. Tel: [phone], www.holidays.scotsman.com