Peter Ross at large: The man who keeps a light shining on a unique way of life

Why would three men be assigned to a lighthouse? Two to fight, one to separate

'IT WAS a fine and handy thing," says Jimmy Oliver, climbing through a tiny hatch into the lantern of Kinnaird Head lighthouse, high above the treacherous north-east coast, "to be a lighthouse keeper and nae big."

Oliver is 73, five foot four, and seemingly as agile now as any time during the four decades he spent working in Scotland's wildest spots. Now senior guide at the Museum of Scottish Lighthouses, Fraserburgh, he illuminates the past, inviting visitors to follow the vivid beam of his memory as he directs it into the ever- receding era when almost 100 lights around our coast were operated by men not computers. This noble way of life lasted for two centuries, but since 1998 all Scotland's lighthouses have been automated. There's a sad irony in the fact that though these iconic towers are still in the business of saving souls, the process of "de-manning" means they have lost their own.

"Now, I'll show you something," says Oliver, leading the way inside the lens itself, a huge structure of glass and brass made in 1902. Hundreds of prism bars refract light from the 250 watt bulb on to bullseye lenses. From these once shot a beam two metres wide and with the power of 850,000 candles, visible 28 miles out to sea. As we stand inside, Oliver uses the clockwork mechanism to revolve the lens. Here and there, the glass has been chipped by Luftwaffe gunfire.

"See the colours in the glass?" says Oliver as the prisms catch the sunlight. "You get rainbows in here any time of the day or nicht. Absolutely beautiful. Works of art. But made for a very necessary purpose."

Back at the foot of the lighthouse, he explains that purpose. "This was a graveyard for ships. The shipping routes to the continent would come through the Pentland Firth, over here." He points north and I notice a fading tattoo of a buxom girl on the inside of his left forearm. "Now, if you turn in that direction," he points east, revealing a matching tattoo on his right arm, "you'll sail straight into the Baltic."

Kinnaird Head, built in 1787 to protect ships on that route was the first creation of the Northern Lighthouse Board and is, in a sense, the taper from which all our other lighthouses were lit. One need not visit those lights to sense their magic, just read the names on a map: Noss Head, Noup Head, Neist Point; Sule Skerry, Sula Sgeir, Skerryvore; Little Ross and wonderful Muckle Flugga, which sounds like a character from The Broons but is, in fact, out there on Shetland's northern tip, where since 1854 it has withstood 200-foot waves.

Oliver's father, Robert, a keeper since the 1920s liked to refer to the lights around the Firth Of Forth as "the string of pearls"; Jimmy Oliver himself thinks of Scotland's lighthouses as "the necklace of diamonds". They are precious to him. Born on Jura in 1936, he moved at three to Dunnet Head, Caithness, where his father was newly stationed. Lighthouses, which helped guide convoys, were targets during the war and so his father was armed with a machine gun. Oliver remembers running outside, "just a bairn", and seeing the Germans pass overhead en route to bomb Scapa Flow.

He was raised in the ways of keeping and at just five was sent up top with a cloth to clean the lens. That same lens is now in the museum and Oliver still gives it a wipe now and then, though it's now dust not paraffin vapour he's cleaning.

After a spell working as a joiner and then in the Royal Navy, where he acquired those tattoos, Oliver entered the lighthouse service himself in 1964, and in 38 years worked at a dozen different lights. Not all were cushy berths like Kinnaird Head; he spent 12 years working exclusively on rock and island stations – barren, isolated places, such as Pentland Skerries, where snarling storms made the tower sway; during blizzards he'd climb outside the lantern and clear snow from the glass so the light could be seen. On his first day on the job, a trainee – or supernumerary – could expect to be sent up to turn the weather vane by hand, a test of nerve known as spinning the granny. If you couldn't do that, there was little sense in carrying on.

Having been left dangling on a rope from the balcony of Eilean Glas, Oliver was always cautious when working at height. But says, with amused bravado, "Falling's no problem. It's the stop that kills you."

That particular incident illustrates another truth about lighthouse life – the necessity of getting on with others. Three keepers would be assigned to a lighthouse, and in rock stations they would be in each other's company for a month at a time, living in a space that might only be 10 feet across. Why three men? "Two to fight and one to separate," Oliver jokes. The truth is that arguments were best avoided, lest they escalate to violence, and so even though his fall was the fault of another man, Oliver let it go. "You couldna say anything."

Another challenge was passing the time. Oliver was into woodwork and bird-watching, though he knew of one man who enjoyed getting naked and playing the fiddle to seals. Alcohol, however, was a no-no as constant alertness was required; only at Christmas and Hogmanay was a dram acceptable. "Taking drink was only adding to your misery," Oliver recalls. "I mean, if you go oot with three or four crates and drink them that first night then what the hell are you going to do the rest of the time?"

Kinnaird Head was automated in 1991. After four decades of lighthouse life, retirement hit Oliver hard – "I was completely lost" – but since the museum opened in 1995 he has felt happily at home once more. He is in no doubt what he'd do if it was decided to man the lights once more: "I'd be first in."

What, even out there on Cape Wrath, staring into nothingness? "Oh, aye," he says, eyes beaming. "No problem at all."