Vegvísir compass with runic ring

The fog came in on Tuesday and stayed three days, and I have had nothing to do but listen to the foghorn and count the guests' boots by the back door. Mrs Pryce in number four has taken to reading the tide tables aloud at breakfast, which the commercial gentleman in number two finds tiresome. I told him the tables are the only honest thing in the house.

You will want to know about the Norwegian. He came off the ferry on Monday with one case and a roll of paper under his arm, and he paid for a week in advance in coins that were not quite ours. He sat at the window with a pencil and drew the same ring of little crooked letters over and over, then a cross inside it with arms that bent like a hand. I asked what it was for. He said it was for not getting lost, and then he laughed as if I had made a joke.

On Thursday he left the paper on the hall table with a drawing pinned to it, a compass in white ink on black card, the ring of runes around its edge. Underneath he had written in careful English: keep this where the wind comes in. I have pinned it above the back door, where the draught is worst. I do not know if it works. I do know the fog lifted that same afternoon, and the trawler Ellis took out at dawn came back by noon with the whole crew shouting.

Write when you can. Tell me if the Hebrides are as grey as they say, and whether you are still keeping that compass you took from Father's desk. I think you should have it back.

Love, Margaret