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Coffee cake here is different from coffee cake in Canada. Back home, coffee cake is a cake served alongside a cup of coffee. In the UK, coffee cake is coffee-flavoured cake. I suppose the British term makes more sense, but the streusel-y, cinnamon-y Canadian cake tastes waaaay better.

Beets (or beetroot, as they’re known here) are often sold pre-peeled and pre-cooked, in packages in the produce section. You will see regular, loose, raw beets in a bin on the shelf, but beside them will be several different packages of already prepared beets. They seem to do that with quite a few vegetables here – it seems like there are more already-packaged ‘fresh’ (vs frozen) servings of mashed potatoes, julienned and cooked sweet potatoes, and Maris Piper Roast Potatoes with Goose Fat (mmm, I really want to try that last one some day, but I’m afraid I’ll become addicted).

The frozen Yorkshire pudding section here is as big as the frozen chips and fries section (and that’s saying something).

Cream, yoghurt, soured cream, and crème fraiche all come in non-re-sealable containers, meaning that when you put the partially used container back in the fridge, you have to balance the useless flimsy paper ‘lid’ on top of the rim. So aggravating.

I seem to have been committing some kind of social faux pas for the last 18 months.

Back home, if a worker came to the house to repair something, and was there for more than 90 minutes, and was in the house, and I was making one for myself, I would offer him (usually a him – I don’t remember any hers) a cup of tea. They always said no, at which point I would offer a glass of water. When the guys came to lay a stone pathway in the summer, I would take them out slices of watermelon and offer soft drinks. Although, not every day that they were there, now that I think of it. But for the most part, I would just let people get on with their job. The appliance installers were in and out in under a half hour, the furnace guy was there a good two hours, but he had a thermos with him, and in the years I had yardwork done monthly, they were in the yard and gone within 30 minutes, so I never offered. Never crossed my mind, and no one seemed put out.

Well. Just had the guy in to finish the insulation in the roof (which was supposed to be done in October). He was here for 90 minutes, and left halfway through to fetch another load of insulation rolls (truck bed was too small for the whole load). Seemed like a nice guy, did his work, said, “That’s you then.” (Scottish for “There you go sir/madam; all done.”), and headed out the door. But just now, while I was talking to one of my new Scottish friends, she said the same thing that another friend had mentioned a few months ago, “And you gave him a cup of tea.” A statement, not a question. They were both very surprised when I said no, I hadn’t. I mean, really surprised.

It had never occurred to me. One of the ladies said it’s how she makes sure they do a good job. Now, I always introduce myself when they arrive, and show them where things are, like where the ladder is if needed, or the electrical panel, and of course, the bathroom. And then I always say the same thing: “And what do you need from me?” I assumed that and a pleasant smile was all that was needed in order for them to do a good job. (And from what I can tell, every job that’s been done in the houses I’ve lived in here has been done well.)

But now I feel bad – what do you suppose they’ve been saying behind my back? “Stuck up besom.” “Miserable git.” Oh dear.

There’s a reason my posts have been sparse lately – I’ve been having real problems with my website. I haven’t had what all the experts refer to as ‘the white screen of death’ (thank God, that sounds dreadful), but conducting updates has been difficult, and I’ve been receiving a lot more pornographic spam messages than usual (seriously, you’d have to be quite the gymnast to accomplish some of the things that have been suggested in these emails).

In the past, I’ve found Google & YouTube the best ways to tackle something I didn’t know. This was a tactic I employed all the time at work – a co-worker would phone and ask me how to do something in Excel or PowerPoint, and if I didn’t know, I’d just Google it, then tell them the steps. One colleague in Oshawa used to tell everyone we worked with “Elaine is such a whiz at Excel; she’s amazing.” Fooled ya. Did the same during lockdown: my friends at CFUW were most impressed with my knowledge, but really it was just a regurgitation of Wikihow, or Zoom Support, or something (don’t tell them).

But when I finally found instructions on how to Fix Plugin Updates in WordPress on YouTube – OMG, the solution was worse than the problem. (Kinda like chemo – you want to get rid of the cancer, but would prefer not to throw up every day. Wow – weird sidebar there.)

I watched an excellent video, and based on the tutor’s instructions, did a lengthy back-up of my site, only to have him say five minutes later in the tutorial, “But before you do a back-up, you may want to try this easy fix.” Grrrrr. Turns out, the easy fix, when I did try it, didn’t help, so in the end the back-up was still necessary. Then he suggested that in all likelihood I would have to go in behind the site to the code and debug it. The last time I debugged computer code was 1982. You know, back when Reagan was president. And back then we didn’t use any of the following words: Unix/Linus/OSX, rendered Html, Javascript, or PHP. I was more than a tad intimidated, so clearly the only thing to do was procrastinate. Obvs. Hence the lack of posts in March.

Finally I sat back down at the computer, did some more digging, and found another suggestion for repairing plugin updates. Remove each plugin, re-install it, and try an update. That will show which plugin could be the problem. (Although what to do after you’ve found the problem, who knows?) So away I went.

This was a hugely lengthy process, as each time I un-installed and re-installed a plugin, my site would crash for 20 minutes, then I could go back in and try the next one. As I have nine or ten plugins, this took forever. But perseverance paid off; I found the culprit; determined that it was no longer a necessary plugin to my site; and deleted it.

Problem solved, website working, glow of self-satisfaction abounds.

I had expected to make friends when I came here, but I’d been thinking more ‘acquaintances’, people that I’d easily wave good bye to when I left. But it doesn’t seem to have turned out that way.

Thanks to my very good-hearted friend, Barbara, I have been absorbed into a walking group of friends who are good enough to include me in so much of their worlds. They’re made up of mostly come-from-aways, although most of them have lived in Orkney all their adult lives. As well as the weekly walks, I’ve been welcomed into many of their homes for coffee or a meal, hosted them here at the Cottage and introduced them to Nanaimo Bars, have been invited to movies and plays, and just generally made to feel a part of their community.

Then there are the ‘real’ Orcadians. In my first house in Papdale, the long-timers (and by long-timers I mean multiple generations) were so friendly. And more recently I’ve met Shirley: born & raised here; lived and raised a family in Ajax/Oshawa her entire working life, and is now back here in Orkney, semi-retired. She has started introducing me to her Orcadian friends-since-birth, and they too have made me feel so at home.

What really was the icing on the cake was yesterday: yesterday my walking group did a 3 km loop around the harbour and went for coffee and cake after. Halfway into our conversation I suddenly remembered that it was my 29th anniversary cancer-free, and mentioned it to the group. Later that afternoon one of the ladies, Mary, said that she and her hubby wanted to take me out to dinner to celebrate. So yesterday evening Scout & I met up with Bill & Mary at The Storehouse, one of Orkney’s nicer restaurants (yes, even posh restaurants welcome dogs here – gotta love it) for a lovely meal and a bottle of wine.

Seriously, how lucky am I?

My world is a little less grey these days (literally, I mean – I’ve not been in a mid-winter funk or anything). The roadsides are absolutely shining with daffodils – every garden, every park, every ditch, and every pathway are banked with them, yellow as far as the eye can see..

And this morning was sunny, so first thing we headed down to one of my favourite beaches, Inganess, where we saw swimmers crisscrossing the little bay. They eventually came out of the ocean, one in a black wetsuit, and one in just a bathing suit. Her skin was red. I don’t mean pink, or blush, or anything like that – I mean her skin, from her forehead to her crocs, was absolutely, vividly, tomato-red. I wanted to take a picture of her, but that seemed a tad intrusive. After they got out of the sea, they stood chatting (no towels) for about 5 minutes before heading off. It was five degrees out. I was wearing jeans, turtleneck, heavy jacket, and a scarf.

In early December my cousin had a lot on her plate: she & I had settled on my moving into her Dad’s place sometime in 2023; she already had some ideas on what the house needed tackled first (the bathroom? the kitchen? the front hall/front room?); she was organizing Uncle Ian’s funeral for later in the month; plus job, family, etc. . Oh, and the run up to Christmas.

The funeral was to be on a Monday with the reception at Ian’s house; I would stay at his next door neighbour’s house; and Viv’s family, arriving via car and plane, would stay in Ian’s or at her mother-in-law’s. Late Friday afternoon Viv got a call from her daughter: they had just arrived at Ian’s, pipes had burst, and the kitchen ceiling had caved in. The family moved into overdrive and within a half hour had turned off the water, found a plumber, found a restaurant that could host the reception, and found a B&B that could take eight adults and two dogs. Heroes.

After the funeral the family put on their crappiest clothes, gathered up bin bags, mops, and brooms, and arrived to find that the living room ceiling had now caved and the front hall ceiling was bowing. The spent two days cleaning up, and then the planning began.

The renovation order had been decided for them – instead of a new bathroom, the first order of business was combining the kitchen & dining room into a large eat-in kitchen, and combining the front room and front hall into one large sitting room. I really did NOT see how this was going to happen before I arrived in May, but my cousin can make things happen. She found an amazing contractor who has done great work, and on the first of May, I will be walking into a lovely new place!

There’s still lots to do, so I won’t be idle – more on that to come.

I love lentils and have always made soup with them, mostly red lentils. I always give them a bit of a Mediterranean twist, with cumin and cayenne. A few months ago, when I was scrolling recipes (yes, that is a hobby; don’t be judgy), I saw the words ‘Scottish Lentil Soup’ with commentary that made it sound like it was some kind of national classic. So I made it.

It’s very simple: diced onion, lots of diced carrots, red lentils, and stock. That’s it. No cumin, no thyme, nothing. (Obviously, Scottish cooks can add what they want – I’m just saying the recipe I saw was that simple.) So I made it – easy, peasey – and then the strangest thing: as I took a spoonful, the most evocative and elusive memories took me back to my childhood.

My Mum made good homemade soups, but neither my sisters nor I remember red lentil soup especially. I’m a few years older than my sisters, and I have to think my early childhood, even though it was in Ontario, was probably much more ‘Scottish’ than theirs. I was 7 before I ever had peanut butter (at a neighbour’s), and even older when I discovered the wonder of putting butter on the toast when it was warm (also at a neighbour’s – my Mum cooled her toast before buttering it all her life, which is what the Brits do). By the time my sisters came along, it was the late 60’s, and we’d moved around a bit, and canned and processed foods were becoming much more prevalent, and by the 70’s, I would say were living a pretty much Canadian lifestyle. (Except for Santa Claus – all our friends left out milk and cookies, but we left out beer & mince tarts – that’s what Dad told us Santa liked and who were we to argue?)

But back to the soup, which I now make a lot. Even though I have zero recollection of Mum ever making Scottish Lentil Soup, every time – and I do mean every time – I take that first spoonful, I get this hazy memory from my childhood. Lovely

.

When I first moved into this cottage last fall (autumn), I mentioned in passing that it was only a seasonal hire, and that I would be moving again in the spring. Well, that chicken has finally come home to roost – I will be moving at the end of April. Again. Heavy sigh.

Now this time ’round house hunting will not be quite so fraught with potential homelessness, because I have a new home all lined up – I need to go back to last fall to explain. At the same time as I was moving into this cottage and being advised by the owner that it was just a temporary let, my uncle in Lanarkshire was starting to fail, and his daughter was having to consider what she would do regarding his house after he was gone. She and her equally Scottish husband and their English children all live in Kent, south of London – over six hours away. But this was the house Ian and Margaret built when Viv was just a little girl, and she loves this house, as well as the surrounding village.

When I say she loves it, I mean she loves the ‘bones’ of the house – it’s a bonny wee 3-bedroom bungalow with a full (unfinished) loft, with beautifully groomed front and back gardens. But the decor is, well, dated. And the lay-out is very 1970’s. And like many elderly couples Uncle Ian and Aunt Margaret didn’t really see any need to change anything in the last few years of their lives, so it’s full of knickknacks, and slightly frayed cushions, and a velvet settee – you get the idea. So what to do regarding a house so far away, but that she wants to hang onto? This is when the perfect storm started to form. But a perfect storm in a good way.

The situation: Viv wants to keep the house, but isn’t ready to move back full time to Scotland – well, Elaine needs somewhere to live come the spring. It needs some renos done to bring it into this century, but Viv can’t really be supervising from afar – hmm, Elaine on the spot, with texting, Zoom, and camera to give updates and get guidance. The loft, garage, cupboards, and closets are full, but Viv hates cleaning and purging – oooh, Elaine loves that sort of thing. So, that evening back in December, as she and I polished off an unidentified amount of wine, we made the decision: I would move into her Dad’s house for the last of my Scottish stay, get some serious decluttering underway, and help monitor and manage whatever renos she decided to go with first.

Sounds perfect right? Well, as Rabbie Burns says, “the best laid plans, gain aft a’gley.” Wait for the next segment in Kirkwall to Carluke, The Voyage.

Are mustard-coloured coats a thing back home? They’re certainly big here, and I believe it’s a recent trend. That is to say, I’ve only noticed this in the last two weeks. Several days ago I was waiting for a friend outside a shop; she’s always been easy to spot because she has snow white hair, and wears a mustard-yellow, all-weather coat. I could see her just in the front of the store by the cashier and I pointed her out to the others in our walking group, before I realised that was a different tall, white-haired, yellow-coated Orcadian lady. Within two minutes, two more ladies walked by in similar jackets. I started watching, and by the end of the walk I had spotted at least another half dozen women (all different; it wasn’t the same lady looping the block) in varying shades of gold, mustard, amber, and school bus yellow.

Scout & I walked into town this morning and at one point stopped to chat with one of the other Community Fridge volunteers (who was in her yellow parka), and within my field of vision I could see seven – yes, seven – women all in mustard yellow coats. I tried to think of a way to get a photograph of them all to post here, but herding them together in the middle of the road didn’t seem feasible. Don’t get me wrong, I like yellow. It just seems like such a random thing to suddenly have sprung up.

Maybe it’s a northern thing – dark days means brighter clothes?

Headed over to Tesco this morning (note: our second walk of the day) and saw everyone walking out of the store with bouquets of flowers. Hunh.

Then I remembered, Mother’s Day in the UK is in March.

When my parents had the pub in Cheddar England in the 80’s, each March local customers would ask Mum if her daughters in Canada had sent her anything, or had called. She would explain that we had no idea it was Mothering Day in the UK, and that we celebrated Mother’s Day in May. Then, every May, she would put our cards out on the shelves behind the bar on display, to show that no, her daughters weren’t callous, inconsiderate wenches; and yes, they did actually love her.