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Well, the cruise ships have started arriving. As it’s April, we’re only looking at one or two a week. But I’m glad they’ve started back up before I leave; I really do love tourist-watching. All my Orcadian friends think I am nuts, and will actively avoid coming into town on the days a ship is in port, but I make a point of wandering along the high street, watching all the different faces, and hearing all the different languages, and listening to some pretty daft comments (“Did they say if the locals speak English here?” I desperately wanted to start babbling at her in French, or pointing out that all the shop names and road signage was only in English, but that would have been mean), and answering direction-related questions. The last point is my fave – they see someone walking with a dog and some groceries and rightly assume I’m a local, then it’s the look on their face when I answer in a far from Orcadian accent. (I’m easily entertained.)

Speaking of easily entertaining myself: where I live this year is on the route that many of the tour buses take out of town to go to the Italian Chapel, or the Churchill Barriers, or the distilleries. When I see one of those coaches coming (and assuming there are no locals nearby to see me), I have taken to waving madly at the bus and its passengers. I don’t mean a hand up in the air with an accompanying slight smile. I mean a full-on, Prince-Louis-on-the-balcony, frantic, arm-reaching wave with a ginormous open-mouthed grin as the coach passes by.

What can I say, I’m just a wild and crazy guy.

I’m never sure if the differences I experience here vs home are: rural small town vs major urban centre, or Scotland vs Canada, but below is a recent conversation I had with the company that is moving my furniture to Lanarkshire.

Me: So I think I will need to buy a half dozen large packing boxes and a half dozen medium boxes. Unless you rent them? (she said hopefully)

Shawn: Oh, we can lend you what you need – we can just re-use them with the next customer. Plus of course, you’ll need tape and wrapping paper; we’ll throw that in too.

Me: Oh, wow, great. So when should I stop by to pick them up?

Shawn: No, no. We can drop them off at your cottage anytime next week.

Me: Great, thank you. Now, I’m assuming your movers will need me to unpack those boxes quickly once we arrive, so they can take them back when they leave.

Shawn: No, don’t worry about that. I’ll just have the guys swing by your new place the next time we’re down near Glasgow on a run, and have them pick them up then.

Me: Really? That’s terrific, thanks. Oh, before I go, I’m guessing you need a down payment on the quote you gave me?

Shawn: Not at all. You can pay when we send the final invoice after the move.

Me: Well thank you so much – see you in 10 days. (and she stumbles out to the car, sure she has entered another world in the multi-verse.)

I’ve been meaning to do this for two years now, but much like the CN Tower or Niagara Falls, once you live in a place, you never think to sign up for an actual tour through a local attraction. I’ve wandered through the cathedral many times, and often attend Sunday services there, but everyone keeps going on about the Upper Level Tours, and yesterday I finally booked a tour.

We were told to arrive a couple of minutes early, so they could explain what we were about to do. It was quite the explanation. Because we were climbing up 900-year old stone staircases, and squeezing through incredibly narrow passageways, and going out on tiny balconies, there were a lot of questions about heart conditions, and respiratory issues, and vertigo, and bad knees, and so on. They even passed around photographs of someone posing in the hallways, or stepping on the stairs, to make sure we clearly understood what we were getting into. When we signed our lives away and paid our £10, up we went.

It was spectacular. We saw the bells that ring on the hour, and play just before Sunday service – they were new bells, cast in 1528. The old bell was still tucked away in a corner. The ‘old’ bell. Riiiight. We saw the stained glass windows that had nowhere to go – someone miscalculated, and accidentally made too many 5′ tall windows of saints, as one does. (Somedays I miscalculate a recipe and buy too many carrots. Much the same thing.) These windows are just propped against a wall in the rafters – a clever person put lightbulbs behind them, so at least those people on the tours get to see them at their best. We saw the chair the bellringer sits in on Sunday mornings as he plays the three bells at start of service. I was a tad freaked out about that – I once read a book about a man who was killed by sitting in a bell tower as the peal rang out – but this bellringer had a nice wee set-up, with a music stand, a metronome, and a chair bolted to the floor. Hunh.

And from out on the balcony I saw the islands of Orkney to the north, my house to the east, and a glimpse of Scotland to the south (It was slightly overcast, so I might just have imagined that last bit).

What mankind has accomplished over the years, in the name of the glory of God. Amazing.

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

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