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So, no more of this cocooning in my cottage all winter – Thursday I decided it was time to get back out exploring Orkney and enjoying the beautiful countryside. Yesterday was my first day of ‘doing’ – so, how did I do?

The plan for Friday was: morning walk to the polytunnels at the hospital (it’s a wonderful community gardening project for hospital staff, patients, and local neighbours), then instead of our usual Friday afternoon hike, my walking group was meeting at the cathedral museum café for coffee (on really bad weather days, we don’t usually venture out, and it was teeming down yesterday). I was looking forward to the museum, as I haven’t been yet. Oh, and even though we weren’t walking as a group, I intended to walk there and back, rain notwithstanding.

Well, that was the plan. The reality? I woke up with a cold. I know, I know, no biggie, right? Except I couldn’t find my box of COVID self-tests, so I couldn’t go out. I know it was just a cold, but still, my group is elderly, and it would be irresponsible to meet up with them without knowing for sure.

The only problem is, how do you get a self-test, if you can’t go out to a shop for a self-test? Fortunately, this being a small town meant that the Click & Collect had pick-up slots available first thing the next morning . So, I masked from brow to chin, stayed in my car with the trunk (boot) popped open, and had them drop my groceries in, waving from a distance. Came home and just did the test.

I have COVID.

Last month my cousin and I visited a vineyard in Kent, Squerryes. It is a huge estate and has been in the Warde family since the early eighteenth century. We met Henry Warde and did a tasting of their sparkling wines. He was very UC English (upper-class). They’ve only been producing wine for less than a decade, but all three that we tasted were very good.

There are several wineries across the south of England – last summer I visited one as far north as Yorkshire. It is a new industry, a result, no doubt, of global warming. I chose not to mention that to Henry Warde. You know, no digging him in the ribs with my elbow and saying, “So, Hank, that whole dying planet thing seems to be working well for you, doesn’t it?” Maybe not on.

It was a very impressive set-up: the wine shop, a lovely restaurant overlooking their woodlands, a brewery, and a delicatessen. We got talking to the Master of Wines, and my cousin introduced me, as she always does, “This is my Canadian cousin, Elaine. She lives in Orkney.” Which gets the same conversation going, why Orkney? where in Canada? But the conversation became slightly less typical when I said just northeast of our Niagara wine region (usually I say I’m from just outside Toronto, then they tell me they know someone in Vancouver. Same routine each time.). This time the response was, “ooh, the home of ice wines!” And then she proceeded to show me the Peller Estate Ice Wine they carry in their shop! That’s the first Canadian wine I’ve seen this side of the Atlantic.

I bought seven English wines that day: three were gifts, one was for my New Years Eve/Day dinners, one is for my wine tasting group’s meeting in February, and the other two are sitting in the utility room, gently calling to me. I resist. For now.

I’ve realised something this week: I am staying home waaaaay too much. This time last year, I was walking Scout at least twice a day, I was stopping in at a little dog-friendly pub once or twice a week; I was scoping out all the different restaurants and cafes on the Mainland; I was exploring a different beach, or trail, or park, or cliff on at least a weekly basis.

This year? Well, I did blow out my hip, so I have had a dog walker for Scout each morning since mid-October. And November was a bit of settling in here at the cottage. But those are my only excuses. I realised: I haven’t been to a pub or restaurant in weeks (the trip down south at Christmas doesn’t count); the walking excursion on New Year’s Day was the exception, not the rule. I haven’t been to yoga in weeks (maybe months?). I stay in and watch YouTube or Netflix, or I read, or I cook. But that’s about it (maybe a touch of exaggeration for effect, but you get the drift).

That’s it. Starting tomorrow, no excuses. My hip is fine, so Rebecca’s not coming for Scout anymore. There are tons of places I either haven’t seen yet, or have wanted to re-visit: Birsay, the Broch of Gurness, the islands of Rousay and Hoy, Yesnaby, St Margaret’s Hope, the list goes on. And I had been enjoying the church services at St Magnus, why did I stop that?

So this weekend: Yesnaby (weather permitting – it’s a tad wild out there), church, and The Willows park.

I don’t usually do the whole “looking back at last year” kind of thing, but needless to say, this year has been different.

The big pluses of 2022 were: showing off Scotland to one friend; re-connecting with another friend in Yorkshire; getting to know my cousin and her family; the network of friends I’ve developed here in Kirkwall; and, oddly, the flowers of Orkney (I no longer live near The Willows park, but knowing the changing flowers that will be coming each month – I really need to start walking by there at least a couple of times a week from now on).

I’m not normally one for regrets, but I will say the big minuses of 2022 were: still not making it to the northwest highlands (I’ve been trying since 2018); and losing Uncle Ian.

I already know there are big changes ahead in 2023: here’s to an exciting and fun year!

I love outdoor art. It’s why I like Chicago so much, and it was the first of many things I fell in love with in Iceland. I think I’ve mentioned this one little park, just down the road from my new house. The main feature of this park, tucked away behind some wee hills and twisted pathways, is a massive cast metal dragon’s skull. It rests on a mound of soil, the eye sockets have peedie mouse nests in them, and there are spiders climbing up the side of the skull. This is all in metal, and is the work of a local car dealership owner. Now that we live so much closer to this park we go there often.

As well as the one major sculpture, if you keep an eagle eye out, you can also come across a few of the mice, just randomly perched about the park. This mummy & baby mouse, about 2″ high, sit on a huge rock, at about waist height, by one of the pathways. And this month, someone has dressed them up for Christmas. I so look forward to going through Arcadia; I find something new each time.

So today was The Ba’ – normally on Christmas Day & New Year’s Day, but not if they fall on a Sunday. I thought that was a tad puritanical and old-fashioned (even pubs in the highlands open on a Sunday now), but then I realised it starts right outside St Magnus Cathedral, so, fair enough.

I got to the front of the Cathedral just before the Boys’ Ba’ was to start. I really couldn’t see anything, and apart from a bit of raised voices at 10:30 (the posted start time), there was no movement from the crowd for a good twenty minutes – I assumed it hadn’t started. But no, it seems the scrum of boys or men can just stay in one place until finally one group or the other breaks away. After another ten minutes of standing about staring at the tops of peoples’ heads, I gave up and a friend and I went for a walk.

Five hours later we headed out to Tesco for some dog food, and I inadvertently saw the end of the Boys’ Ba’ – The Uppies had won (I forget who they are). Then we turned the corner, just in time to see the Mens’ Ba’ end in the harbour – the Doonies won that.

So, I’ve seen a Ba’.

Well, I spent a very quiet Hogmanay (New Years). I did have a lovely New Year’s Eve dinner, accompanied by one of the bottles of English Sparkling Wine that I bought in Kent last week. Last year I sat up late to see if any of my neighbours would go ‘first footing’, a Scottish New Year’s tradition of going out (walking) at midnight, and stopping by neighbours’ houses for a good-luck-to-the-new-year dram. A few people went by, but as we were dealing with Omicron last year, it wasn’t too busy. I’m in a different neighbourhood now and closer to a main street, and all I could hear after midnight was a few locals who were clearly on their way home from a long haul at the local pub.

Then today, the weather was just beautiful. We went for a long walk in the morning, but it was so nice after lunch I felt we had to go back out again. One of my plans for 2023 is to complete as many of the walking trails as I can in my little guidebook. I realised we hadn’t been out to the Noust of Netherton (really, you can’t make these names up), so into the car and across the island to Stromness we went. Weather is changeable here in Orkney, so even tho it was blindingly sunny in Kirkwall, things looked a tad more ominous at the east end of the Mainland. But the views were still spectacular – this is looking back at the lovely town of Stromness from the Point of Ness. You can see the bright skies in the background from the other side of the island. We had a great walk, and ran into a couple of people we knew.

As they say in Scotland, Lang may yer lum reek!

I am always too hot. Almost always. My idea of a hellish holiday involves a country south of (or really anywhere near) the Tropic of Cancer, with sunshine and beaches.

Orkney is a temperate climate, with the winter temps rarely below 0°. But there are still bone-chilling winds – they just cut right through you, and the moisture in the air means once the cold has entered your bones, it takes forever for you to warm up. So naturally, I dress accordingly. I layer up when going out, and the outer layer is always my waterproof, lined, hooded, jacket. And gloves, and a jaunty scarf. Then we head outside. Only to be passed by school kids in shirt sleeves and shorts.

That wouldn’t be so bad, as that occasionally happens in Milton too, where a teenage boy will be walking to Bishop Reding HS in a hoodie & gym shorts in the middle of a snowstorm. But that’s a lone teenage boy, and you know his parents weren’t home when he left the house. But these kids in Orkney are accompanied by their parents, who are equally lightly dressed. WTF? It’s 2° out, with wind gusts of up to 40 kmh. So there I am, looking like Nanook of the North, and there they are, heading off for a nice family outing.

I swear they do it on purpose.

I know this sounds highly implausible, but it happened. As I was leaving the hotel on our way home that last day, a double rainbow broke out, right over the Scottish/English border. I should be clear here – the ‘border’ is like the Quebec/Ontario border, or the Manitoba/Saskatchewan border: non-existent except for a road sign. Well, that and Hadrian’s Wall, but you can only see that at certain points along the border. But really, there was a massive double rainbow, and the inner rainbow was fully visible, all the way up from the ground, along the arc, and back right to the ground. The outer one had gaps. It was magnificent, it straddled the highway, and as I drove towards it I half expected to hear choirs of angels singing from on high.

The trip home was relatively uneventful: 233 miles of beautiful, sunny Scottish countryside. Except for Glasgow. I’ve come to realize that Glasgow is like Woodstock Ontario – you know how it can be clear and sunny in Milton, and also in London, but there will be white-outs in Woodstock? Well, regardless of the weather elsewhere in Scotland, it always rains in Glasgow, at least anytime I’m driving near it.

And then there’s Dundee. I was taking a slightly different route home this time, taking the 7-hour ferry out of Aberdeen to Kirkwall, as it involves almost three hours less driving than usual. Which meant going through Dundee (the home of marmalade, according to legend). My Dad always hated that part of the trip as there are so many traffic-circles just to get through that one city. Well, he was right. I counted: eleven round-abouts over a ten-mile stretch. I know if you’ve ever used the round-about on Tremaine Rd in Milton, or the one on Wonderland North in London, Ont, you’re probably thinking, “so what, what’s the big deal?”. Well, when you are in the midst of busy traffic, with anywhere from three to six exits coming off a single round-about, or worse, are in a double-barreled figure-8 round-about, and you’re averaging more than one of these per mile, well, you’d be a lot less smug than you are right now.

I had booked a reclining ‘pod’ for myself for the ferry, and Scout stayed in the car – thanks heavens for smooth sailing. It was 11:00pm when we arrived home to my freezing house. But we’d made it.

I had booked us in at an inn/restaurant that had been highlighted on a major restaurant review site for our last night in England. This was meant to be at the end of a day of leisurely driving (all nice easy-peasy motorway), where we’d arrive at 4pm, in time to enjoy the sunset as we went for a walk around the village. Did I mention the flat tyre? The brutal traffic? The endless rain? This was not a day that was going in my favour.

The first clue as to how my day might end came after I left a message at the hotel explaining that I’d had a flat tyre and would be late for my dinner reservation. I’ve had dealings with posh restaurants before – they do not like it when reservations are missed – I know of several in Toronto and in London (England) who will charge your credit card if you miss your time slot. So I was braced when I got a phone call back from the hotel. It was a very concerned receptionist, worried about my safety and telling me not to give another thought to the reservations; they’d have a table waiting whenever I arrived. Okaaay . . .

The drive still took longer than I had anticipated and it was late when we walked in the door. Anna jumped up from her desk, concerned for my wellbeing and happy to see us, took Scout’s leash, and conducted us to our room. She was most apologetic because the room I had been assigned was no longer available (the guests the night before had spilled a cup of coffee all over the rug), so they’d had to put us in a room with a frayed carpet. (The fraying was negligible at best – I wouldn’t have noticed it had they not mentioned it.) To make it up to me (!?!) they had arranged that my breakfast the next morning would be on the house. Okaaay . . .

She advised me that there were still plenty of diners so I wouldn’t be solo and therefore not to feel rushed, and my table was waiting with a water dish for the dog whenever we were ready. My meal was delish: beef tartare, then duck with crab apple gravy, with a lovely wine, and Scout was thoroughly fawned over. The next morning the staff again apologised for the state of the carpet, and the manager had arranged for a sausage for Scout for breakfast. Okaaay . . .

I have absolutely no idea if anyone reading this will ever be travelling through the Cumbria region of England (the Scottish/English border), but if so, stay at The Fleece at Ruleholme. Trust me.

*Oh, and yes, that is a kipper on my breakfast plate.