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It seems Scout’s two last days in Braidwood after I fled the country were delightful: cuddles, country walks, too many treats. Then the transport began, and while I still am glad I will NEVER have to deal with that UK animal transport company again, I will say they did a good job of keeping me up to date on Scout’s progress. She made it to Toronto safe & sound, and a kind friend offered to take me in her truck to pick up Scout & her massive crate. She is re-united with her brother and her cousin, and all is good.

I’m loving being back, driving with confidence (altho I REALLY have to stop speeding on country roads – it’s not intentional, it’s just that the last 27 months of UK speed limits seem to have settled in my right foot), happy to be on roads and routes I know, even in spite of the construction and snow flurries.

Still no suitcase. Aer Lingus is diligent in keeping me informed – a phone call every morning from a different young man confirming that the hunt continues, then asking me to confirm the same contact info over, and over. I live in hope.

I will be here in Georgetown for another week, helping sort out my sister’s new house, and re-connecting with friends.

I was a little (only a little) trepidatious about driving back here in Canada. Now, that’s partly because the kindest friend in the world has lent me her car for my first couple of months here, and I would hate to repay that kindness with a bent bumper. And because, on my second day back I was going to have to drive back into Mississauga in rush hour traffic at twilight in my sister’s big-ole truck to pick up Scout & her crate — a bit of baptism by fire. But another kind friend (with an even bigger big-ole truck) offered to drive for that errand. So, I was off the hook for that, at least.

Well, three days in and I don’t think I need have worried at all. It’s like riding a bike. All the muscle memory is still there — lane changes, advanced greens, even parallel parking on Main St was a doddle. Only two slight hitches: (1) I am used to UK speed limits, and when I saw the nice, broad Sixth Line heading straight through the farmland, I must admit I was doing 100km (60 mph and the National Speed Limit in Britain) before I saw the 60km (35 mph) signs. Oops. And (2) the gear shift on Lori’s car seems to be on the wrong side. Factory error, perhaps?

As with my move from Canada, I started my packing this time with the best of intentions: there was the carry-on with extra socks, undies, and my laptop, phone, chargers, etc – that was for the night before flying and the night after. Then, for my first 10 days staying at my sister’s in Georgetown, I would fill the smallest wheelie-case. For the next few weeks in London before moving into my house, would be the large green hard-sided case, with parka, winter boots, etc. Then in the massive case I refer to as ‘the Dead-Body Bag’ — (honestly, I could fit a small to medium-sized corpse in that one), was everything else: summer clothes, souvenirs, more shoes, my spring coats, and so on. That was the plan.

But exactly as it worked out in Canada two years earlier, all organizational bets were off once I got right into the packing. By the last day I was shoving pairs of socks in corners and mittens in side pockets; knickers were mingling with hairbrushes, and souvenirs were cavorting with dog dishes. But in the end we got there.

Unfortunately, not all of it got here. Two of my three checked suitcases arrived, but the biggest, the 31kg dead-body bag is nowhere to be found. It has my North American power cables for my PC with accompanying international adapters, my wool scarves and mitts, and my very favourite, relatively new, fancy-schmancy trench coat. Aer Lingus assures me they are on the hunt for it, but why oh why didn’t I buy the airtags when I researched them this past summer? Idiot.

Fingers crossed that Hermes (Greek god of travellers) and St Anthony of Padua (patron saint of lost items) are smiling down on my poor, forlorn suitcase and will guide the baggage hunters straight to it. So we wait.

I am sitting in bed at my sister’s new home in Georgetown at two o’clock in the morning, wide awake. (I say ‘almost’ home because I won’t actually move back into my house until January.) Yesterday was excellent & eventful.

The flight to Dublin was fine — the lady beside me hated take-offs and landings so I distracted her with utter babble & chit-chat (and as we were landing, with a truly wicked and rude story from one of my earlier river cruises) — distracting her panic enough that her husband stepped over and thanked me as we were disembarking.

The flight to Toronto was going very well — I had received a box of chocolates as a going away present (I don’t really like chocolate), so I took them on board the plane as a gift for the cabin crew, so that made for a nice start. Was served a lovely meal with nice wines, then I lowered the ‘bed’, put on an eye mask and slept for over two hours. As I said, all was going well. As I sat up from my nap and started to raise up the bed, I saw my glasses slide off the peedie wee tray, and slide down the side of the seat, into the inner mechanics of the bed/seat, in spite of my scrambling and muttering, ‘no, no, no, no’. After 15 minutes of the cabin crew digging around and telling me they didn’t think it was possible for anything to slide down that crack and I must be mistaken and the seat couldn’t be taken apart, I resigned myself to having to fork out for new glasses once I got home (I don’t need them for distance, just for reading and computer work, so this would be a costly inconvenience, not a life-altering crisis). But once we landed, I went at that chair with a vengance, as all of business class stood and looked on. And with the help of a wonderful flight attendant (whom I hugged ferociously even tho I hate hugs) we got them. Thank goodness.

But the fun wasn’t over yet. However, it is now 3:24 in the morning, and I should really try going back to sleep.

People are asking me if I’m excited to be moving home? or sad to leave Scotland? Yes. In both cases, the answer is Yes.

But more to the point: what am I looking forward to in Canada? And what will I miss about Scotland? So I thought I would capture the things I can’t wait to get back to, or happy to see the last of. These are not about missing my cousins and my Scottish friends, or looking forward to my sisters, their families, and my Canadian friends. Those are all complete ‘givens’. These are quirks of the UK, or perks of Canada. (*They’re also not a kick at Scotland either; I know Canada is awash in faults & flaws.)

Things I will miss about Scotland: the countryside; Scotch pies (any meat pie in fact); the variety of boutique gins; the speed at which the kettle boils; free mueums & galleries; the greater bird-lover culture; being able to take my dog pretty much anywhere; pub culture & atmosphere; the variety of potato crisps; all the places to walk and hike all across the country; the history absolutely everwhere. Oh, and a good cup of tea, no matter where you go.

I will not miss: narrow country roads at night; front & back doors where you need a key to get out of your own house; the amount of plastic they use in the produce section; cars that park up on the sidewalk (pavement); odd, high-maintenance clothes dryers; not being able to dry my hair in the bathroom;

Things I am not looking forward to in Canada: extreme weather (I would be happy if temperatures stayed above -15° in the winter, and below 25° in the summer); the quantity and sheer volume of American news we live with; being so far away from Europe; the price of internet /mobile service/ broadband.

Things I look forward to in Canada: greater tolerance of ethnicity; the range of produce choices; the greater diversity of population; more salad dressing choices; Mexican food; buying local wine; window screens; snow; decent-sized refrigerators; my top-load washer & my dryer (where I control times, cycles, etc); going to the movies; the medical / dental world (I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with the whole UK NHS system, but here I feel I know how to navigate things better). Oh, and hot water in my taps.

5:00 a.m. Cab due in 20 minutes. Dressed, bed changed, windows & doors checked, appliances off. This is it. Just to be contrary, Lanarkshire has decided to be absolutely beautiful weather-wise this week (well, the locals keep complaining about how cold it is – one degree above zero – wusses) – it has been sunny, cold, crisp, no wind. I had thought leaving in November would be easier, meteorologically speaking.

I’m sad to leave – but I am looking forward to getting home. My sisters have texted me a bon voyage.

Time for one last check before dragging the cases as close to the front hall as possible. I have a baggage allowance of 69kg in three bags – I’ve come in over by 2 kilos (here’s hoping).

Bye, Scotland!

Strangest thing — for the first time in 26 months, an advert for Air Canada just popped into my social media feed, urging me to ‘Visit & See Canada’. This is 14 hours before I leave. I’m not even flying Air Canada.

Yeah, right. The computers aren’t secretly our overlords. Sure.

After a lot of to-ing & fro-ing, the animal transport company and I have come to a compromise: I am still flying out Monday, Scout is still flying out Wednesday, but now my next door neighbour is taking Scout for a couple of days, and THEY (Pets on The Move) will pick her up and THEY will take her to the vet for this last check. So that crisis has been averted.

I’ve had the car in for an oil change and either engine oil in the UK is more expensive than gold, or I was seriously taken advantage of by the mechanic. Ah well. I had intended to take the car to car wash & vacuum, but my cousins, who are buying the car for their horse-mad daughter’s use, assure me that it will be full of straw, hay, mud, and worse within no time. So that’s another major task ticked off our list.

Now I’m sitting at my desk cancelling my cellphone plan, my car & renter’s insurance, my fitness centre membership from Orkney (maybe I should have cancelled that one some time ago – oops), and changing my address with my bank.

This afternoon: clean and assemble the dog’s kennel, and continue packing. (This evening? Wine.)

The Great British Bake Off airs on Tuesday evenings. Because of everything that’s gone on over the last two days, I missed it last night and just sat down to watch this week’s episode. A good week – my sister & I once tried making puff pastry (why? I don’t know) and my hat is off to those bakers for producing what they did in this week’s show-stopper. As the episode ended, it suddenly occurred to me – I had just watched the semi-final. The final will be aired 36 hours after I leave the UK. And this season won’t be shown in Canada until spring 2024 at the earliest.

Well, damn.

I was so organised. I had lists. I had spreadsheets. I had a GANTT chart. (Well, maybe not that last one.) What went wrong?

Back and forth with the Pet Movers – after 36 hair-raising hours of emails, phone calls, and general scrambling (and possibly begging), I may have a partial solution. My absolutely WONDERFUL nextdoor neighbour has agreed to take Scout from Sunday evening until she is to be picked up on Tuesday. Scout should be airborne by 7am Wednesday, and in Brampton by 1pm EST.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . . the Change Engine Oil light just came on in the Corsa. Of course it did. Getting in to see a mechanic in less than 2 weeks can be a bit of a nightmare in Scotland, but my cousins take the car (they’re buying it – they haven’t hijacked it) back with them to England Saturday morning. So I had to get it done this week. Found a mechanic who agreed to squeeze us in tomorrow – yay, crisis averted.

Meanwhile, back in the baggage zone (aka the guest bedroom) . . . . even tho I have fewer clothes than when I arrived, I am really not sure I can fit everything in my suitcases. I have a 3-checked bag, 70 kilo limit, and yes, even with those hefty limits, I am still struggling to get it all in. People have been so kind – I bought very few souvenirs myself, but when your lovely young niece gives you a gorgeous coffee table book of Japanese cooking, or her sister has spoiled the dog with at least a dozen wonderful stuffed toys, it’s hard to say no to finding a spot for them in the bag.

And throughout all of this, someone suffers in silence . . . . .