We’re having a heat wave. The United Kingdom is freaking out over the temperatures this week. Brits are being told to stay indoors and out of the sun where possible. It’s lingering for several days, with London looking at highs of 30°. Even Glasgow and Edinburgh are looking at mid-20s.
This week, Orkney will see a high of 15°, and cloud cover likely for fourteen straight days. I wore a fleece and a windbreaker to walk the dog just before lunchtime this morning. Gloves were considered, but rejected because, well, it’s July.
I can’t say I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for.
Robert Burns is considered Scotland’s greatest poet. Well, some would say Sir Walter Scott, but I can guarantee you every English-speaker over the age of 9 knows at least one line of a Rabbie Burns poem, and quotes it at least annually. Not sure Scott can lay that same claim. (The line is, of course, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot . . .”)
We know many more of his lines, but may not always know the source: “man’s inhumanity to man” and “my love is like a red, red rose” are a couple of examples.
His poems had some interesting titles: Address To A Haggis, which is read aloud each January 25th at Robbie Burns suppers, refers to haggis as “the Great Cheiftain o’ the Puddin race” – seriously, how can you not love a poem praising oats, pepper, and sheep innards? There was To A Mouse – an ode to a – yes, really – to a mouse. That’s where the phrase “The best laid plans of mice and men aft gang a’gley” comes from. And honest to God, he actually wrote a poem called To A Louse. Yup. A Louse. Remarkable.
Which brings me to today’s aggravation: I have lice. Well, no, wait, that sounds wrong. My house has lice. Wood lice to be specific. In the winter I might see one or two of these tiny brown trilobite-like bugs a month. As the weather warmed up, more and more were showing up. Now, I dispatch about a half dozen a day, either squished in a kleenex in the garbage bin, flushed in loo roll (toilet paper) down the toilet, or hoovered up with the vacuum. I was a tad freaked out about this: was it a reflection on my house-keeping? Was it all the fault of not having window screens? Did I have to move all my non-canned food into the fridge? But I have since asked around and done some research: they are wood lice and to be found in wet wood. Like in the foundations and walls of Scottish houses; every house has them. And it seems they don’t really like being ‘above ground’ as it were, as they dry up and die quite quickly in the open air, so my foodstuffs are fine.
So, much like high winds and strong accents, the wood louse is something I have to learn to live with here in Orkney. But I still don’t think it deserves its own poem.
On Tuesday, the ferry MV Alfred ran aground. It ran into the island of Swona. Yes, a whole island. People were loaded onto lifeboats, with some minor injuries, but the ferry was able to limp into port under its own steam. This is the ferry I normally take to Scotland. Hunh.
Then, yesterday, a torpedo was found in Scapa Flow. Yes, an actual torpedo. In a body of water less than two miles from my house.
Oh, and Scotland has tentatively picked a date for an independence referendum: October 19, 2023.
After almost three years, I’ve started back at yoga classes. I did try on-line classes during COVID, but I’m crap at that level of self-discipline – I like being in a class with others. When I got to Orkney, first there was the tail-end of Delta variant, then Omicron, so still no in-person classes. But last month I finally signed up for weekly classes at the local community centre, ‘The Picky’ (The Pickaquoy Centre). Going to classes has got me back into doing practices at home too.
In the past it was difficult to do yoga with a 62-lb doodle licking either my face or my feet during downward-dog. But Scout is more mature now and doesn’t need to actually be involved in the poses anymore. Although, clearly I couldn’t do this without some kind of coaching – this is her beside me as I wrap up with savasana pose.
Shapinsay is a small island of about 300 people, 25 minutes away from Kirkwall by ferry. It seems to be quite a desirable place to live; I’ve met many in Kirkwall who lived their entire working life on Shapinsay and only moved to Kirkwall when they got older (shopping, doctors, hospital, etc). It also has a castle and a 2-hour walking trail. It has several ferries throughout the day leaving from Kirkwall harbour.
So, I woke up yesterday to sunshine and thought, why not head over to Shapinsay for a few hours to check it out. Walk the trail, enjoy the weather, and then head home. I looked it up: I could take the 11:30 ferry there, catch the 3:15 home. All for only £4.24. I did have a few things I wanted to get done in the morning, but if I focus, I really can get a lot done in quite a short time frame. So I tidied, vacuumed, started a stew in the crockpot, loaded the dishwasher, and roasted some vegetables. Then suddenly it was 11:00 and we had to hustle.
You see, I wanted to walk to the ferry. To walk from my house somehow felt more island-y (it’s hard to explain, I guess because I’ve never really lived near water, the idea of popping over on a ferry I’ve just walked onto appeals. I dunno). But we were cutting it fine – where had all the time gone, granted I’d managed to get a lot done, but still? We walked briskly to the Ferry office in the harbour, ordered my ticket (the clerk said, “oh, you’re a local” as she keyed in my purchase and found my account; I felt so proud), then quickly hoofed it over to the Shapinsay pier. Except there was no boat. I could see other ferries, in other parts of the harbour, but the Shapinsay sign clearly pointed to this pier. Had the loading area moved? Did I have time to walk back to the office and ask the girl? I checked my watch: it was 10:20. Yes, twenty past ten. Not eleven. I was an hour early for the damned ferry. No wonder I was surprised earlier in the day, I had accomplished all of that housework and cooking by 9:55. Well, nuts. Now what? Walk the 15 minutes back home, sit around for 30 minutes, then walk 15 minutes back down? No, that seemed daft; I headed over to a coffee shop and made a bloody expensive flat white last as long as I could.
Then across the road and onboard the ferry. The young lady had told me she was emailing me my ticket and I would show it and pay onboard, so I wouldn’t need paper. But I looked – no email. Now what? The boat had already left the pier – was I going to be kicked off in Shapinsay? Was this like the GO train where they publicly shame you? I tried to explain to the ticket taker (are they called conductors on a boat? that seems wrong) who didn’t understand what I was talking about and said, “just tap your card here, luv”. And then off he walked. Okay. That was simple.
A lovely half-hour ride to Shapinsay across the Wide Firth. We walked off, and I headed along the road to where my guide book had said the path would start. I saw the castle, but there were signs everywhere warning you away from the field, as there were cows with their calves. So now what? How do I follow the trail if the field is closed off? And it was full of big cows. With horns. I took a picture of the castle, then we turned back and headed around the harbour the other way. After 10 minutes walking we’d come to the end of the houses. Again, now what? I had thought we’d stay until the 3:15 ferry, but it was 12:20, and I’d seen everything I really wanted to, if we couldn’t follow the walking trail.
I could see the ferry was still at the pier, but couldn’t access wifi – why hadn’t I downloaded the ferry timetable? We turned back and walked to the pier. There I was able to check the website – the ferry wasn’t leaving for another hour – yes, another hour-long wait for the ferry. Twice in one day. So we went and sat on a picnic table on the grass about 25 metres away. Scout was getting a little twitchy, then I realized, the minute we had stopped moving these weird, smaller than house flies but bigger than midgies, flies were all around our heads.
So we headed back to the pier, away from the grass and into the sea breeze, and she lay on the cement and I perched on a bollard, and the only thing flying around us was a pair of sand martins. And we waited.
The ferry left at 1:30; we were back in Kirkwall by 2pm, and, frustrated and ravenous (oh, had I mentioned? The guide book and the Orkney website both showed a place to eat on Shapinsay – well, okay, but I never found it), so we did the obvious: headed to the Kirkwall Hotel where I ordered a large wine for me, a bowl of water for Scout, and a veggie wrap with chips (everything comes with chips – at my parents’ pub in England in the 80’s, they served lasagne with chips, chili with chips, and quiche with chips). And that was that – home to unload the dishwasher.
So not my most successful day in Orkney. Ah well, it was a nice day for a sail.
I’ve mentioned before that because in-floor heating, while wonderful in many ways, is a very slow way to change the temperature in one’s house, I stopped using it as of May. That’s mainly because my living room and kitchen face south with huge picture windows, so the afternoons and often evenings can be quite warm. And, because it’s light until after 11, and again by 4am, I have to leave the curtains closed in my bedroom. But, if I were to put the heat on in the evening in preparation for the morning chill, I would be sleeping in a stuffy room and sweating each afternoon. So, the heat is off and I’m living with wild temperature swings throughout the day.
Therefore, in order to cool the house down and air it out, I have to open my windows in the afternoons. In the UK they don’t have window screens, or A/C, so everyone just opens their windows to the open air. My cousin leaves her French doors wide open from March on – her garden is absolutely lovely, so it is quite nice to have this additional ‘room’ to wander in and out of, and look out on to. But still, it feels weird to my North American sensibilities.
Open windows lead to a whole new set of challenges. Insects. It’s not like Australia, with monster cockroaches or poisonous snakes, but there are bugs. House flies, mosquitos, etc… It seems to be a non-issue here in the sense that no one mentions the incoming insects, or seems to care. And it’s not just bugs. Last month a bird flew into my patio door; if that door had been open, it would have flown right into the house. And I’m constantly hearing people on the radio talk about neighbourhood cats wandering into their houses and either getting comfortable on the sofa or getting into fights with the house pets who already live there.
The best work around I’ve found is to partially open the patio door and pull the floor-length curtain in front of the opening. There’s air coming in (and yes, some bugs), but no obvious invitation to the local cats and birds. But it just seems to me – get screens. Seriously.
Maps and jigsaw puzzles. One is an interest; one is an addiction. I have loved one all my life, and have come to love the other over the last few years.
When I was eight or nine, for some reason I was out with my Dad as he was running errands and at one point we pulled into a parking lot and, lo and behold, there was a huge sign saying, ‘Atlas’. OMG, an entire store devoted to maps and atlases! Imagine! Yes, well, imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a store that sold tires and automotive parts. The sorrows we carry with us from childhood.
Even with SatNav, I have to have a roadmap in the car. Driving down to South Carolina, we didn’t have my handy Rand McNally Road Map, and each time the GPS said to turn in a direction that sounded counter-intuitive, I grew more and more frustrated (which entertained my passenger to no end). Once we arrived I made our host drive me from store to gas station to supermarket all over Hilton Head until I found one. Whew, vacation salvaged.
That’s the love of my life, now on to my addiction. I can go months without doing a jigsaw puzzle. Not even think about it. But the minute one is set up on the dining room table, I can’t leave it alone. It’s like an itch, or a loose tooth; even when you know it is time to stop, you just can’t. There are times when I have woken up with a kink in my lower back from hovering over the table all evening, and I still won’t stop.
I have purposely avoided jigsaws since arriving in Orkney: (a) because my dining table isn’t all that big, and (b) because I’m afraid I’d never leave the house. Well, last month LL & I were in a lovely shop in Fort Augustus, and she pointed out these Mazzles (yes, Elaine, it is entirely LL’s fault – she held the gun to your head until you bought it). A mazzle, it seems, is a map-jigsaw puzzle. They had Loch Lomond, The Munros (that’s all the mountains in Scotland over 3,000 feet – ‘bagging the Munros’ is a thing here), and The Cairngorms. The Cairngorms are the beautiful mountains I drive through every time I go south, so that’s the one I bought.
Oh dear. It is hard. And I can’t stop. The photo is Day One (which was June 22 according to Google Photos) and it’s ten days later and I’m still not done. The grunt of disgust I hear from Scout when she sees me head over to the table is annoying – who is she to judge me?
My goal is to finish by the end of the weekend. And to NOT buy another one until the long winter nights start to close in.
What was in the package that I had to pick up at the Royal Mail, you ask? Well, no surprise; I have the best friends in the world. A very dear friend (any friend who offers to come and clean your house from top to bottom before you move is an absolute BFF) wanted me to have a great Canada Day. So she sent me a care package. I had talked about maybe finding other Canadians on Orkney, and having a July 1st get together, so MB assembled everything one would need to host the perfect Canada Day party.
As well as a scarf for Scout and a hat for me, you can see all the party decorations: paper plates & napkins, a banner, balloons, and flags. Plus: and I can’t say thank you enough for these added items: Club House poutine gravy, ketchup chips and all-dressed chips, and, of all things, PC KD (President’s Choice Kraft Dinner). I’m ashamed to admit the chips are already gone. Oops.
Well, here’s the thing (and this is going to sound sadder than it really is). I did reach out on FB, but there really aren’t as many Canadians here as I had thought (I have still yet to meet one in the flesh). I was going to suggest to my walking group (we walk on Fridays) that they stop by for a beverage, but over half of them are away this week. Yesterday was the last day of school, so my neighbours took off this morning. And, to top it all off, COVID numbers are way back up this month in Orkney. So, I’ve decorated the house, put away the poutine gravy to share with my cousin’s family next time I’m there, and am having the KD for dinner tonight. My playlist for the day includes Bryan Adams, Sarah McLachlan, Diana Krall, and Rush (but no Bieber). And I will use the rest of the decorations, the plates & napkins FOR SURE next year – and Scout & I will be decked out in our Canadian best when we go for our walks today.
Thank you MB, for a lovely gift – Happy Canada Day!!!!
I got back from holiday and found a notice tucked in my mail slot – they had tried to deliver a parcel but I was away. Just as back home, they left a card with the phrase ‘your parcel has been returned to our local office’ on it. So, I headed down to our local post office, ID in hand. The conversation went like this:
“Hi, I’m here for my parcel. Here’s the ticket.”
“Oh, no, sorry, we don’t have it.”
“But this card says you do.”
“No, it says the Royal Mail has it.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. It says it was returned to the local office.”
“Yes, but that’s the Royal Mail.” (I should mention, I was surrounded by all sorts of government postal and mail signage, books of stamps, pictures of the queen, people standing in windowed cubicles, the whole nine yards.) “We’re the Post Office.”
“Huh?”
“We’re the Post Office. The Royal Mail is the mail carriers and so on. That’s not us.”
“R-i-i-i-ght.” Pause. “So what do I do?”
“Just go to the Royal Mail. It’s right next door.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Except it’s only open 8am to 10am.” (it was 11:30.) “So you’ll have to go another day.”
“Okay, well, thanks then . . .”
It seems the Royal Mail and the UK Post Office are two completely different entities in Britain. They have different offices, different employees, and even have separate websites. You give your mail to the Post Office (who sells you the stamps and takes your letter, parcel, or package). They in turn give it to the Royal Mail, who takes your letter, parcel, or package, and delivers it to the recipient’s home. Unless they can’t, in which case they hold on to it for them. Oh, and when you give your letter, parcel, or package to the Post Office, they give you a Royal Mail tracking number so you can follow it to its destination.
Years ago, after I’d been living in my condo in Mississauga for about 3 or 4 months, I remember walking in the front door one evening after work and thinking, “Ah, I’m home.” I remember thinking the same thing after a few months in Milton. I’m very much affected by my surroundings: it’s not unusual for me to be sitting on my sofa reading a book in front of the fire back home and look up and think, “Life is good.”
I got the same feeling from the countryside here in Orkney almost immediately. Even on a dreich day, one where I hadn’t talked to anyone other than via What’s App messages, going for a walk in the country would make me feel better. I’d look around and think how lucky I was.
The last two months have been fantastic: LL was my first house guest, and we had a blast touring Scotland, drinking gin, and eating local delicacies (yes, a good black pudding is a delicacy, thank you very much). It was great. And spending 10 days with an old friend whom I had only seen one hour/year for the last two decades (she lived halfway across the continent and we’d have lunch at Christmastime; it wasn’t like I saw her only on visiting days at the prison or anything), was so nice. I loved our trip together; we can still make each other laugh over the stupidest things. And I really do like driving around the highlands, in spite of complaining about the length of the journeys.
When I walked in the door last week, coming home from York, I dumped the bags in the closet and the groceries in the kitchen, and sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea. It was just me, alone (well, with Scout), in my peedie wee hoose. And I thought: “It’s good to be home.” Home, with all my stuff. I hadn’t not felt at home before, but this week seems to have been when the penny dropped and I feel truly At Home.
