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A couple of months ago I commented on a short paragraph in the local newspaper about an unexploded bomb. It had been reported on way back on page 7, in a section called In brief . . .

Last week, the Orcadian reported on a body found on a beach. This was also not reported on the front page, or even page 2 – those pages were reserved for high fuel prices (fair enough), and an ongoing discussion about roadworks in the next town over. There it was, tucked away in a tiny corner on page 4, in In brief . . . (that ellipsis seems to diminish it even further.)

I have to think that in Milton this would have been headline news. The Champion most definitely would have led with a dead body, and it would be all over Milton Talks & Milton Mommies FB pages.

Clearly it takes a lot to rattle the Scots.

As soon as you arrive at your hosts’ house, if you are instructed to park in the driveway, back your car into a low brick wall (hopefully no one will see you and you can just say nothing). Next, announce to the world that you found the single lane, winding country roads that were the last 30 minutes of your 8 hour journey much too stressful and force your cousin to do all subsequent driving during the week, including drop-offs and pick-ups at the train station when you take off for the day, leaving your dog in their charge.
This is your next opportunity to be a special guest: let your cousin tour you all over the countryside, while you leave walking your dog every day to her husband, who also is expected to scoop her poop while you’re wandering the gardens of Chartwell, or the beach at Whitstable.
But the best way to show your appreciation of someone’s hospitality is to get sick. Take yourself off to the city for a day of self-indulgence, and then return with a bout of food-poisoning and spend that night lying on their bathroom floor. Once you have commandeered said bathroom, spend the next day lying on their sofa, being handed cups of tea and plates of dry toast.
Now, a truly ideal guest will take it one step further (this next step is not easy, and is really only for the truly dedicated houseguests) – time your ailment slightly later in your stay. This ensures that on the last day, the day you were going to treat the family to dinner, either with your classic homemade beef & beer stew, or by ordering in a Thai dinner, that you are too wan and tired to do either and your host is forced to make tomato soup and sandwiches on your last evening.
As you may have gathered, this week, I was truly An Ideal Guest.

P.S. – Joking aside, our holiday was wonderful. That was for one reason and one reason only – my cousin and her family were the Ideal Hosts. Totally. Thank you to VJ &AJ, FJ & IJ, and to Hector, for making Scout and me feel so very welcome and giving us a delightful week in beautiful (and surprisingly sunny) Kent.

Today I drove in England. Yesterday, I drove to my uncle’s in the Scottish lowlands and picked up my uncle. First thing this morning, he, Scout & I piled into the Corsa, and we headed south to Kent. I was quite nervous about this altho driving the motorways isn’t all that stressful because (a) when you think about it, all traffic is going in the same direction, and (b) I have 30+ years of GTA/401 driving under my belt. But I would be hitting the major ring road around London at rush hour and, I was little worried about my 90 year old uncle sitting in a car for 8+ hours.
It was clear and sunny and the landscape was gorgeous – we stopped at a pretty impressive service centre: Tebay rest stop is so famous there’s been a documentary made about it. But poor Uncle Ian; I was so freaked about getting south that we grabbed 2 coffees, 2 muffins and were back on the road in 15 minutes.
We kept going, crossed the Scottish border, over the Mersey, past the higher traffic cities like Manchester and Birmingham, through Oxfordshire, past Heathrow, and onto the M25 ring road south of London. The traffic was light(ish), the weather was great, and the service stations had pretty good food – on the whole, a much better day than anticipated. More and more of the U.K. is opening up to us!

I just saw the Old Man of Hoy. I’m on the ferry and we’ve just passed Orkney’s most iconic landmark, a 450′ tall sea stack. I’ve lived here five months but every time I’ve been on this ferry, it’s either been nightime, or I’ve been seasick, or in most cases, both. So this is exciting.
I haven’t been to the island of Hoy yet; I’m saving that for when visitors come, so I’m quite pleased about this. (I’m more pleased about not wanting to upchuck my breakfast, to be honest.)
The next sight was surfers. I knew there was good surfing in Cornwall, and the southwest coast of Scotland, but I was surprised to see two surfers riding the waves in Thurso – who knew the North Sea was just like Malibu. Dude.
Then, I was driving through the highlands and suddenly, just like in the movies, I saw a stag outlined against the sky. Now this would never normally happen – when I am driving the roads of Scotland, I am NOT admiring the scenery, my eyes are firmly on the road. But we were at a full stop waiting for construction; I happened to catch some movement out of the corner of my eye – it was a large deer (the antlers weren’t that big – I have no idea what that says about age, gender, time of year). But it was standing on a ridge, outlined by the sky – my first highland stag.

Approximately 22,000 people live in the Orkney islands – of those, about 4,300 people have been tested positive for COVID since the outbreak began. That’s not too bad compared to many other places.

Except . . . . more than half of those cases have occurred in the last 6 weeks. Almost 2,400 Orcadians have tested positive since February first. Currently 1 in 19 people are known to have COVID in Orkney. WTF?

I don’t understand how that is possible. Everyone I see here is masked indoors; many out of doors. There are no tourists – they don’t start arriving until May.

I was going to run some errands today – but I’m seeing my 89-year old uncle on Monday – I’m not going anywhere between now & pulling up to his house. I think I’m going back to my self-isolating habits of March 2020 – at least until I get back from our trip.

Here I was worried about going to the south of England – turns out I’m in the eye of the storm.

I realise that several of my more recent posts are complaining about people here, either in Orkney, or Scotland, or the UK. And yes, I am still pissed that businesses won’t answer their phones. Let it go, Elsa, let it go.

But these complaints are NOT indicative of my overall experience here – it’s just that whining makes better copy, as a rule. Last week a young lady, Polish by birth, who has lived and worked in Kirkwall for the last 17 years, posted on an local Facebook page that she was looking for a new apartment, as hers is being sold. One local made a point of replying to tell her, “you are not Ocadian” [sic] (* I left her typo in out of spite). I was so incensed and ready to do battle, until I saw all the subsequent replies, chastising the “True Orcadian” and trying to find ways to help the ready-to-move renter. That backchatting besom was the exception that proves the rule: in my almost 6 months here, everyone has been so nice.

Locals here have gone out of their way to answer my questions, to help me navigate red tape, to explain the ‘whys’ of certain customs, to share what is available to islanders, in other words, to make me feel welcome. I am now a regular in more than one social group, I have been invited into people’s homes for coffee, I have received flowers, I have spent 10 minutes with a waitress discussing Anne of Green Gables and the beauty of P.E.I. This morning the cashier at Tesco’s & I got chatting and I mentioned Scout. She looked over her shoulder, leaned in, and told me about the best kept secret beach for dog walking, including the best place to park. I didn’t have a £1 coin for the car vac, and one of the staff offered me the money and said I could pay him next time.

The librarian recognized my voice on the phone and asked if I would be at next month’s meeting. The local garage owner told me “not to waste your money, luv” when I asked about a service for my car. I run into acquaintances in the street or parks. Scout is now recognized by a few of the local school kids. More than one person has teased me and told me, “You’re a local now!” (I know, I know, that was just being polite; I mean, unless my great-grandparents had been born here and we’d never left, and I had a tattoo of the Orcadian flag on my arm, well, I’d never truly be a local).

So, while nothing is perfect, and nasties like that little social media madam are out there, on the whole, I’ve landed pretty well. Thanks for the welcome, Orkney.

How hard can this be? Is it that businesses in Scotland don’t need clients?

Today I had to deal with the fourth company in Kirkwall that won’t answer their phone. Every time I try to call a dental office, they either (a) answer the phone (well done) but then tell me that due to NHS wait lists I have to go to a non-NHS dentist. Okay, fine, but then, (b) the dental office in question is always on lunch. Always. At least, that’s what their voicemail says. First of all, they’re not open the same number of days or the same hours in a day as at home, but come on, Elaine, you moved away from a major metropolis, of course there will be limitations. But how are they always at lunch?

Then the hair salon. No answer. Second salon, still just ringing. Third was a charm. Whew – these roots won’t hide themselves, you know.

Then a massage therapist. I called a spa within walking distance of my house. After a few times, someone picked up, and gave me the number of their massage therapist (at this salon, each individual therapist makes his/her own appointments). I tried the number they gave me a half a dozen times – just kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing. Obviously I had written the number down wrong. Called the spa back and eventually got through to a machine & left a message. They did call back to say, no there was no mistake, I had the correct number for the therapist. Kept trying. I understand that a massage therapist can’t suddenly dash off to answer the phone and leave their client lying face down on a table. Which is why answering machines exist. For the love of God, it’s 2022, get a machine! ( I gave up and found someone who does answer the phone – she’s excellent.)

Friday afternoon I started calling a local garage – my car needs a couple of things done. No answer, no machine. Grrrr. Tried again on and off all morning. Finally got in the car, drove out of town, and booked my car in for later this month. The gentleman was lovely, very accommodating. But I had to DRIVE to get my car fixed (there’s irony in there somewhere).

FFS, Alexander Graham Bell was born in Scotland. It should be in your blood – answer your damned phones.

Update: hair salon just cancelled – three staff down with COVID. Right, Miss Clairol it is.

This month the Scottish census is being taken, and I received the form in the mail. I wasn’t sure if I was eligible/required to participate. I’m a British citizen, but not a taxpayer as I pay tax in Canada, so I called their 0-800 number and the official confirmed that yes, I was expected to complete the questionnaire.

It was pretty much what I had expected: age, family status, education, ethnicity, employment, and the last category, languages spoken. They asked about English (I consider myself quite proficient there, thank you), then Gaelic and no, apart from the words for ‘cheers’ (slainte), ‘party’ (ceilidh), and ‘lake’ (loch); I haven’t a clue. In fact, I don’t know how to pronounce half the towns in the Highlands because of their Gaelic spelling.

But then I was surprised to be asked if I could speak or understand spoken, or write or understand written Scots. I had no idea it was considered a real language! My mother would be rolling her eyes at that piece of news; to her Scots was a slang spoken only by people like those in the comic strips The Broons and Oor Wullie. But reflecting on the last few months being here talking to people, and the last couple of years following Scottish social media sites, I realized that while I can neither speak nor really write Scots, I can read it, and I can understand (mostly) when people around me are speaking it.

To give you an idea, “D’ya ken yon kirk?” “Ay, I wid nae bide there alane.” “No, I ginnae no’ dae that!” translates to, “Do you know that church?” “Yes, I wouldn’t stay there by myself.” “No, I’m not going to do that!”.

So it seems that I am more multi-lingual than I knew. Hunh.

I said I’d share more about the local cuisine – well, timing is everything. Just this week John Oliver did a segment on The Late Show about British food – my sister sent it to me. I can’t really argue with any of his points, except for Scotch Eggs. Those, I like very much. And when talking about tea, he says, “hot water”, which IS NOT WHAT HE MEANS. See, this is why I never have tea in the United States – I swear they just turn on the hot water tap and run it over the teabag. What he should have said is “boiling water”. Anything else is just wrong.

He is bang on about Indian & South Asian cuisine; even here in a remote corner of Great Britain we have two excellent Indian restaurants, and the ready-to-eat meals in the supermarket are pretty good too.

He didn’t mention Mexican cuisine – I warn North Americans coming here to never have Mexican food here. This is based on a few visits and mistakes I’ve made when ordering, over the past 30 years, either in big cities or at airports, along with watching British cooking shows. “No,” I yell at the famous English TV chef, “you can’t replace salsa with ketchup; naan is not the same as tortillas, and NO, Mexican food isn’t ‘just like Creole cooking’!”

But desserts – again John Oliver is right about that. Brits make some of the most amazing ‘puddings’ in the world. I don’t like sweet things much, but even I love sticky toffee pudding, their cakes & cookies are delish, and they make the best jams and marmalades in the world. And Scottish shortbread – well, what is there to say?

I will leave you with this – I saw this in the grocery store on the weekend; after he saw me take a photo, another shopper walked up close to read what was on the can. When John Oliver talked about ‘a full English breakfast’, this is not what he was thinking of. Dear God.