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I thought I’d share some of the differences I see between Canadian grocery stores and British supermarkets. A few years ago, my uncle & my cousin came from the UK to Canada for a visit, and I took them to Longos. (To be clear, I also took them to Niagara Falls, the Gretzky Winery, the CN Tower, and Niagara On The Lake.)

I was surprised by how impressed my cousin was with the produce department – she liked how little packaging we used in Canada, which confused me to no end, as I think our major grocers use an appalling amount of plastic. Until I arrived here. OMG – everything is wrapped in plastic! I don’t just mean little boxes of berries, or English cucumbers; it’s also things like bell peppers, celery stalks, turnips, you name it.

I do try to shop at some of the local grocers instead, as they seem to use much less packaging (although the cynic in me wonders if their produce arrives in the same pre-portioned plastic bags and they just removed them before displaying), but sometimes Tesco is my only choice.

This was my most recent purchase – how annoying. That is a single bulb of garlic. And yes, I do realise that by buying this garlic, I am rewarding their bad behaviour. But I needed garlic, and Wm. Shearer’s was all out.

This is the ferry I took yesterday morning. Looks innocuous enough, doesn’t it? Water looks pretty smooth too, right?

There is more than one ferry line from Orkney to Scotland. I arrived on Day One via Northlink Ferries. It wasn’t a great trip – Scout is required to stay in the car on Northlink, I had just made my first 7-hour, perilous, terrifying drive up from Glasgow, and the seas were rough for the entire 90 minutes. Not good.

My next few trips were with Pentland Ferries: much smaller boat, but a shorter crossing; there is an indoor gallery where I can bring the dog, and we are only in open water for about 15 minutes of the 1-hour crossing. With a Gravol, Pentland works for me.

Yesterday I had to take the Northlink ferry again – MS Hamnavoe (seen below). I took a Gravol, left Scout in the car, and headed upstairs to the lounge. It was a nice morning, so I thought I’d have a little tea and toast – averting my eyes from the family beside me wolfing down full Scottish breakfasts – they were massive! (the breakfasts, I mean. The family was normal-sized).

All was going well until the first of two announcements from the captain: (1)”The seas are a bit high this morning; we will try to make this as smooth a voyage as possible.” which was followed 8 minutes later by: (2)”We’re about to feel some broadside swell”. Oh dear.

On the whole, I didn’t do too badly. Probably my lowest moment was when, for the SEVENTH time in 25 minutes, the man beside me said, to no one in particular, “It’s a bit choppy today.” Truly, truly, had he opened his mouth one more time, I think I would have strangled him with my face mask.

I don’t mind discussing the weather, but for the love of God, show some originality.

Anyhoo – arrived safe and sound and had an uneventful (but very long) drive down to my Uncle’s. There was gin waiting when I arrived.

Thursday morning I woke with every intention of washing the floors, vacuuming, and doing a load of laundry. Realised I needed to pick up some things at the store, so popped Scout in the car and we drove to Tesco’s with every intention of doing a circle walk around the Peedie Sea, then into the supermarket, then home.

I needed my sunglasses, it was so bright, and I had the window open, it was so warm. So we just kept driving. It was much too nice a day to stay indoors. I had no idea where we were going; normally I pore over the map before we head anywhere out of town. But I just kept following signposts, and turning down lanes.

We passed the Stones of Stenness, the Ring of Brodgar, the Loch of Skiall, and Skara Brae. We went for a walk along Skiall Bay, then drove up towards Birsay. We stopped at the Kitchener Memorial and hiked up the trail to the Nature Preserve and the Cliffs at Marwick. It was an absolutely glorious day, and the views from the hilltop and the cliffs were stunning. I’m not a poet, or a painter, or even a decent photographer, so I can’t begin to do the scenery justice. All I can say is that this is a truly spectacular island. I hope the locals appreciate what they have as much as those of us looking at it with fresh eyes do.

The drive home through Birsay, Abune-the-Hill, Evie, Dounby, and Finstown was equally lovely. We came home to dirty floors, messy carpets, and unwashed towels & sheets, and I didn’t mind at all. What a great day.

Since October 18 (that’s 92 days but who’s counting) I have been sleeping on a cheap, skinny single bed and I have the sore back to prove it. I mustn’t bad-mouth this bed too much, as it’s what some of my guests will be sleeping on. A large part of the problem is that my 62lb dog likes to sleep on it with me which is nothing like letting her on my queen bed at home. So I have NOT slept well at all. I ordered a cheap-ish, not-very-pretty-but-it-would-do double bed with a nice mattress from the same store at the same time, and was told it would arrive in about a fortnight. (that’s two weeks)

After my third visit to the store to follow-up, I gave up. That was last Thursday. Friday I went into J & S Allan in Stromness and picked out a nicer bed and good mattress, both on sale. The salesman apologised that the earliest he could deliver it was Monday. Apologised! Why, oh why, didn’t I buy from these guys in October?

It arrived (as promised) Monday morning. I will just say one teeny tiny thing about the store – why didn’t they offer assembly? I would have paid for it, had they explained just how much work was involved. If I had given it any thought at all, I assumed it would be three pieces: a headboard, footboard, and frame. This was missed revenue on their part.

The instructions assured me that no other tools were necessary in addition to the Allen key provided, but I got out the hammer (see arrow) just in case they lied. (They did.) They also indicated that this was a two-person job – hah! wrong again!

It took a while. Quite a while. And I hate Allen keys. Believe it or not, Ikea instructions are clearer and more detailed than these were. But I was doing okay until I tried to insert the 22 wood slats into the 33 plastic brackets a total of 44 times. How is that piece of wood supposed to fit into that opening? Lunch break called for. Sigh. Returned renewed and after some fiddling, I MacGyvered each & every one of them into place and hammered the brackets into the frame (no hammer needed, my eye).

Finished product – it was worth every second of it. Scout slept on her corner at the foot of the bed, and I had the rest of the double bed all to myself. Lovely.

Side note: their bed sizes are all different from ours: what we call a double, they call a queen. Their double is bigger than their queen. Their king is the same width as our queen, but is shorter. All v confusing – glad I had asked when buying the bedding

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I’ve already gone on about highway driving – don’t worry; I’m sure I will again at some point. But I thought I’d mention a few differences or quirks I’ve noticed in towns.

1. No one honks. If one driver has done something that has annoyed another driver, the annoyee flashes his/her headlights. I’ve seen it quite few times (only once directed at me and I still say I had plenty of room to pull out that time). It makes for much quieter, friendlier streets. I like it.
2. Stoplights & Stop signs. This isn’t a quirk, it was just to say I hadn’t realized there aren’t any traffic lights or stop signs on Orkney. It wasn’t until I was driving around the town of Beauly in the Highlands just before Christmas that it dawned on me: these were the first traffic lights I’d seen in weeks.
3. Trusting indicators. Back home if I’m waiting to cross a street, or turn into traffic, even if I see someone indicating that they are going to turn, I still wait until I see them actually turn before I commit to anything. I’m not the only one; that’s how I see most Canadians driving. I mean, what if the other person had his indicator going already and it hadn’t clicked back? What if she can’t hear she’s indicating to turn off the street? But here, everyone trusts that the other person is going to do what their car is indicating, and acts accordingly. It seems to work for them.
4. Giving way. In the same vein, everyone here seems more courteous with one another. And I don’t think that’s just a small town thing. I’ve seen it most places I’ve been driving in the UK. I think it has more to do with the narrow, twisty roads and lanes. Everyone has just grown up and learned to drive seeing everyone else give way on narrow streets, pull over to let others by, squeeze around tight corners. So everyone yields to one another. (Not always courteous: I did hear a cabbie honk angrily at another driver in Glasgow a couple of months ago, but to be fair, the other driver was trying to park a 15′ Jaguar into a 10′ space during rush hour.)
5. Parking. In the UK, it is legal to park your car with your wheels up on the sidewalk. And it is legal to park your car facing the wrong way. (See Exhibit A). I assume the former harks back to the narrow roads. And really, why aren’t we allowed to park on the other side of the street in Canada? I mean, what does it matter? Only problem with that whole park on either side of the street thing: it freaks me out when I turn on to a street I don’t know and all the cars are parked facing me. I immediately assume I’ve turned onto a one-way street, and shift into panic mode – and then, if another car is driving towards me – Dear God. (Great Western Place, Aberdeen, July 2016 – still not completely over it. It was a two-way; I was fine.)

When out walking, I’ve noticed a lot of green garbage bags snagged on tree trunks and blowing in the wind. I was a little surprised, because for the most part, there is minimal litter on Orkney (still more than there should be, and I try to remember to take a bag to the beach to copy a few of the other beach walkers and pick up plastic bottles and beer cans when we’re out).

But I was walking along a different trail on the outskirts of Kirkwall last week, and I saw these trees. It looks like they were planted years ago – they must plant trees here with their root ball in a garbage bag, and then the tree just grows up out of it. So now, in my mind, the blowing bags are less awful. Still ugly, but at least it’s not some inconsiderate local pitching their garbage in amongst the trees because they can’t figure out the local trash collection.

When I was imagining my life here on Orkney – you know, when I was sitting on the flight over here, or during those long, long months of lockdowns 1 through 11 (or whatever), I had certain images in my head.

I pictured Scout & me, walking along windswept beaches, hiking up heather-covered hills, or visiting ancient historic sites (see The Stones of Stenness below). I saw myself in my little kitchen, overlooking the countryside, and making up batches of lovely stews, or warming soups. I imagined what it would be like to curl up in my compartment on the Caledonian Sleeper, wending my way from Inverness to London. What I had not foreseen was the amount of time I spend thinking about, dealing with, writing about, focusing on trash.

Yesterday morning I put out the re-cycling at 8:45 am. I could see the garbage truck up the hill; clearly I had just made it out in time. I saw the same truck at the other end of the street an hour later. When I went out to pull in the bin in the afternoon, it was still full. FFS. What had I done wrong this time? How hard can it be to dispose of one’s waste in Scotland? Had I put the wrong category out on the wrong day? Had I not washed the bottles according to the Council’s standards? Was this a passive aggressive swing at unwanted incomers?

Well I left the bin out overnight, thinking they were running late (hope springs eternal). But to no avail – it was still full the next morning. I dragged it back to the back yard (here’s hoping another gale doesn’t blow up anytime soon; my bins dance around the garden during a windstorm like members of a very heavy dance troupe). I really was feeling like the local council had it in for me. So, while the street was empty, I glanced around, tiptoed across the gravel, scooted up really close to my neighbour’s side wall so they couldn’t see me out their windows, sidled over to their bins, lifted the lid, and peered inside. Ha! Theirs were still full too! It wasn’t a vendetta against the interloper; the bin men had just missed our block.

I can’t believe how much better I felt to see their full bin; clearly I need more and bigger issues to focus on these days.

I bought Scout a new treat: Paw Pops. They’re like Mr Freeze, but for dogs (they don’t smell very nice, IMO). I gave her one and she seemed to quite like it, licking and crunching. Then I looked around and she had just stopped, halfway through the treat, and was just staring at me. I didn’t really think anything of it. A few minutes later, she started eating it again. Then, again, silence. I turned around and she had her head on her paws, with the remaining bits of flavoured ice beside her.

I think I gave my dog a brain freeze.

I find my behaviour perfectly sensible, but when I was telling a couple of friends, they went into fits of laughter and said I had to share it.

One of the things I missed when I retired was getting dressed up every day – I liked suits, I liked high heels, I liked pantihose. I also knew when I retired how easy it would be to just sit around in sweats, watching Oprah and eating bonbons (well, more likely watching Netflix and eating Cheetos, but bonbons sounds classier). So I decided that every weekday I wouldn’t wear jeans; in fact I would be dressed by 9am in ‘nice’ clothes. By nice I meant that if a friend called at 11:45 and said, “Hey, I’m in Milton and my 12 o’clock appointment just cancelled; meet me for lunch”, I would be in nice enough clothes that I could just walk out the door. And yes, that did happen. I even took it a step further during the first lockdown; while the rest of the world was on Zoom calls in a nice shirt and pyjama bottoms, I made sure that I was wearing my most expensive scarves, or nice jewelry, when I took Scout for a walk. (I’ve gotten over that.)

I also don’t like leaving my bedroom in my pyjamas or nightie – I mean I don’t schlep around the house in pj’s for the first hour or so. I don’t know if that’s a bungalow thing, but as soon as I get up I drag on some yoga pants and a t-shirt, or some leggings and a sweater. And then, of course, I have to walk the dog, at least once, usually twice a day.

So, when you put that all together, this is what a typical day looks like: wake up in my pj’s and change into comfy clothes immediately. After breakfast, change out of those clothes and into my dog-walking clothes. Return from walk, and put on something nicer like wool pants (trousers for the Brits reading this), a pretty top, some jewelry, and make-up. Then for the afternoon walk, put on my warmer dog-walking clothes. Return from walk and put my day clothes back on. At bedtime, back into nightwear. So, yes, I change clothes six times each day.

I don’t know why my friends found that odd.

The first few weeks of my retirement, Scout became less obedient, not coming when called, pulling on the leash for every walk, even ran off more than once. I put it down to the fact that I was now around more, and she didn’t feel she had to work as hard to please me. A few remedial lessons using some online training tips, and things got back on track.

Well, I gotta say, someone is showing a wee bit of attitude these days. A few things have cropped up: she takes longer and longer to eat her meals, mostly, I think, because she is waiting for me to have mine to see if it’s any better (and to be fair, it always is). I’ve started adding a scoop of canned food to her kibble, but even then, I often get a “this is it?” look from her as I set the bowl down.

She is also very very needy, constantly coming up and nudging me to play with her. She used to understand that sitting at the desk meant I was unavailable, but now she is constantly nudging me, or scratching the desk, or knocking the fridge (that means she wants treats), or scratching to get out. In that last case, she has more than once then run next door when I wasn’t looking.

Compared to dogs in much of the rest of the world, she has a very good life. But from time to time I get twinges of guilt that I’m not playing with her enough. Then I remember an article I read a few years ago in which it was pointed out that the average European dog owner thinks North Americans are nuts for how much they spend on toys for their dogs, and playing with them, and dreaming up ways for the dog to be stimulated and entertained. And then my guilt mostly passes and I remind myself, she’s just a dog.

But this neediness has moved into a bit of defiance, as evidenced by last evening’s little trick. After asking to go out for the third time, instead of ‘doing her business’ and returning, she walked out the door, down the steps, onto the lawn, turned around, lay down and just looked at me.

Edit: And as I am writing this, she just barked (she never barks). When I turned to see what she was barking at, she was just sitting, in the middle of the living room, looking at me. So pushing her luck.