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Up at 5:15am, waved cousin & uncle good-bye at 5:40 and felt very smug about being on the road 20 minutes earlier than planned.  You see, I was aiming for the midday ferry to Orkney on the theory that I could avoid driving home in Orkney in the dark.  Hmm.  What I hadn’t thought about was that I was driving unfamiliar roads in the pitch dark for well over two hours in the morning.  In the rain. Again.  And, as before, well under the speed limit.  I could see the arrival time on my SatNav inching later and later as I cruised along at a frightening 55 mph, with transport trucks and school buses overtaking me. 

What was going through my mind during those hours and hours?  When I wasn’t freaking out about the lights of the oncoming vehicles, I was working out how I can place my next order and arrange for a delivery firm to pick it up, regardless of cost.  All I know is that I am not leaving this damned island again any time soon.  At least not until there is 10 hours of continuous daylight.  (Because, to be fair, when it did brighten, the drive was absolutely beautiful – mountains, farmland, coastline – just lovely.)

Those who know me know I don’t shop well.  I have been known to walk into a large store, see all the goods and all the customers, and turn to walk out (both sisters have had to grab my arm and say, “don’t be silly, come on.”)  I have driven all the way to Square One, driven around the parking lot, seen the crowds, and just driven home.  Really.

But I was on a mission in Glasgow; first stop: Currys (think Best Buy).  It wasn’t a quick process, but I walked out of there with everything on my electronic list.  Then off to Ikea.  Ikea: my sisters and I are convinced ‘Ikea’ is the Swedish word for hell.  One of my big concerns was: how much could I fit in the car (including poor Scout) and still be able to see to drive?  So I headed straight for the one item I desperately needed: a dresser.  I bought it and took it out to the car – it fit!  Returned to the store for another round of shopping.  Then we headed to my Uncle’s.

The next morning my cousin drove me back to Ikea for round three.  Had I mentioned the rain?  Pouring again, and this time the added fillip of COP26 which was starting that weekend – we saw a lot of Glasgow as we tried to dodge the protesters and the usual Friday traffic.  But she really didn’t seem to mind – so kind.  More furniture and stuff, then back to Currys (did you know they now sell cell phones with the cable but not the plug?  Or maybe that’s only a British thing.  So stupid. I have no idea why the salesclerk wouldn’t have sold me one the day before?)  I didn’t buy everything I needed this go round because of space limitations, but my intention is to have a bunch more things shipped to Ikea’s Aberdeen Pick-Up Centre and that will cut my next trip later this month in half.

We got home from my second day of full-time shopping and I was able to fit it all in the car, including a space for you-know-who (who was not impressed with her jury-rigged corner bed).  God I was tired.

When Google Maps tells you it’s about 5 hours+ to get from the north of Scotland to Glasgow, it’s easy for a Canadian to think, “Well that’s the same as driving from Toronto to Ottawa.  Easy.” But, when you factor in: leaving early enough to make the ferry, plus the ferry, plus the stops for you and/or the dog (there is not an On Route every 66km in the Highlands), and (and this is the biggy) Google assumes you will be driving at the speed limit the whole way there.  That is 70 miles an hours anytime it’s 2-lanes, or 60 miles an hour everywhere else.  Sixty.  That’s 100 km/hr.  On highland roads.  In the rain (it is Scotland after all) and, for the first hour of the morning and the last hour of the afternoon, in the dark.  As the roads weren’t too busy, I didn’t have to pull into passing places to let those behind go by all that often, but I can guarantee you that I was rarely driving the speed limit.

I bundled Scout into the car at 6:30am at home, and we walked into the hotel in downtown Glasgow at 4:25pm.  A hotel where the parking is a lot 2 blocks away.  And it was pouring by the time we arrived.  Sheeting down.

But we made it, and I was able to accomplish my number one goal: get a bank card.  At 4:55 that afternoon I walked into the bank, a sorry, sodden, cranky mess, and 11 minutes later I practically skipped down Argyll Street, all because of a little square of plastic. 

Years ago I worked in a fair-sized branch of the Bank that had lots of paintings and prints up in the offices and hallways. And every single, solitary picture was a bleak winter countryside scene. I never understood that; why in a part of the world where it snows at some point during at least six months of each year, would you choose to hang scenes of cold, white, barren, blustery, snowy fields and streets? It was so depressing.

Over the past seven days I have been shopping for furniture and linens and supplies, and I have noticed a trend: everything I buy is grey. Grey sofa, grey chair (they did have the same one in mustard. I don’t like mustard.), grey shelves, grey lamp (2 of them), grey towels (they were on sale), grey dishes (the only other choice was black), and a grey kettle (the other choice was purple). I have moved to an island where it rains more often than not, where it is cloudy at least 60% of the time, where the clouds are grey, the sky is grey, the houses are grey, and the sea is dark grey; and I have chosen to fill my house with grey items.

Great.

I tried to be as organized as possible when packing to leave Canada.  All the things I thought I wouldn’t need for a while went in the biggest suitcase, things I wouldn’t need until I actually hit Orkney went in the next biggest, and so on and so on with all five pieces of luggage.  Needless to say, the last day or two of packing became more about jamming things into every nook and cranny, and less about an organizational master plan, and there were a few things I had to jettison due to lack of space figuring I could replace them here in Scotland.

Well, with no furniture in the house, I haven’t really unpacked – I’m just living out of various open suitcases and piles on the floor (a dresser is coming next week, along with a coat rack).  Imagine my frustration when I discovered I hadn’t packed any woolen hats.  No toque, no knitted beret.  I did find that I had packed a baseball cap (did you know Brits don’t wear baseball caps?  No one does.) and a sun hat.  A sun hat!  In Orkney!  I left behind the winter wear and packed a sun hat; what was I thinking?  And only one pair of gloves.  Seriously, what an idiot.

So yesterday I went into a shop and looked at locally made woolen hats. Beautiful knitted hats made here on the island.  I won’t tell you how much I paid; suffice it to say, that little brown toque is going to have to last me for years.  But I’ve done my part to support local, and at least my head was warm this morning on our walk.

A P.S. to this post: I dug around in one of the suitcases 30 minutes ago looking for my Dad’s old pen knife and came across: lined woolen mittens, 4 more pairs of gloves, my favourite toque from the Vancouver Aquarium and my favorite woolen beret. 

So I’m still an idiot, just for a different reason.  Sigh.

I know, I know, I keep harping on about not having access to the internet. 

I think my generation is in a very specific place in history: my parents’ generation really did spend their whole lives without being hugely impacted by the internet.  Sure, my Dad used technology to take e-books and audiobooks out of the library, and my friend Shirshee uses FB and Facetime to stay in touch with her grandkids, but really, for them modern technology has been an minor add-on in later life. And my nieces and nephews don’t remember a time when the internet wasn’t integral to everything they do – they simply could not exist without their cell phones or social media.

But for my generation, the first half of our careers was completely without significant modern technology: carbon-paper documents, overhead projectors, and electric typewriters were the only technology for the first 15 or so years of my time at the Bank.  But by the time I retired, I couldn’t have made it through a day without a Blackberry to stay in touch, an iPad to complete documentation, and Word, Excel & Google on my desktop to do everything else.  We really did straddle the techno-boom like no other cohort.

Which is why I am yammering on, yet again, about a lack of internet access.  The issue is not because I am in a remote location (well, not really).  The two big stumbling blocks to being live and in touch with the rest of the world are: I didn’t know what my permanent address would be until I had been in Scotland for 10 days and therefore struggled to convince companies to deal with me and, even though I opened my UK bank account back in the summer, my bank card didn’t get mailed to me until after I had left Canada and had to be cancelled and re-issued (still waiting).  And in the UK no one, absolutely no one, will do anything for you without a bank card.  So, here I sit, waiting for my broadband (wi-fi) to be installed, and waiting to be able to get a UK mobile phone.  (And it seems I have over-used the Roam package I bought through Bell for my first month here, mainly by spending a lot of time on the phone to UK call centres, and by uploading all the photos I’ve been taking.  Hunh.)   I can’t believe how much this matters to my day to day experience!  And I really don’t consider myself a tech-addict – I’m not a huge user of social media, I try to limit my time on Netflix or Britbox (well, I try), and yet somehow, I feel like I am stumbling through each day accomplishing very little. 

Okay, done venting for now – off to the library to use their broadband and upload this whining to my blog.

This is my first homecooked meal since, well, September, I guess.  That I cooked I mean (thank you Sibling 2 and Uncle Ian).  And the first fresh vegetables in a while – I’m always leery of salads out.  Did they really wash the lettuce? So, mac and cheese with Orkney cheddar, some coleslaw, and pickled red onion.  Even their vegetables are different – the cabbage is called Sweetheart cabbage, and is shaped like a cone. 

Oh, and of course, some cava to celebrate my arrival.  I don’t have either a television or wi-fi yet, so my viewing pleasure was thanks to MM, who gave me the full compilation of Criminal Minds and Murphy Brown.  For my first week sleeping on a new bed in a new house in a new town, I don’t think serial killers is the way to go, so Murphy Brown it is.

Today’s the day. I took possession of my house on the weekend, and have slowly been shopping around town, looking at larger items, and stocking up on smaller essentials. It’s a 3-bedroom (well, the smallest will be a boxroom) with a yard and it’s empty.  Apart from large appliances (and some old hangers) it’s empty.  Exciting, for someone starting afresh.  Daunting, for someone who hates shopping.  But I’m checking out of the hotel in an hour, so I have no choice this morning but to buy: a bed, a table or desk, and a chair.  Here’s hoping places deliver on Mondays.

For those who know Scout (or her brother, for that matter), they will know that despite her breeding, Scout is not a water dog. She will never willing go into any body of water, from bathtub to Great Lake. If I throw her favorite ball into the waves, she just runs back and forth excitedly along the shore. Other dogs can be jumping in and out of the pool and she just backs away. A friend once bought a kiddie wading pool and set it up in my backyard. Her dog Winston knew exactly what to do and lolled about in it in great comfort in the 30+ degree weather, but even when we lifted Scout into the cool water, she only turned and stepped back out, preferring to suffer dry in her wooly coat. (I did let her into the air-conditioned house – she wasn’t left out to roast while other dogs chilled)

Yesterday we went on a road trip, driving down to the island of Burray. We crossed the Churchill Barriers and found a deserted beach at Skerry Sound for a good, long walk on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The tide was quite low, and the sea was a smooth as glass when Scout spied the seagulls bobbing on the water. Without a second thought, she charged straight into the sea, up to her hips, scattering the birds. Once the birds were suitably scattered, she looked about, and instead of freaking out and running back to the beach, she looked quite pleased with herself and waded about for a minute or before turning back to me.

I think 9 years old is an interesting age for a dog to find her sea-legs, and it does mean I will have to keep her on a leash the mornings we walk around the Peedie Sea, but I really think Orkney is going to be good for my wee dug.

I’m here in Orkney – exactly 10 days after arriving in Scotland.  The last 12 hours were definitely the most taxing of my journey north.  Winding roads, aggressive drivers, high winds, driving rain, and the ferry.  I’ve never really been troubled by seasickness in the past, but by the time I’d had a spicy dinner, negotiated the cargo parking, and hit the high seas, the scene was set.  Oh dear.  It turns out that masks make the nausea worse.  In fact, everything makes the nausea worse.  The smell of the food cooking from the restaurant. The earbuds for the podcast that was supposed to distract me.  The scent of the hand soap.  The scent of the hand sanitizer that was supposed to banish the smell of hand soap.  The vestiges of cigarette smoke on the man standing near me.  I was just so thankful to get off the boat – is this going to happen every time I take the ferry?

I thought that was the worst of my journey over.  Wrong.  It was now pitch dark and I had a 30 minute drive through the countryside with a trail of locals wanting to get home following behind.  And they drive fast.  I was doing fine until we got to the road works.  It was on the detour that the guy behind me finally got fed up and raced around me and went on his way.  Oh well.  Stuff happens.  Made it to the hotel, safe, if not quite sound. 

In retrospect, the thing that was most disappointing was that my malaise meant I couldn’t really appreciate the group of musicians who played and sang folk tunes the whole crossing.  Guitars, a fiddle, even a mandolin I think.  It was lovely and should have been such a welcome for me to my new home. 

Now I’m dreading future trips off the island.  Hmm.

But – I did wake up to this view the next morning.