In early December my cousin had a lot on her plate: she & I had settled on my moving into her Dad’s place sometime in 2023; she already had some ideas on what the house needed tackled first (the bathroom? the kitchen? the front hall/front room?); she was organizing Uncle Ian’s funeral for later in the month; plus job, family, etc. . Oh, and the run up to Christmas.

The funeral was to be on a Monday with the reception at Ian’s house; I would stay at his next door neighbour’s house; and Viv’s family, arriving via car and plane, would stay in Ian’s or at her mother-in-law’s. Late Friday afternoon Viv got a call from her daughter: they had just arrived at Ian’s, pipes had burst, and the kitchen ceiling had caved in. The family moved into overdrive and within a half hour had turned off the water, found a plumber, found a restaurant that could host the reception, and found a B&B that could take eight adults and two dogs. Heroes.

After the funeral the family put on their crappiest clothes, gathered up bin bags, mops, and brooms, and arrived to find that the living room ceiling had now caved and the front hall ceiling was bowing. The spent two days cleaning up, and then the planning began.

The renovation order had been decided for them – instead of a new bathroom, the first order of business was combining the kitchen & dining room into a large eat-in kitchen, and combining the front room and front hall into one large sitting room. I really did NOT see how this was going to happen before I arrived in May, but my cousin can make things happen. She found an amazing contractor who has done great work, and on the first of May, I will be walking into a lovely new place!

There’s still lots to do, so I won’t be idle – more on that to come.

I love lentils and have always made soup with them, mostly red lentils. I always give them a bit of a Mediterranean twist, with cumin and cayenne. A few months ago, when I was scrolling recipes (yes, that is a hobby; don’t be judgy), I saw the words ‘Scottish Lentil Soup’ with commentary that made it sound like it was some kind of national classic. So I made it.

It’s very simple: diced onion, lots of diced carrots, red lentils, and stock. That’s it. No cumin, no thyme, nothing. (Obviously, Scottish cooks can add what they want – I’m just saying the recipe I saw was that simple.) So I made it – easy, peasey – and then the strangest thing: as I took a spoonful, the most evocative and elusive memories took me back to my childhood.

My Mum made good homemade soups, but neither my sisters nor I remember red lentil soup especially. I’m a few years older than my sisters, and I have to think my early childhood, even though it was in Ontario, was probably much more ‘Scottish’ than theirs. I was 7 before I ever had peanut butter (at a neighbour’s), and even older when I discovered the wonder of putting butter on the toast when it was warm (also at a neighbour’s – my Mum cooled her toast before buttering it all her life, which is what the Brits do). By the time my sisters came along, it was the late 60’s, and we’d moved around a bit, and canned and processed foods were becoming much more prevalent, and by the 70’s, I would say were living a pretty much Canadian lifestyle. (Except for Santa Claus – all our friends left out milk and cookies, but we left out beer & mince tarts – that’s what Dad told us Santa liked and who were we to argue?)

But back to the soup, which I now make a lot. Even though I have zero recollection of Mum ever making Scottish Lentil Soup, every time – and I do mean every time – I take that first spoonful, I get this hazy memory from my childhood. Lovely

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When I first moved into this cottage last fall (autumn), I mentioned in passing that it was only a seasonal hire, and that I would be moving again in the spring. Well, that chicken has finally come home to roost – I will be moving at the end of April. Again. Heavy sigh.

Now this time ’round house hunting will not be quite so fraught with potential homelessness, because I have a new home all lined up – I need to go back to last fall to explain. At the same time as I was moving into this cottage and being advised by the owner that it was just a temporary let, my uncle in Lanarkshire was starting to fail, and his daughter was having to consider what she would do regarding his house after he was gone. She and her equally Scottish husband and their English children all live in Kent, south of London – over six hours away. But this was the house Ian and Margaret built when Viv was just a little girl, and she loves this house, as well as the surrounding village.

When I say she loves it, I mean she loves the ‘bones’ of the house – it’s a bonny wee 3-bedroom bungalow with a full (unfinished) loft, with beautifully groomed front and back gardens. But the decor is, well, dated. And the lay-out is very 1970’s. And like many elderly couples Uncle Ian and Aunt Margaret didn’t really see any need to change anything in the last few years of their lives, so it’s full of knickknacks, and slightly frayed cushions, and a velvet settee – you get the idea. So what to do regarding a house so far away, but that she wants to hang onto? This is when the perfect storm started to form. But a perfect storm in a good way.

The situation: Viv wants to keep the house, but isn’t ready to move back full time to Scotland – well, Elaine needs somewhere to live come the spring. It needs some renos done to bring it into this century, but Viv can’t really be supervising from afar – hmm, Elaine on the spot, with texting, Zoom, and camera to give updates and get guidance. The loft, garage, cupboards, and closets are full, but Viv hates cleaning and purging – oooh, Elaine loves that sort of thing. So, that evening back in December, as she and I polished off an unidentified amount of wine, we made the decision: I would move into her Dad’s house for the last of my Scottish stay, get some serious decluttering underway, and help monitor and manage whatever renos she decided to go with first.

Sounds perfect right? Well, as Rabbie Burns says, “the best laid plans, gain aft a’gley.” Wait for the next segment in Kirkwall to Carluke, The Voyage.

Are mustard-coloured coats a thing back home? They’re certainly big here, and I believe it’s a recent trend. That is to say, I’ve only noticed this in the last two weeks. Several days ago I was waiting for a friend outside a shop; she’s always been easy to spot because she has snow white hair, and wears a mustard-yellow, all-weather coat. I could see her just in the front of the store by the cashier and I pointed her out to the others in our walking group, before I realised that was a different tall, white-haired, yellow-coated Orcadian lady. Within two minutes, two more ladies walked by in similar jackets. I started watching, and by the end of the walk I had spotted at least another half dozen women (all different; it wasn’t the same lady looping the block) in varying shades of gold, mustard, amber, and school bus yellow.

Scout & I walked into town this morning and at one point stopped to chat with one of the other Community Fridge volunteers (who was in her yellow parka), and within my field of vision I could see seven – yes, seven – women all in mustard yellow coats. I tried to think of a way to get a photograph of them all to post here, but herding them together in the middle of the road didn’t seem feasible. Don’t get me wrong, I like yellow. It just seems like such a random thing to suddenly have sprung up.

Maybe it’s a northern thing – dark days means brighter clothes?

Headed over to Tesco this morning (note: our second walk of the day) and saw everyone walking out of the store with bouquets of flowers. Hunh.

Then I remembered, Mother’s Day in the UK is in March.

When my parents had the pub in Cheddar England in the 80’s, each March local customers would ask Mum if her daughters in Canada had sent her anything, or had called. She would explain that we had no idea it was Mothering Day in the UK, and that we celebrated Mother’s Day in May. Then, every May, she would put our cards out on the shelves behind the bar on display, to show that no, her daughters weren’t callous, inconsiderate wenches; and yes, they did actually love her.

I’ve been doing pretty well with my whole building-better-habits routine. We’re out as soon as we’re up each morning (although as the days lengthen, I’m not seeing much of the sunrises anymore), I’m hitting my steps target most days, and yoga is a regular part of my day once more. I was feeling pretty good, pretty smug about all that, quite pleased with myself, and then I read my friend’s blog.

LL is touring the US & Canada in a motorhome and is currently in Texas. She posted what her typical day looks like and while parts of her days are quite similar to mine (walking, cooking, Netflix, reading), they also include: water aerobics, pickle ball, swimming, and biking – all on top of not one, not two, but three walks a day. Well how annoying is that? Now, to be fair, she is in Texas in March, and I am in Orkney in March, but even so – WTF?

Well, sir, gauntlet thrown down, gauntlet picked up. I can guarantee I will not be swimming in the sea any time soon (even tho my landlord swears by it – nice man, but clearly mad as a hatter), and under no circumstances will you ever get me on these roads on a bicycle. But I pulled out my notes on what facets of my life I want to focus on, and what habits I can build to improve those facets (because, yes, Elaine, you have written this all down in a mind-map and created a habit-stacking list – of course you have).

What have I added, you ask? Well, let’s not get crazy here – it’s me after all – but the following items are now part of my daily routines: two walks EVERY day – 10,000 steps is a must from now on (I do have one exception to that – if winds surpass 40 mph we’re a No Go – common sense, people). Other habits adopted: try out one new author per week, instead of just reaching for the same old, same old faves (altho, I withhold the right to ditch an author if they’re not cutting it – yesterday I made it 17 pages into a novel before telling Scout it was utter shite and turning on reruns of The Repair Shop on TV); two 5-minute physio sessions each day, instead of waiting until my hand pains me and I need anti-inflammatories. And a full yoga practice daily, not just a 15 minute morning stretch. Although that last one may be tricky – see photo.

This whole 1% changes to make life better is good – I’m pleased with my progress and I’m feeling pretty good. But LL had better not up the game – if she suddenly takes up tae kwon do, or rock climbing, or something . . . . well, I’m out.

Mostly, the mail is pretty good here, at least by Canadian standards. Delivery is six days a week, and can be more than once a day. Granted, there are a number of postal strikes going on, but strikes are managed differently here; you get warning and it’s only for a day or two at a time. So an alert might show up on the BBC website saying that Scottish postal workers will be out next Tuesday and Wednesday, for example. Feels efficient in its disruption.

I’ve mentioned the hide-and-seek post boxes that can be tucked into a garden wall. Or, you can be driving through the countryside and come to an intersection: two single-track lanes converging, and the only thing to be seen for miles (other than sheep; there are always sheep) is a one bright red post box. There’s just something quirky about all of this to my Canadian town-or-city girl eyes.

Latest learning for me is all about when the mail is picked up. Wondering if you’ve made it to the post box before the 2:30 pick-up? Well, it seems that on those post boxes, be they tucked away in a wall or a red pillar box on the high street, there is a silver disk near the top which tells you what day is the next collection. So when I dropped my letter into the pillar box this afternoon at 1:25, I could see that the postal worker hadn’t been by yet. When she does come by, she’ll pick up all the mail, then change that disk to read ‘Mon’. Love it.

The first time I heard the noise, Scout & I were walking along the high street. There was banging, and shouting, and maybe honking, then a truck pulling a hay wagon drove by with a group of women hanging off the back, shouting, banging pots and the walls of the truck bed, and waving to the pedestrians. Oh, and they were covered in streaks of mud or something. Okaaay.

That was the first Blackening I saw. An Orcadian tradition (although I believe they do it elsewhere in Scotland), kind of like a stag or pre-wedding shower. Sometimes the men and women are together, but mostly it’s one group or the other, celebrating an upcoming wedding.

The hen party (if it’s women) are smeared with treacle and driven around town, banging pots and drums. Traditionally, blackenings were a LOT rougher: the groom would be stripped, bound, smeared with anything from treacle to dog food, to, well, whatever (ugh). Then covered in flour and feathers., and then paraded about. But those days are past – while it’s still loud and messy, it’s much more benign.

Last year I observed that the only snowfall Orkney seemed to experience was sideways sleet, that created a <1cm of snow on the ground, which didn’t stick more that 36 hours at most. And that was pretty much the case all of last year and most of this winter.

Well, this week we had a true snowfall. Just like back home. Big fluffy flakes, that ended up being about 5-8cm accumulation. Needless to say, the town shut down. The streets were deserted, next to no pedestrians, and a couple of friends emailed to check that I was alright. So very kind of them, but did I mention that it was between 2 & 3 inches worth, at most? But by this morning I could see the gritters had been out, as Scout & I headed out for our morning walk (only the second time I’ve worn my traction soles since arriving).

It was a very quiet walk – next to no one was out. What I could not get over was how beautiful everything was. I thought I had seen Orkney at its best, but this morning’s sunshine on the snow turned the town and the countryside into something magical. Snowcaps on the drystane walls, the bluest skies imaginable, and crocuses and snowdrops peeking up through the snow.

The snow is pretty wet now (it’s 3° and sunny) so it won’t last, and I know several of my friends found this a great inconvenience, but I am so glad I got to see one true snowfall here in Orkney.

When my Canadian/American/English friends were here last week, we were making more home vs here comparisons, particularly around food.

We all agreed the passion for wrapping everything in the produce section in plastic was annoying. (And just plain wrong. Reduce, people, reduce.) And I’m someone who already thinks we over-wrap in Canada; just imagine how bad it must be here.

With packaged foods, the amount (weight, volume) is always on the back. Why? What are they hiding? On the other hand, supermarkets here are much more diligent when it comes to the cost/unit calculations – they are clearly marked on every price card on every shelf. (Of course, that could just be a Tesco vs Longos/Loblaw thingy. But the ‘don’t tell them how much it weighs’ labelling is universal here.

All over-the-counter pills come in blister packs. All. Again, what an utter waste of packaging.

And on the other other hand, allergens are clearly marked, not only in grocery stores, but also on restaurant menus.