Note: Apologies for the radio silence but it has been an odd couple of weeks.  I have been keeping notes; I just haven’t got around to adding them to the blog. To help me keep track I will be back-dating the posts, so the previous few and next several posts will catch me up to date.

As always, this road trip introduced me to, or reminded of, differences between driving in Canada and the UK.

Roundabouts: My Dad was not a particularly demonstrative man (did I mention he was Scottish?).  Years ago, the day before I was leaving with my sister for a road trip around Scotland, I was surprised when he phoned me (he never phoned in those days; that was Mum’s job).  He said, “I’m just calling to say one thing.” Aw, I thought, he’s calling to say he loves me.  Awww.  He went on, “just remember, always yield to the driver on the right.”  Then he said good-bye and hung up.  Okay, so not the most touching phone call I’ve received, but you know what?  The BEST advice I have ever had.  Pulling up to a roundabout as a newbie driver in Scotland?  Just remember to yield to the cars coming from the right, and that you have right of way over all those on your left. Thanks Dad!

The UK does roundabouts much better than Canada (obviously, as they have been using them for a lot longer).  Canadians almost never indicate at roundabouts, which is so annoying.  Here, most people do.  But there are complexities: think of a roundabout like a clockface, and you are approaching from 6 o’clock – and driving clockwise, of course. You indicate Left if either: you are taking the first exit (which could be as far around as 12 o’clock), or any exit between 6 and 12 on the left.  You indicate Right if your exit is after 12 o’clock, but must then remember, once you are on the roundabout, to indicate Left just before coming to your exit.  Now, if your exit is anywhere between 11 & 2, people often Don’t indicate at all, at least not until they are in the roundabout & about to hit their exit, in which case they should then indicate Left. As any of my visitors over the past year could tell you: once I am off-island, I will have at least one stressful, shoulda indicated there, shoulda turned here, ‘sorry to everyone else’ hiccup at a roundabout.  But they are still a much more efficient way to move traffic.

Reverse Lights:  They only use one.  They have two reverse lights fitted on their cars, but only have a live bulb in one.  How peculiar.  I helpfully pointed out the burned-out bulbs on my neighbour’s and cousin’s cars and they both said thank you, but then did nothing about it.  This is also true for my car – when I took it in for its MOT (annual check-up), I told the mechanic I needed a new bulb, and he said, “No luv, you’re fine.  It’s still got one working.”  Again, how peculiar.

Police: I was driving through Carluke the other day and I heard a siren, then saw a police car heading towards me in the oncoming lane.  So I pulled over to the left and waited as they wended their way past me and the parked cars.  As they passed me, the officer driving the car gave me a nod and a thank-you wave.  He waved!  Seriously.  How polite is that?  I guess it’s just ingrained into every British driver that, given the narrow roads and the roadside parking, you just automatically acknowledge the cars letting you by.  It made my morning.

My Confidence: Obviously, as per my last post, I am still not the most confident of drivers over here.  But I’m feeling so much better than before.  My cousin’s daughter (also my cousin by definition, I suppose), was flying into Edinburgh to come to stay in Carluke to support her Mum.  I offered to drive to the airport (about 50 minutes away cross-country) to pick her up.  Viv asked if I was sure.  I said, “Oh yes, I’d be happy to.”  Now, a year ago I would have said exactly the same thing because my mother raised us to be polite and helpful, but, I would have been lying about the ‘happy to’ part.  But this time I meant it.  It was a lovely day, the hills and countryside are beautiful, and I was more than happy to make the drive.  Progress.

Note: Apologies for the radio silence but it has been an odd couple of weeks.  I have been keeping notes; I just haven’t got around to adding them to the blog. To help me keep track I will be back-dating the posts, so the next several posts will catch me up to date.

The reason for the lack of posts: a couple of weeks ago my cousin texted me to say that my uncle Ian was really not doing well and she was up from England staying at his place while he was in hospital.  I asked if she wanted company, and she said yes, her daughter was just heading back home to Kent and company would be great.  Well, unlike when my parents were aging and ailing and I could easily boot home to my sister’s in London (Ontario), living on an island precludes the whole “I’ll throw a couple of things in a bag and see you in two hours” process.  I shifted into overdrive and booked the ferry trips  (got a spot on the 9am for the next day), filled the tank with gas (no petrol stations between Thurso and Brora), made lunch for the road with the last of the perishable food in the fridge, and did three sets of packing: one bag for the dog, one bag for a 5-day driving-plus-visit trip, and one bag in case there was to be a funeral and I couldn’t get home for proper clothes ☹ (that one stayed in the back of my car whilst in Carluke, unmentioned by me to my cousin).  Cancelled a couple of social commitments (yes, I now have a social life) and first thing the next morning we headed off.

It was an absolutely beautiful day.  The sea was calm and the view spectacular (see below).  What a great day for a drive, I thought.  Oops, hang on there – the things you don’t think about.  This was a southbound drive, in the north of Scotland, less than a month before the winter solstice.  The sun hangs very low in the sky this time of year, which meant it was in my eyes from 9am until 4pm.  Splendid.  So glad I left my sunglasses at home; I’d hate for them to fade in the sunlight.  Relief came just as I was about an hour from Carluke, or so I thought.  The sun set, but then the skies opened up, and now I was driving in a rainstorm, in the dark, in Scotland.  Argh!!!!

I’ve said before I have a pretty good sense of direction and I know the route well, including that last leg from Stirling to Glasgow to Carluke: M9 south, M80 west, M74 south, then a bunch of country roads, to Ian’s house.  But I’m not an idiot, so ‘sense of direction’ notwithstanding, I had both my TomTom and Waze giving me directions for the last hour.  All of a sudden (or so it felt to me), both Sat Navs told me to leave the M80 westbound and get on the M8 eastbound.  Really?  Well, that’s what they said.  Next thing I know, in the dark, in the rain, I can see signs telling me I am going east to Edinburgh.  WTF? Even my spidey-sense is saying this feels wrong.  But what am I to do?  I am doing 100kmh on a multi-lane highway (my fellow travellers were all doing at least 113kmh, the actual speed limit), so I just keep going.  And going.  The Sat Nav is still insisting on sending me back to Edinburgh.  Finally, just as panic was setting in, it tells me to take an exit into a town I’ve never heard of.  Then it sends me miles through the countryside, before finally landing in a town I actually knew, and then to Carluke to Ian’s.  Bless my cousin Viv, she had wine chilling in the fridge, so after a calming cup of tea, we moved on to the more restorative Pinot Grigio. (Let us not belabour the fact that on that first night we drank one bottle of wine, the next night two, and the night after that we polished off three bottles between us.  Best left forgotten.) 

Back to the car trip – I survived, but I do not want to experience that level of stress again any time soon. 

I mentioned meeting a lady who spent most of her adult life in the GTA before moving back to Orkney a few years ago. We had a great chat comparing notes on everything from the 401, to banking, to customer service, to foods we miss from home (Canada).

Shirley made an interesting observation regarding that last point: salad dressing in British supermarkets. There is none. Well, not none, but in comparison to the selections back home, the salad dressing section of the local Tesco is somewhat lacking (seriously, one three foot wide shelf, with maybe four or five different choices at best). Shirley makes her son bring a few bottles of Kraft dressing that she can’t get here every time he visits. She also misses Renée’s jars of Caesar dressing, but as those are fresh, her son can’t bring them in his suitcase. We both agree that yes, homemade dressing is both easy and good, but also . . . sometimes you just want some gloopy Kraft Thousand Island or some Newman’s Own Greek with Feta. (In fact, growing up, we used to make fun of my Mum for having at least five different bottles of dressing in the refrigerator door at all times.)

Talking about this with Shirley made me think about something the head of the Community Fridge said recently: she commented on the fact that the Fridge is given lots of ‘nearing-best-before-date’ lettuce from the Co-op that is left sitting on the shelves, and it’s the last thing people pick up at the Fridge – and she said that’s true all across the UK when it comes to food waste. Shirley and I agreed, if they stocked more and varied dressings, maybe Brits would eat more salad.

So, it seems that as well as cardboard coffee cups (see previous post), there are other things you can burn in a microwave. I had leeks pan-grilling on the stove, so it took me a minute or two to realize the burnt smell was coming from inside the microwave. I had thought, “Potatoes bake well in a microwave; they’re root vegetables. Surely that’s transferable to other root vegetables.”

And I’m sure it is. But, a useful piece of information for the future: if you do not take off the long, thin, wispy root end at the bottom of a beet, it will burn. If you put three untrimmed beets in the microwave for longer than four minutes, all three of the wispy roots will burn. As in there will be flames. Little ones, granted, but flames nonetheless.

So, instead of a roasted beet salad with my homemade orange and garlic mayonnaise, and grilled leeks with a hot-smoked salmon garnish for lunch today, I will be having a bowl of ramen.

And I will finish cooking the beets for tonight’s dinner once I am done sulking.

These are my house keys. I feel sooo British, like something out an Agatha Christie novel (without the corpse in the dining room). I assumed these were just an uber-old set from when the house was built and the landlord’s grandmother had just taken really good care of things, until I went into the local hardware shop for some glue (that’s another story) and I saw a whole wall-full of blanks for cutting new skeleton keys, plus all the regular Yale-style keys. It was sort of like Canadian Tire meets the Victorian high street. I don’t know why these have stuck around here in the UK but have disappeared at home (at least, I assume you can’t get skeleton keys in Canada?). Last spring my uncle replaced his back door lock and instead of going all modern, he went with another skeleton key set, just like the last. Charming.

Or a ‘mee-crow-wah-vay’ as Nigella likes to say. When I moved into my house in MIlton 20+ years ago, I decided to get a built-in microwave, so I gave my old counter-top microwave to a friend. Then, being the brilliant procrastinator that I am was, I left it several months before thinking about buying a new one. By then I realized I didn’t miss a microwave at all, so I never did replace it.

Over the years I have used them sparingly – heating up my lunch in a bank branch (I once burned a cardboard Timmie’s cup in the Dixie Mall branch kitchen while trying to re-heat my 3-hour old coffee), or at my sister’s house (again, re-heating coffee). I once needed Orville Redenbacher’s Microwaveable Popcorn for a wine-tasting & pairing (the instructions were very clear; it had to be Orville to go with the Chardonnay), so I ran next door just before the guests arrived to get two bags popped (no wonder my neighbours tell me they miss me – they miss the comic relief). The house on Papdale didn’t have one either.

So here I am in my new cottage with a microwave. But I keep forgetting. I find myself still re-warming coffee in a pan on the hob (stove) before thinking, “hang on, I could have done that with the microwave.” Of course, I never do that with tea. Tea cannot be re-heated, and more specifically, tea CANNOT be put in a microwave. I don’t know why, but it’s true. Yesterday, I was halfway through my second choice for dinner because I hadn’t thawed any chicken (chicken with leeks had been the original plan), when it dawned on me – I should have defrosted it in the microwave. I had prawns for dinner last week and thawed them by placing them under cold running water for 15 minutes.

But now that I’ve mastered the concept of having a new toy, I am getting into the swing of it: the best are baked potatoes! Anywhere from 5 – 12 minutes depending on the size. Ditto roasted beets, celeriac, and turnip – this is great! Yes, I do realize everyone reading this is rolling their eyes and saying welcome to 1975, you Luddite. Don’t care – having fun!

I am finally volunteering in Orkney. For a variety of reasons – some mine, some the local volunteer organization, some COVID-related – it has taken me one full year to start volunteering. I am now doing several hours a week at the Community Fridge. Which is not what I thought it was.

Food waste is a huge problem in the UK (and elsewhere too, I’m sure). The Greener Orkney Community Fridge is not, as I had originally assumed, a foodbank. Instead, local businesses donate foods that are at or near their Best Before or Use By dates, and the Community Fridge makes them available to anyone in the community via their three ‘fridges’.

What we are trying to educate the community on is that the food is truly for anyone. Orkney does have a foodbank, specifically for those who are struggling with the ridiculous increases in the cost of living here in Scotland. But the Community Fridge is for anyone on Orkney to come in and take what appeals to them. There is no need to make a donation – the focus is on the reduction of food waste. The fridges are in Kirkwall, Stromness, and Dounby, and are borrowed storefront space, or community hall space, etc. . . The one I am working in in Kirkwall is the partitioned-off, storefront portion of ORSAS, the Orkney Rape & Sexual Assault Support services.

My job is quite simple: I pick up any donations on the day I am covering the Fridge (we don’t say ‘manning’, and ‘peopleing’ just sounds weird), weigh them, label anything we are about to freeze, and set out any dry goods or produce that has come in. Then, I sit and read a book, and as people come in, I answer any questions, and ensure people don’t take more than their immediate need. *There really isn’t a limit per se on what people can take other than only one packet of meat per person – but we remind the visitors that it is food for the whole community. So far, mostly everyone is very understanding.

This has been a great way for me to meet people – and on the days when we’re less busy, I sit and read. Lovely.

There is one challenge – I’m allowed to take food too. And it’s hard for me to do that. I keep thinking “this is for those in need, Elaine.” But really, that’s not the point. The volunteers are encouraged to take what they need too, to help reduce waste. Again, we’re asked to go easy, just like everyone else. Once I got past the weird feeling of guilt, I have to say, this has been great. So far, I have taken home one packet of meat per week (usually 2 patties or 4 sausages) from the local butcher, a bag of potatoes (which seemed to have gotten bigger in the car on the way home as if they were under an engorgement charm – I have a lot of tatties to eat this month), lettuce (a future post coming about Brits and salads), and apricot jam (one of the few jams I like).

Community Fridge – an excellent initiative.

I play four online games every morning: Wordle, Quordle, Worldle, and the Daily Challenge in Geoguessr. Fortunately, in all four cases, you can only play once each day (believe me, with my bad habits, that’s a very good thing). For the first three, you are playing against the system – for the last one, you are competing against others. My average Geoguessr score out of 25,000 is probably about 20,000 (that is a wild guess at best). However, this morning I ranked pretty well, and felt like bragging.

(It helps that I am playing it in the morning, long before the Americas have woken up – I’m sure by the end of the day others had squeaked in above me. But still . . . )

Where did we leave off? Ah yes, the much anticipated, hot water, good pressure shower.

Okey doke. New question: what is it with ‘half-showers’? I don’t know what the name for them is, but yet again, any time I shower in the U.K. it is not in a neatly enclosed, fully wrapped shower stall, but rather some variation of a ‘we-couldn’t-decide-so-we-gave-up-halfway’ washing station. I get that in hotels, if they don’t have a tub with a shower in it, it is easier to have a shower stall that can be cleaned quickly and efficiently by the staff, hence the walk-ins in the spacious, well ventilated bathrooms. But I can honestly say, I have not seen one single shower/tub combo in a person’s home here that is not at least partially open to the rest of the bathroom. See Exhibit A.

So, on Friday, I stepped into the shower, adjusted the temperature and turned on the shower. Out it came – all over the bathroom. All over. It drenched the toilet, and the floor, and the rail with my towel, and, well, everything. Scout chose not to come through to find out what the screaming was all about because that room is her worst nightmare too.

I got the direction of the showerhead adjusted and finally had a beautifully hot, gratifyingly powerful shower. I was thoroughly enjoying it until I saw the steam. Now the rant takes a sharp left turn and veers into the world of steam, ventilation, and mold.

When I visited my parents in their pub in Cheddar in the 80’s, I asked why all the dresser drawers and wardrobe doors were left ajar. Mum showed me her favourite ultra-suede purse (it was the 80’s) which had mold on it (poor Norma, she loved that handbag). Britain is damp. Always.

When I moved into the house on Papdale last year, the property manager reminded me to always leave the window open when showering. (That’s nice in January.) The paperwork that came with the rental included instructions from the town council on how to avoid black mold – again, open your windows. How pleasant. For a country that is plagued by damp, they don’t seem to have come up with any truly viable systemic solutions, just stopgap measures.

As I said, whilst enjoying this wonderful shower, I saw the whole bathroom steaming up. As with every other ficking bathroom in the UK, there is no fan. (BTW, this is not a complaint about this cottage – this is frustration with an entire nation – ventilate your homes, people. FFS.) Oh, wait – there is a long string tied to the wall running from the sky light in the ceiling – maybe I should open that and let the moisture escape up that way. Except it’s raining. Absolutely pouring. So that’s hardly the solution. Clearly, I am meant to leave the bathroom door open to let the steam dissipate. Well that will be fun when my brothers-in-law come for a visit. Privacy? What privacy?

Well, once it was all over and I had wiped down the bathroom, I was warm, clean, mildly pissed off, and ready for a nice cup of coffee in front of the space heater. Space heater? you ask – well, that’s next week’s rant.

For the last 17 hours I have been planning with great anticipation the first sentence of today’s post: ‘I just had my first decent shower in Scotland, after 13 months.’ I was so excited, both about the upcoming shower, and about sharing it with the world (or at least those of you still hanging in after a year of blethering). Hmm. Well, not quite as planned. Instead of an ode to the joy of a good shower, this post has turned into the first in a series of water rants. This series will cover (but will not be limited to) showers, plumbing, heat, cost of living, black mold, and Scottish insouciance.

Let’s start with today’s shower. Britain is a nation of bathers. I get that. But I’m not sure how, when they decided to introduce showers into their bathrooms, things became so complicated. In Canada, the most basic of bathtubs has a simple shower attached. All of them. And yet, here, well . . . My first Kirkwall house only had a shower stall. You would think therefore, that that at least would be straightforward. You would be wrong.

It wasn’t actually that complicated – it only involved one button, two dials, and a secret. If you didn’t know the secret (that after you pushed the On/Off button to stop the waterflow at the end of your shower, water would continue to flow for another ‘approximately 6 seconds’ – the shower’s words, not mine), in all likelihood you would keep pushing it in frustration, causing water to continue running and running. No, my main complaint about that shower was that there was very little water pressure, and the water didn’t really get that hot no matter how many dials you turned or buttons you pushed. So, for my first year here, all my showers were warm fizzles.

Imagine my excitement upon arriving here at the cottage and discovering that the water pressure was magnificent. (So magnificent that every time I went to fill up a pot or top up Scout’s water bowl, I was drenched with a wave of tap water). Imagine my dismay upon getting in the shower my first day to discover there was next to no hot water. That was all due to this little gadget, on the wall of the mud room.

Like many houses, this one comes with a tankless water heater. Again, like many houses, the owners have added electricity-saving timers and controls. After a couple of days of tepid or even cool showers, I went through the huge packet of appliance instruction manuals, but didn’t find anything water-related. I did find a nifty set of garbage-pickup instructions from Lockdown #1, but not much else. Then, at my landlord’s suggestion, I spent almost an hour researching the online user manuals for the Aquasystem ARB 18 Multifunctional Tank, and the TimeGuard FST24 Fused Spur Time Switch, but those seemed to be all about installation, not usage. Throughout all of this research, I did try pushing various buttons at various times, in hopes of catching the hot water just right. But, no, I simply continued with my chilly showers (I know cool water is better for the scalp and for my skin, but FFS, there is a limit!). Finally, my landlord & I agreed that he should do some more online research and get back to me. Which he did. Turns out it was one of the buttons I hadn’t tried pressing (well, duh). I got the sense yesterday afternoon that he was hoping I would pop into the shower right away and get back to him, but I was busy making Delia’s salmon with leeks, and Julia’s rice with courgettes, and had no time for showering.

So how did this morning’s shower go? More on that in the next post – now I’m off to meet some friends for a rather damp walk up the aptly-named Muddisdale Road.