It’s been a fortnight since moving out of my house on Papdale. I was very careful not to bad-mouth it or complain about its flaws in my blog while I was still living there, mainly because maybe the owners would see my blog (or a neighbour would and get back to them). I know it was a long shot; the likelihood of anyone here in Scotland finding this blog is minimal, but still, I wanted them to like me and not want to evict me or anything.

But now, I’m out (and they’re selling the house, so what do they care?) so I do have a few issues to share with the group. Right off the bat, I rather resented that, back in Ontario, the landlord is responsible for yard maintenance, and here the tenant is. I was paying for lawns on both sides of the Atlantic being mowed. The water pressure was pathetic, and the hot water took forever. One wall in the kitchen was fuchsia and when I asked the property manager if I could paint it white, or grey, or cream, he said, “Oh, I don’t know. I would have to ask the owners.” Really? I just left it and eventually became blind to the intensity of it, and to be fair to the owners, when potential buyers were walking through the house, more than one of them said, “Ooh, what a lovely colour.” Maybe it’s a British thing – maybe decorating trends are very different here?

The bathroom was directly outside the living room, which meant that when guests were over, we all got to listen to them peeing. HATED that! The carpets were impossible to vacuum; I finally figured out that if you changed a second setting on the hoover to ‘min’, it was easier, but still a challenge. Oh, and the driveway had a ‘hole’, a built-in trench that was lined with paving stones and ran along the side of the house (why, why?), which was nerve-wracking to a neophyte driver trying to back in and back out. (Even my movers commented on it.)

What did I like about the house? The street was friendly(ish), and there were parks within 90 seconds no matter which direction we walked (I really appreciated that). It was built to withstand the weather – no matter how crazy the weather, I felt cozy, safe, & dry. I LOVED the in-floor heating (I do miss that). It was nice cooking facing out over the fields and watching the sun set.

It was exactly what I needed when I first arrived in Orkney, it was how I ended up meeting many of my new friends, and I was glad to have it.

I make it sound like I tripped over a nest of baby birds. I just think it’s so funny that I went twelve months without coming across a single Canadian here in Orkney, in spite of every other person saying they knew someone here in town from Canada, and then, in the course of four weeks have met several Ontarians.

First it was my new landlord. He was born in Thunder Bay. He and his Scottish parents moved back here when he was four, so I wouldn’t exactly say he was a dyed-in-the-wool Canuck, but he is definitely a Canadian citizen. The day after I met him, I was in one of my favourite shops in town and the lady admiring Scout (with an Orcadian accent) mentioned she was born in North Bay and moved back here as a toddler. Seems she’s my landlord’s sister and their parents went about populating northern Ontario towns in the 60’s before heading back here.

Months ago my sister introduced me to an Instagram page: canadiangirl_abroad. She told me about this Canadian now living in Orkney who took the most amazing photos, and told me I should find her. Well, I did start following her and yes, her photography is absolutely beautiful – you should check her out on Instagram and TikTok. I often see her pictures and think, “I was there.” Then I think, “My photos looked nothing like that.” Well, last month I started volunteering (more on that later) and she works in the office beside us. She’s from Ottawa, of Orcadian descent and decided to move here eight years ago.

When I was house-hunting on social media last month, a lady wrote me to wish me luck in finding something and to say after 40 years in Ontario she had moved back here to her family home in Kirkwall. While I was living on the west end of the GTA, she was living on the east. While I was working at BMO, she was working at TD. And while I was living two minutes north of Papdale Primary here in town, she lives across the street from it. We met up for a quick coffee yesterday and after two hours of yakking have planned on getting together for fish and chips down by the harbour. And she likes wine. Really, it was like meeting a blond doppelgänger.

So, after a year, I’ve finally met some of my own peeps.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that I thought it might be a good winter project to attempt some of Julia Child’s classic recipes, maybe one a week. I was basing the choices on a YouTuber called ANTICHEF and my first two recipes were big winners: Onion Soup and Aïgo Bouido (Garlic Soup) – both delicious. I even went out and bought vermouth and brandy in anticipation of Julia’s recipes. I waited to get settled in my new house before continuing with my ‘project’ and last night I made Chicken Supreme with a mushroom cream sauce and glazed carrots. It was all very good. (I would never have thought to cook carrots for 30 minutes, but they were sooooo good.)

BUT. But, even that relatively simple dish of chicken and carrots uses so much butter, and oil, and cream. There was a reason it tasted so good. Much as I loved it, I really don’t see myself preparing a dish like this once a week – just too rich for my blood, and in a few cases, it would be two meals, as some recipes you can only cut back so much before the ingredients and portions become too small to work with. There are still a few I would like to try: her coq au vin, and boeuf bourguignon. But I think I have to re-think the plan.

Instead, I’ve decided to veer towards Delia. What Julia was to PBS, Delia Smith was to the BBC. My family already makes some of her recipes (I make her Beef & Beer Stew, my sister makes her stroganoff and her goulash). She is very classic British cooking and her most famous recipe is her Yorkshire Pudding.

I haven’t decided on what to start with, but I know the library has several of her cookbooks, so I think I will dig out one of the older books and try a more classic meal next week.

My new little garden has two gates: one leading to the main road, and one at the side opening on to the driveway. The first few days we were here, I would come out with Scout and check that both gates were closed as she was doing her thing. She’s not a ‘bolter’; if her lead slips off or the front door is open, she won’t make a mad dash for freedom, but she is curious and will wander off if the opportunity arises. When she was younger and staying at my sister’s, Scout would lead the prison break – she could find any hole (one was about the size of a cat flap) in their huge fence, and she, her brother Jenson, and cousin Charlie would be off wandering down the road.

She likes the new garden – even though it’s mostly flagstones and river rock, she enjoys nosing around the undergrowth, while I get work done inside. Imagine my surprise earlier this week when there was a knock at the door, and a young man was there asking me if I owned a big white dog, as there was one heading up the hill. But both gates were closed I said, how could she have gotten out?

Check out the picture, and see if you can figure out just how a dog managed to get out of that fenced-in yard.

Seriously, what was I thinking?? That a dog would somehow look at an openwork metal fence and think, “Well clearly that represents a delineation of property, and as the gate has been closed, I am unable to pass beyond here.” I actually said to the neighbour, “How did she get out?” while standing looking at the closed gate. “Um, through here, I would think.” Duh. (he only thought that last word.)

Fortunately, she had not turned right toward the main road, but was wandering along, sniffing the sidewalk (pavement) about six or eight houses away. And she came immediately when called.

Back home, I try to be diligent about my use of electricity, but I’m not really a stickler about it. I like having the porch light on after dark (makes the street safer), I like having one or two tables lights on throughout the house in the evening – I think it just looks nice. I don’t give a lot of thought to the appliances, and I leave the surge power bar on in the office and by the TV day and night. Even the thermostat – the reason the house is kept cooler in the winter is due entirely to my preference not to be too hot, and in the summer, the reason I don’t have the A/C blasting a chilly 18° is because of the impact on the environment, not on my wallet (it helps to live in a bungalow).

But things are so different here. The messaging about utility bills (they’re called ‘rates’ here) is both overt and insidious. The cost of maintaining a house is all people talk about. Orcadians (and really, all Brits) talk about minimizing electricity costs more frequently than Torontonians discuss the cost of gas, or rush hour traffic.

And it’s not just articles in The Guardian about the cheapest way to boil water for tea (kettles use a huge amount of electricity it seems), or Twitter threads with tips on how to save money in your fridge (freeze blocks of water in leftover take-out containers and use them to fill all the empty spaces in the freezer). The house itself is sending you messages all the time – everything turns on and off here. There is a timer on the hot water heater at the far end of the house (in the unheated mudroom, which is tough on a cold morning) and it’s tricky to time it just right for a morning shower (or dog bath). You start thinking (and therefore acting) differently when every single outlet has an on/off switch staring you in the face. I turn off the microwave and oven (cooker) when I’m not using them, ditto the washer/dryer. Every night before bed, I turn off the power bar by my desk. The only appliance in the house I do not turn off daily is the fridge. So unlike my routines in Milton.

My landlord was by yesterday, and he commented that he was surprised I’d chosen to use the ‘sunroom’ with all its windows and high ceilings as my sitting room, and not the smaller, darker living room at the front of the house. It doesn’t have central heating in there, but it has an electric heater that I could turn on only when needed – much cheaper than leaving the central heating in the sunroom on. And he felt bad that he hadn’t supplied an outdoor drying line for my laundry. It’s almost winter here and it will now rain at some point every day for the next seven months, and yet Orcadians will continue to hang out their laundry. I said I was fine with the drying racks in the mudroom and using the dryer, but I could tell he was concerned about what that was going to cost me.

Honest to goodness, while it’s not ALL I think about, minimizing my rates is never far from the forefront of my thoughts. (Have to stop typing now, as I can see from across the room that the heating has turned off again – it does that randomly throughout the day/night – I think it disapproves of my leaving it running 24/7.)

I am noticing a huge difference in my ‘approach’ to this new home. I treated the last house well and respectfully: no holes in the walls for hanging pictures; I put rugs down in the places Scout was most likely to lie in order to protect the carpet; I handled the fragile blinds with care; (although that last point was more because I didn’t want to pay for new blinds). It was a nice enough house and I was well-behaved.

But this place feels different. I met the owner; he personally toured me around; it was his grandmother’s home; he showed pride in the improvements; and he has checked in with me frequently over the last two weeks of transition. And he was offering me a property he didn’t have to let over the winter, because I was in a bind. Because of all that, I am much more conscious of treating this house well. I made sure the movers were using the mudroom entrance with its lino floor; I have placed castors under all the furniture legs on the carpeting, etc.

So imagine my dismay on the first evening when I realized one of the movers had left little oil stains wherever he had stepped. Crap. What would Shawn think? I scrabbled around in the cabinets and found a bottle of Dr Beckmann’s carpet cleaner. Crisis averted! (It later turned out it wasn’t the mover’s fault, really. The garden here is full of shrubs with berries of some type, and the birds had been eating them on the front stoop. I have since scrubbed the stoop.)

Well, that was all very well and good, until the next morning, when I knocked over an entire cup of hot tea. All over the carpet. Not again. Crap, crap, crap. Tea can leave really bad stains. Out came the Dr Beckmann, down on the floor I went, and 24 hours and two applications of cleaner later, the carpet is as good as new. Thank God. That stuff is amazing.

The learning out of all of this (other than to set my tea on a sturdier surface) is that there is something to be said for getting to know your tenants personally. The real estate agent who rented out my Milton house last year did say, “Try to be as nice as you can to tenants; it makes a difference down the road.” And now I’m seeing the value of the personal touch. I must remember this for my next round of renters back home – maybe a nice card or gift on their arrival.

I remember years ago, when I was travelling a lot for the bank, I was asked if, due to staffing issues in one region: could I possibly take a normally three-day course, concentrate it down to two & a half days, and run two courses back to back in one week? They’d ask the staff to come in at 8:00 a.m. and stay to 5:30 p.m. each day with a half hour for lunch. And instead of the usual 8 – 12 people per group, could I take 20 for each of the two courses? Could I run the course like that to help with their manpower issues? Um, well . . . when I say “they asked”, what I should say is they told my boss to get it done. So, of course the answer was yes.

I remember on the Friday afternoon/evening, after five 9-hour days of teaching, plus another 2 hours of early morning prep and evening wrap up each day, I was to meet my then boyfriend for dinner. He picked me up at the GO station and said, “where do you want to go?” I just stared at him blankly for about 30 seconds, as he threw out suggestions. Finally he just started driving. We sat down in the restaurant He had picked one of my faves: Lucy’s Seafood in Mississauga, and the waiter gave us menus, then came back for our order. I just sat there staring at the menu, until finally Bill took the menu out of my hands and said, “she’ll have the mussels & fries, and a glass of white wine.” I still remember that sensation, being so tired I couldn’t make a simple decision. (The food helped; I wasn’t a complete zombie the entire evening)

Well, Friday was, as I said quite a day. Yes, I did have about 90 minutes in the middle of the day with nothing to do but read, but that came after getting up at 6 a.m. to finish coordinating, typing, and distributing a newsletter that was due that morning (it was sent out 48 hours late, but what are they going to do about it? They all live 5,000 km away), and was followed by cleaning every last inch of the house for the inspector. Then there was packing the car, all the snafus with the movers, and the unpacking. I had pretty much emptied my fridge of fresh food, and I had thought I’d order take-away for my first night. I realized when the dog nudged me, I had been staring at the three take-away menus in my hands for almost five minutes, just staring. Maybe just go pick up something at Tesco, now that I have a microwave. Put the dog in the car, drove to the store, and headed to the Ready-To-Eat meals. There was a man standing beside me with his kids in a buggy and after about two minutes with neither of us moving, just looking at the choices, he turned to me and said, “This is ridiculous, what does it matter what I choose, the kids won’t eat it anyway.” and he grabbed a frozen pizza and off he went. After another ten minutes of dithering, I ended up leaving the store with a bottle of ginger ale, some crackers, olives, and a packet of cold cuts (and I don’t really like cold cuts).

Not the most celebratory of first meals in my new house. The British word ‘knackered’ really does hit the nail on the head.

Truly, unlike last year’s move, which involved having a room built in my basement, packing up 20 years’ worth of stuff, navigating international paperwork, and the Delta strain of COVID, this year’s should have been a doddle. In fact, because I haven’t been walking the dog, I have had so much time on my hands so I really went to town from a sorting & packing perspective. And by the time the inspector arrived at noon, and the movers at 2:00, I had been sitting reading a book for quite some time.

First of all, I went with a local mover who was well recommended. I explained I was taking 4 pieces of furniture and some boxes to the new place, and asked the rest to be put in storage. The receptionist explained that unlike some storage rentals, once my furniture was in a storage locker, I could not re-visit my stuff. She said so more than once. So I was extra diligent about (a) separating cottage-bound from storage-bound and (b) making it as easy as possible for the removal men to move everything out.

When they arrived, I showed them which pile was which (I had dragged things together so all cottage-bound items were in a single corner of the living room), so they could load the items for storage first and the cottage-bound last (LIFO) and off they went. It seemed to be going swimmingly, everything moving very fast. They then followed me to the new house and started to unload my bed. ???? No, I don’t want the bed here, I want the sofa, desk, lamp, boxes, and suitcases here. Oh dear – they had misunderstood and the sofa and all the other cottage-bound pieces went first in. Crap. They could go to the storage locker, empty out the storage-bound stuff from the front of the load, then come back with the rest. But I wasn’t convinced they would get all the boxes right, and I’d end up with no underwear, an extra bed, and all the food locked away for the winter. And she had been clear: NO re-visiting the locker!

Could I meet them at the storage lockers? Sure, they said, and off they went without waiting for me to follow. Their business doesn’t show on Google Maps and they have no physical address on their website (to discourage those who wanted to re-visit their stuff perhaps?). So I called and got directions – you know, the kind of directions a local gives: Do you know Jolly’s, the fish mongers? Yes. Good, two roads downhill from them, you make a left then an immediate right and you’ll “be heading towards us.” Okey doke.

Got there, found them unloading and thought, great, we’re back on track. Well, no, not quite. It seems they misunderstood how much stuff I had (I had sent them a list) and didn’t have enough lockers for me. It’s now late on a Friday afternoon, they can’t find their boss, and I’m getting cold. Well, they sent me home with the truck with the smaller load following – I have no idea how they managed to store everything, and I’ve chosen not to ask. None of it has sentimental value; I have photos of all of it , along with receipts, and if, in April, things are missing, I’ll deal with it then (so Scarlett O’H).

Got to the cottage where they unloaded everything – the right stuff. Then I emptied my car, and headed back to the old place for a final hoover, and to pick up the dog. Back to the cottage, and started unpacking. And unpacking. And unpacking. Hard to believe I’m only here for six months. Then it was time for dinner – but that’s another story.

When I went to bed that night, I was too tired to even make the bed properly, or shift the dog. I wrapped myself in a duvet and slept across the top half of the bed.

6:00 a.m. on moving day. The property manager comes at noon, and the movers at two o’clock. Almost everything is packed: almost everything is clean. I’ve even managed to time it such that I’m moving on garbage day, so I won’t have to drag that one last bag of garbage to the new place.

Dave the property manager is coming at noon to inspect the premises, read the meter, and I guess just generally make sure the drapes and carpets and appliances are all in decent working order. The place looks pretty good – all that’s left to do before he arrives is hoover the living room and give a final swish and swipe in the bathroom.

Everything is packed except for the bed linens (I may be up at 6 am, but someone is still lying on the bed), kettle & tea cup, make-up, and a towel. There is a small bag of food waiting in the fridge, and I’ve eaten everything that was in the freezer except for an Orkney appetizer called Grimbister Cheese and some ginger. The last couple of meals have been interesting – because I had packed all dishes, glasses, and cutlery (I held back a silicone spoon/spatula, a paring knife, and a little side bowl), last night’s dinner of a chicken and sweetcorn meat pie was eaten on the last of the tin foil (works as both a baking sheet and a plate) with the spatula, and served with 3-day old wine in a teacup (I nearly found myself drinking from the bottle before remembering the teacup). This morning’s breakfast is the last 2 pieces of streaky bacon, with the last of the feta, wrapped in the last tortilla. And tea. Always tea.

No matter how much or little you have in the way of items to pack, no matter how carefully you compile lists, no matter how organized you are, there is always that one last box, three-quarter’s full, items still to be jammed in hours before the movers arrive, comprised of a table lamp, two pairs of shoes, shampoo bottles, a frying pan, and three half-used up tissue boxes. Ah well.

I don’t feel any sense of sadness or sentiment about leaving – this was a great little house, and I was so grateful to have found it a year ago, but it wasn’t anything special. I don’t have any dearly-held memories about it, except, I suppose, the fun of decorating it last winter.

It’s Wednesday morning and the movers come Friday at 2pm. I have made all the change of address notifications (thank heavens for online self-serve), washed all the windows, cleaned all the cupboards, and am doing a mountain of laundry over the next two days. Still to do: wrap and pack dishes, pots, glasses, etc. ; pack the last little suitcase; take recycling to the centre; and clean the fridge and stove.

When you only own 1-year’s worth of quasi-minimalist ‘stuff’, packing does NOT take long. So that has been relatively easy. Much like 13 months ago, I am existing on a strange diet of whatever is perishable in the fridge/cupboard. Yes, I could just pack everything in grocery bags for the 3-minute drive to the new place, but the less ‘bits & pieces’ I have to schlep, the better. And I do rather take pride in getting things down to the bare minimums (for example, right now I am having spicy lentil soup for breakfast). Don’t get me wrong – as you can see from the photo I still have a lot of food to transport: that’s all the pantry food (note the remaining Ichiban ramen – 6 packets of the original 18 left, thank you LL); the freezer is (or will be by noon tomorrow) empty; and the fridge is pretty diminished.

I mentioned that I am doing loads of laundry. Again, there is a specific reason for that; it’s not that the new place doesn’t have a washer/dryer, it does. In fact it has a lovely Bosch set, in its own laundry/mud room which will be so much nicer than the world’s loudest washing machine in the kitchen, up against the living room wall (our first few weeks here, Scout would jump up and run to the front door every time a load of laundry hit the spin cycle, because it sounds like there’s someone banging to get into the house). The reason I’ve saved up a ton of sheets, towels and mats that must be laundered soon is because of Scout.

My hip is still not up to walking the dog, so the lovely dog walker comes every morning and takes Scout for an hour. And one hour later they return here, Rebecca looking sheepish, and Scout looking absolutely delighted and covered in mud and/or sand. So, every morning I either have to rinse down her legs and belly and dry them off, or, if sand is involved, we both get in the shower and I spend 10-15 minutes soaping, scrubbing, rinsing, and drying an unhappy doodle. And then cleaning the shower.

There is sand on the little rugs, sand on the dog sheets (old bedsheets I bought for a pound at Lidl), sand on the sofa, sand in my carpets, and this week, because I didn’t pull the bedroom door shut as tightly as I should have, there is sand on and in my bed. I want rid of all this sand before hitting the new place, so laundry it is, and I have decided not to have Rebecca for the last two days, because I want to finish the cleaning today and simply cannot face tackling anything more after that. Poor Scout.