I’ve mentioned before that, in spite of almost daily rain and high winds, most Orcadians hang their laundry outside to dry. In fact, I have just learned that, in the north of Scotland at least, the umbrella-style lines are called whirligigs (your piece of useless information for the day – you’re welcome). Those who don’t have access to a yard with a line have racks hooked on to their radiators, or hanging from their kitchen ceilings, or standing in the bathtub. But many do have a dryer as well.

The washing machine is almost always in the kitchen. My Grandma’s was, as is my uncle’s, and mine. Few houses have basements and unless you’re building brand new, or doing a reno like my cousin, not many people have laundry rooms. In my house, the dryer is in a large cupboard in the centre of the house. The closet has neither drainage nor exterior venting. This is also fairly typical in the UK, and while the solution to the lack of venting is to simply leave the closet or kitchen door open while the dryer is running, UK appliance manufacturers have found a way to address the build up of water that accumulates from drying clothes.

The photo on the right shows my dryer with a removable 5 kg plastic tank that needs emptying every 3 or 4 loads. You draw the long, flat tank out of the dryer, carry it (level and steady) to the kitchen sink, and empty it down the drain (left). I’ve never seen anything like this back home, but it works a treat here.

I mentioned last week that I want to start doing a bit of a Julie & Julia: making one of Julia Child’s classic recipes each week.  I don’t see myself doing what that blogger from the movie had done: all 524 recipes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 365 days.  I’m modelling myself after a YouTuber named Jamie, the Anti-Chef, whose videos of a novice cook tackling some fairly complex recipes are terrific. Last week I made Julia’s Onion Soup – it was the best I have ever had (and I’ve always made a pretty good onion soup, if I do say so myself). 

I also shared in a recent post that because of my imminent move (to God-knows-where), I have been trying to consume all the perishables in my fridge and freezer.  So it occurred to me that until I’ve made a considerable dent in what is already there, I shouldn’t be adding to the coffers with Coq au Vin, or Beef Tournedos.  I do cut the recipes in half, but that is still usually at least two servings.

So that narrowed my choices.  After watching almost all of Jamie’s YouTube channel (Did I mention I’ve been sofa-bound this week?), I decide on Julia’s Garlic Soup (Aïgo Bouido), as he seemed to have really loved it.  And, it has no butter or cream (how un-Julia-like).  It was a very simple recipe, few ingredients, all of which I already had in the house, and took about 30 minutes to make. 

And? It was delicious; very light, just lovely on a cool afternoon. I would even say it was as good (different) as the garlic soup we used to get at Garlics on Richmond Row in London in the 90s.  Yum.

Can’t wait for the next effort.

As I said yesterday, I am following the prescribed treatment for bursitis of the hip: minimal walking, maximal resting, anti-inflammatories, and Scout’s lovely dog-walker is taking her out for an hour-long hike each morning with another retriever. Last night’s sleep wasn’t great, but overall the inflammation is definitely reducing.

A massive gale-force storm arrived overnight and this morning the wind gusts were reaching 107 km/h.  Poor Rebecca arrived to pick Scout up, covered from head to toe in waterproof gear. And off they went.

The came back 50 minutes later and she advised me they had gone back to the beach, so Scout “might be a wee bit sandy”.  She was; she was also very happy.  I took Scout straight to the shower, thinking a 2 minute rinse should take care of things.  Fortunately I did remove my sweater and my watch, because what happened next would have ruined both.

FFS, that sand was drilled into her fur.  Half a bottle of dog shampoo, two soap-downs, three rinses, and 20 minutes of wrestling later, we were both cranky, both drenched, and both exhausted.  (She had just spent 50 glorious minutes in 8°C weather, being pelted with spears of rain, and I was using a gentle shower head and warm water and yet you would think I was stabbing her with a pitchfork. What a drama queen – it isn’t that she’s actively fighting me, more passive resistance, leaning and turning away. But she is 60lb; it’s work goddam it.)

About 10 minutes in to this 25-minutes-from-hell-for-all-involved, I felt my hip start to twinge.   Oh no.

But we were only part way done, so I kept bending, and scrubbing, and wrestling, and swearing.  And once she was finally washed, there was the drying, then the shower-cleaning, then the laundry, then the cleaning of the bathroom (we have one more family viewing the house this aft, so I can’t just leave the bathroom a disaster).  Every step I took was painful.  Great, just great.

So basically, all the progress I had made with my hip by hiring a dog walker had been completely reversed by a walk on the beach.  You know, maybe a walk on a sandy beach with two long-haired dogs in a gale-force storm wasn’t the best decision ever?  Just sayin’.

*oh and Lori, yes, I did remove the shower trap and clean it out too.  🙂

A few years ago I got together for lunch with a couple of friends I had worked with in the past.  We hadn’t seen each other in a while, so it was quite the catch-up session.  I drove away from that lunch with one thought  in my mind, “WTF just happened there?”  My friends and I (all approximately the same age) had just spent the previous 90 minutes itemizing our ailments.  One had had plantar fasciitis since we’d last met up, another had been diagnosed with diverticulosis, and we all had horror stories of MRIs, or X-rays, etc…  I had shared my bout of, actually, in retrospect, I may have been the one with plantar fasciitis, who knows?  All I could think on that ride home was, I’m in my 50’s now – is this what it’s going to be like?  Every visit with a friend a health summary like the medical segment of a Reader’s Digest magazine?  So that day I swore: never again.  Never again would the bulk of my conversation be taken up in a recitation of ills.  It hasn’t been easy; since that get together, whenever one person mentions a doctor’s appointment, or an ache or pain, I try to find a way to introduce a new topic.  It can be anything, the Faroe Islands, or Princess Charlotte’s new coat, or the price of Grand Marnier at the LCBO, anything but old people’s ailments.

And yet, if I were to start at the top of my head, and work my way south, I could come up with a myriad of over-50 failings: from insomnia, to failing memory, to tinnitus, to weakened eyesight, to hiatus hernia, to, well, you get the idea – I could be a poster child for the aging and the angry.

Which leads me to this week:  trochanteric bursitis.  Last week I badly bruised the toes on my left foot (I am so my mother’s daughter).  But since there’s nothing you can really do for toes, and the weather was nice, I just kept walking.  Unfortunately, that led to a whole new problem – clearly the limping was irritating and aggravating my right hip.  I thought the best thing would be to keep walking, to keep it loose and to stay active. I took Scout for her morning walks in the sunshine; my walking group went for a much-longer-then-usual walk to see a new park that was opening;  and I just generally kept moving.

Well that was stupid.  By Tuesday I was in agony, a walk from the library to the post office (90 seconds on a good day) took 12 minutes, and I even woke myself up one night crying from the pain.  I went online and yup, it was something I had had once before, bursitis.  And the immediate treatment for a bursitis flare-up?  RICE: rest, ice, compression, and elevation (well that last one is more for knee or ankle; I don’t think lying with one’s bum in the air is part of the recommended treatment); I needed rest, not movement.  So instead of keeping it moving and loose, I should have been sitting quietly, applying Voltarol, and taking ibuprofen.  Then, once the inflammation has subsided, one should introduce a series of gentle stretches, and then, and only then, start walking.

So, I arranged for Scout’s dog-walker to come each morning, I took to the sofa, and as people came through to view the house with the realtor, I lay back and tried to look helpless (as opposed to lazy).

Well, it’s working – slept like a log last night, and walking around the house no longer has me screaming in pain.  Yes, I have reverted to whining about my health. Sorry about that. And it looks like Scout is enjoying her walks with her new friend, Breya.  (Seriously, she seems to be well over her fear of water, doesn’t she?)

This month is very reminiscent of exactly one year ago. I have to be out of this place in four weeks; I don’t have a new place yet; I have to arrange for movers; there are people in and out of my current house, and I’m getting nervous about everything. (plus ça change, yadda, yadda, yadda)

As well as movers, this time ’round I also have to find a storage unit, which I might or might not need (I have a line on a house in the next town over, but I won’t know for sure about it for at least a week, and I’ve already been turned down for one house this month, so no guarantees). The reason there are people in and out of the house this time: buyers coming to check out the property as opposed to last year’s cleaners et al.

Just as with last year, I find myself looking at clothes and other items and thinking: charity shop? or pack & keep another few months? And then, exactly as last year at this time, I am trying to deplete my fridge & pantry as quickly as possible. I mean, if it turns out to be a straight house-to-house move, fresh and frozen food won’t matter, as I can just schlep them to the new place in grocery bags. But that option is not looking too likely. Oh, but that leads to another potential issue: even if I do get this house in Finstown (fingers crossed), it doesn’t come available until three days after my lease is up in this place. So, then what? I and my stuff move into a storage unit for three days? Those things are heated, right?

So lots to panic about and lose sleep over. (Last night I woke at 1:43am and that’s been me up ever since.) Sigh.

*EDIT: No, I don’t know what that funny little OBJ box is showing up in my title. I assume the software doesn’t like les accents? (Unless I’m the only one who can see it, in which case, never mind.)

Autumn is officially here – the rain and high winds hit yesterday. This is the reality of island living.

A month ago I booked a flight to Edinburgh, bragging that I could leave my house at ten to eight, catch the 8:35am flight to Edinburgh, and be on board my cruise ship in Rosyth by noon. I wouldn’t dare to try that in any season except summer. Next October I am on a cruise in the eastern Mediterranean, and I will have to arrange my travel such that I will spend at least two nights en route in hotels: one just getting there, and one as a buffer against possible ferry/flight cancellations due to weather. The upside? At least Scout and I both revel in rainy windy days. Last month a friend and I took Scout for a walk. Lorraine is from Aberdeen, so no stranger to Scottish weather. We were halfway ’round the Peedie Sea on a wet and windy walk, when Lorraine started to rail against the weather, and how wet, grey, and miserable Orkney can be. I began to agree with her out of habit, when I realized, I didn’t feel the same way. I actually quite liked bundling up in a waterproof jacket and hood and feeling the stiff breeze against my face. Clearly why I opted for Orkney and not Madeira.

Having said all of that, I cannot begin to imagine what people in Newfoundland and the Maritimes are going through, post-Fiona. They desperately need our help – you can donate via the Red Cross here.

Last winter I found a little book in one of the local tourist information offices: Orkney, 40 Coast and Country Walks. So far I’ve done 14 of them. There is no way I will be doing all 40 – I can’t see myself catching a 90-minute ferry ride out to Sanday to wrestle Scout along to the Holms of Ire (only accessible at low tide). But I do intend to do all the ones on the Mainland (three to go) and south isles (three more there).

The weather this week has been spectacular – sunny and mid-teens – so I decided we would head over to The Knowes of Trotty. The Knowes of Trotty is a Bronze Age burial site and one of the largest and oldest in Britain. (In spite of that, none of my friends from the walking group had ever heard of it, and they are all either natives or have been here at least five decades.) It seems a ‘knowe’ is a burial mound, and ‘trotty’ translates from old Norse as ‘trow marsh’. Trows were nocturnal mischief-making goblins. So The Knowes of Trotty translate as the ‘Mounds Beside the Marshes where the Goblins Live’.

We met cows up close (they were on the other side of a fence, but as I know from personal experience, cows and bulls can jump fences, so I always walk very quietly and respectfully past them), crossed burns, and eventually were knee-deep in heather. It was a glorious day, and an absolutely beautiful walk.

This morning looks to be equally nice, so I’m thinking Brinkie’s Brae this afternoon – it’s quite a steep hike and yesterday I think I may have broken a baby toe, but it’s too nice today not to be outside. To be honest, the only reason I’m even writing about these walks (other than a chance to post photos of spectacular scenery) is because I am entertained by the names. Already accomplished: Yesnaby, Skiba Geo, and The Gloup. Still to do: Brinkie’s Brae, Dingieshowe, and the Kame of Corrigall.

On Tuesday the sales rep from the local realtor’s came and inspected & photographed the house, and yesterday I came home to this:

Well, I knew it was coming. I have only had two leads on another place to live: one was a 2-storey, 3-bedroom house on a busy street, closer to town. Same rent as I am paying here, but something, (other than the noise of the tractors and buses going by) just put me off, so probably foolishly, I passed on it. The second one was sharing a flat with someone and dog & cat-sitting her pets when she was travelling. So, no.

Here’s the link to the posting; it will only be up as long as the house is for sale, so I’ve captured some of the photos below. If nothing else, at least you can see how I decorated. I’ve saved all her photos – so much better than any of mine.

I have been very discouraged this week. I’ve been approaching this from both a rational and emotional decision-making process, making pro/con lists for staying vs just returning home (the universe telling me it’s time?), tossing around ideas with my sisters and my cousin, trying not to give in to wallowing. *The weather has been lovely this week – I wonder how my lists would shift if this had been cold & rainy every day? Just typing this has me sad, and you should see what a glorious day it is this morning – I should be gleefully planning a jaunt over to Rousay, or a hike around the Kame of Corrigall. Instead, I am spending the morning writing the Electricity board, calling the property management, and walking over to the town council offices to start the ball rolling on cancelling everything as of Oct 29. Oh, and I must call movers (even though I have nowhere to move to) and storage companies (for all my less-than-one-year-old furnishings). Damn.

Oh dear, re-reading this – I sound pathetic. First world problems, chickee, get over yourself. I’m healthy, I’m lucky enough to even have these problems, there are people in the world who don’t have choices. It’s not as if moving home would make me sad – I’m looking forward to resuming my life in Milton and starting my next adventure; nor do I dislike the idea of staying but in a different town or an apartment – things were meant to be exciting and different from what I was used to. So there, Lainey – already the mood is lifting. (Really, I’ll be fine – this was just a literary pity-party).

They’re asking £175,000. Last month there was a woman who mentioned on FB that she would love to buy another property in Kirkwall (meaning this house), and that having a renter already in place (meaning me) would be great. We texted a few times – she’s not sure she’d be able to afford it – I’m hoping this is within her price range – I guess I’ll find out soon!

Anyhoo, off to start the moving process – more to come as things progress!

Yes, every single thing in these photos is less than 11 months old. Sigh.

I am easily motivated by what I watch/read (oddly, not by advertising – hunh). Before the internet, if I was feeling sluggish, but knew I should get up and clean the house, all I would have to do was start re-reading Agatha Christie’s 4:50 from Paddington. There’s an incredibly efficient character in it, and as soon as we got to the housekeeper, Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow (I still remember her name), I would be motivated to get up and start cleaning. Seriously, worked every time. It’s like that with TV too; the Mad Men years were particularly drinky – I asked for martini glasses and crystal whisky glasses for birthdays & Christmas in those days.

Now I use the internet (more specifically YouTube) to accomplish the same I-gotta-get-things-done tactics: before houseguests are coming, I type “deep clean house” into the search bar and only have to watch 5 or 10 minutes of a video to get up and get cleaning. Ditto “productivity home office” – that has me sorting drawers or cleaning up my Inbox. And typing in “minimalism hints” gets the Marie Kondo in me purging stuff left, right, and centre.

I’ve noticed this year that books are influencing me in a particular way: I started reading Andrea Camilleri’s series of crime dramas – the hero Inspector Montalbano thinks a lot about food, so this summer I made a lot of pastas and seafood, based on whatever he was having before catching the murderer. And last week I took a couple of the Harry Potter books out of the library – they always make me want to have onion soup (Mrs Weasley & Kreacher both make a mean onion soup). So this morning I decided to make some for myself – it is such an easy soup to make that I rarely use a recipe, but, last night I saw a guy on YouTube making Julia Child’s version, so I went out and bought a bottle of brandy (it only called for one tablespoon – what else I am going to use it for, I have no idea; I hate brandy) and made Julia’s soup, following the recipe to the letter.

OMG – that was the best onion soup I have ever had. I mean, really. Dear God, that was good. I didn’t do the cheesy crouton on top – the soup was just perfect without it. I have been wondering how to spend these long, dark evenings this winter (last winter I spent a lot of time buying, assembling, furnishing, organizing, etc.. and have been a bit worried about what I will do this year). So I think I may spend this winter doing a bit of a Julie & Julia, picking out some of her classic recipes, and following them exactly (there, I’ve just found a use for the brandy – when she’s not adding butter to things, she’s pouring in glugs of brandy to everything). I don’t see myself doing every recipe in her book; that’s sounds waaaay too much work, just a few of the classics.

It probably won’t be that great for my health (she loves butter, pork fat, and booze), so I will have to compensate with very Scandinavian breakfasts (smoked salmon, crisp breads, cucumbers, and tomatoes) and Asian lunches (bento boxes, Buddha bowls, and lots of raw veggies), but I bet it will be worth it.

People have been asking me what it’s been like to be here in Orkney over the past week. It’s hard to say, the Royals aren’t really something that people here talk about. During the Jubilee in June I know there were a couple of community family picnics and a pipe band one evening, but not much else.

I think the farther north you get, the less people pay attention to the Royal Family. The King was here on Hoy last month, and that made it into the local paper, but that was about it. And, just as much of Scotland feels disconnected from England, Westminster et al, Orkney seems to feel equally distant from Scotland.

TV and social media have been full of everything, the newspaper’s front page was a series of photos of the Queen and her many visits to the islands, and yesterday was an official holiday across the UK. In Orkney most shops were closed, at least for the morning if not all day, and the kids didn’t go to school. One person on social media described being out in town like it was Christmas Day: no traffic and nothing to do but go home and watch the Queen on TV.

The only obvious difference I have noticed is the flags. In Orkney I would say that (a) there aren’t many places with flags flying and (b) they’re almost all the red, yellow, & blue Orcadian flag. I’m guessing that normally about 70% of the flags one sees are Orcadian, 25% are the Scottish Saltire, and 5% are the Union Jack. This week, everyone seems to have dusted off their Union Jacks, which are everywhere, all at half-mast, of course.