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.

Here’s what’s been happening in the news this week:

U.K.: Prime Minister forced to resign (yet again).

U.S.A.: Former president deposed in rape case.

Canada: The purchase/sale of handguns is banned.

A couple of months after I arrived, I met a lovely lady while Scout & I were out for a walk. Barbara was out with her dog, Bertie and we got chatting (Barbara & I did – Jack Russells can’t talk). She so kindly invited me to join her and her friends on their weekly walking group. I went, and it was the best thing I could have done. As well as having made some new friends, whom I run into in town, and enjoy chatting with on our walks, I have also been the recipient of so much good advice.

Thanks to that group I now have a card that allows me to ride Scottish buses (locals, not inter-city coaches) for free, I get a discount on ferries, I have found wonderful little parks & paths I might otherwise have missed, and I can attend events at the local community centre at a discount. Barbara has also hosted me in her home for coffee, as have a couple of the other ladies, and she has just generally made me feel so welcome.

When she found out I was house-hunting, it was she who found the lovely renovated church in Finstown for me to check out (they still haven’t got back to me to say if I do/don’t have the flat, and yet it’s still showing To Let on their website – realty here in Orkney is odd). She made phone calls on my behalf to acquaintances to find out about seasonal units that might be available, and she told me to put an ad in the newspaper. I really doubted that last suggestion as most people had made it clear that the number one way to find a home in Orkney was via social media. But I said yes, yes, I would apply in the paper.

I didn’t really move on it, as I thought it futile. But Barbara kept calling me (at least once daily) with ideas and each time she would say, “Have you contacted the paper yet? The cut off is Tuesday noon. You still have time.” Finally, more to placate her than anything else, I went to the Orcadian’s offices with an ad that said: Wanted: House to Rent, and then I outlined what I was looking for.

Well, guess how I found the cottage I’m moving into? The owner saw the ad, called me, and now I have a place to live. All thanks to Barbara. She really is such a good friend – I’m definitely treating her to dinner one evening to say thank you. I feel so lucky to have run into her that day last winter – she’s made such a difference to my experience here in Orkney.

I move in ten days. It’s only a three minute drive to the new place, but it is still technically a move. The new cottage is furnished, so I will be storing most of my furniture and kitchen supplies, and bringing only my clothes, bed linens, small appliances, sofa, desk, and desk chair. The removal company will be taking all my furniture and delivering the above to the cottage, before taking the rest on to the storage facility for the winter (this new home is only a seasonal hire; I will be looking again (!) in the spring).

I haven’t done any real packing yet. For anyone who has moved, you know you need to get started early, and be disciplined enough to do some packing every day for weeks before the moving date. Now, I have done a little packing: all my summer clothes, the deepest of winter clothes (which I’m starting to think could have just stayed in Canada – I haven’t touched them since unpacking a year ago), and the guest room bed linens are all in my big suitcase. But that’s it. I haven’t packed anything else, and I won’t for another six or seven days.

It’s not laziness. Or even procrastination (for a change). Every time I stand up and think, “Right. Let’s get some packing done”, I realize: I can’t pack anything yet, I’m using it all.

My bedroom? It’s only made up of a bed and a dresser. I’ll empty the last of the clothes (which I am currently wearing on usual rotation) the day before and put them in the medium suitcase, and strip the bed the last morning. The bathroom? It’s only the towels that I’m using, plus all my toiletries, which will go in the small suitcase the day before. The kitchen? I’m cooking with those pots, and dining off those plates, and eating all that food – the pots, pans, dishes, and cutlery I will box up the day before (it should take about 30 minutes total), and the last of the food will be transported in grocery bags the day of the move.

So there is no point in starting to pack – everything that’s not already packed, I am using. What I have learned from this is that I am currently living day to day here in Scotland (quite comfortably) with what I would have considered emergency ‘last minute’ supplies back home. Not bad.

• Oh, one confession: I did pack most of my footwear and that required its own super-size packing box. Oops. Imelda much?

I just called my UK insurance company to change my address on the car insurance, and cancel my renter’s content insurance for the house.

It seems that when you advise your insurance provider here of a new address for your car, they charge you £50. An administration fee of £50 (~ $75) to let them know you’ve moved house.

And as for the home renter’s insurance: I was advised by the rep on the phone not to cancel it, as there is a £50 cancellation fee. He suggested that, as it was up for renewal in four weeks time, just let the policy lapse in mid-November, which would mean no charge to me.

Now, I get why corporations have fees. I used to get so frustrated with people whining about banking fees, saying, “it’s my money; why do I have to pay to use it?” They honestly seemed to feel that a bank should just keep their money safe, make their money accessible, and provide them with recommendations on how to manage their money, all for free. “But it’s MY money!” Yes, and it’s your house, but you don’t expect people to come in and clean it for free. And it’s your car, but you don’t expect mechanics to repair it for free. And it’s your . . . . whoa . . . sorry . . went waaay off piste there. Never mind, I’m back.

So, back to the insurance. I had no problem with the early cancellation fee on the renter’s policy; when I signed up for the insurance, I entered into a contract with the company for a one-year period, and if I wanted to break that contract, they would let me, but it would come at a cost. Fair enough. And the rep on the phone gave me good counsel to allow me to avoid that fee, which I appreciated.

But charging a client to change their address on file? Seriously? What kind of a business model is that? Sigh, I suppose it is all part of the rich tapestry of experiences that accompany my adventure across the ocean.

Whatevs.

One of my goals since arriving here has been to see the Northern Lights (aka on Orkney as ‘The Merry Dancers’). I’ve seen them twice before: once from a train in central Saskatchewan, and once I dragged my poor Mum out in the car at nine at night to see if we could see them from the Forks of the Credit (we did, but they were just a few faint flickers and Norma was very confused as to why we were just sitting in a car in the middle of nowhere in the dark).

I arrived in Orkney just a year ago, the start of the best times to see the Northern Lights in the north of Scotland. But I was way too nervous to drive at night (I still think with horror about those treks to and from my uncle’s in Carluke in the pitch dark, racing to get to the ferry, but terrified of exceeding 50 mph, a trail of frustrated truckers, commuters, and school bus drivers dawdling along behind me), so never ventured out in the car after 4pm if I didn’t absolutely have to.

I am more confident now (note the qualifier: I am not ‘confident’, just ‘more confident’ than a year ago) and recently I’ve seen some photos on the Orkney FB pages of sightings of the lights, which are magnificent. There are even closed FB groups dedicated to ‘those of us that understand aurora hunting’. Okaaaay. It seems the desired conditions are: a clear night and a Kp-index of 4 or higher, although this far north, a Kp of 2 is often enough. Last evening was clear(ish) and the Kp-index was 3.

So we headed out. I drove to one of the recommended sites in Orkney (really anywhere away from the lights of Kirkwall and facing north is good) – Inganess Beach. It’s a single track road, past three farms and one stunning, massive, modern mansion. As we crept down the lane I saw two men out walking their dogs, and a couple of cars way off in the distance near the airport. I also saw a fair number of rocks that I initially identified as animals crouching in the shadows (no country girl, I). I pulled into the tiny carpark at the end of the dead-end lane, backing in so we were facing the beach, and turned off the engine.

And we sat. I had brought a podcast to listen to, but other than the sound of Richard Ayoade discussing his favourite meal, the evening was so quiet. It was quite dark: I could see the water shimmering, a few clouds rolling in obscuring the stars, and the silhouette of the wreck of the warship directly in front of us. I stared at the sky, and the dog stared at me. After 13 minutes of sitting in a darkened car, amongst sand dunes and sea grass, looking out at nothing, I thought, “What on earth are you doing? A single woman, sitting alone in a car at night at the end of a dead-end country lane? Have you not seen Shetland? or Vera? or Line of Duty? or Scream? Go home.” So I did.

There will be other evenings, the sun will set earlier in the day, I will monitor the FB pages and the Kp-index, and I will try again. But I’m beginning to suspect the Merry Dancers won’t be dancing for me on Orkney.

*Yes, that’s how it’s spelled. Spelt?

I got my British Driver’s Licence last month. Here in the UK you can drive on an international license for up to 12 months, but then must apply for a UK one. A couple of interesting issues came out of this process (well, interesting to me, but we all know I’m a nerd who actually thinks the history of spreadsheets is fascinating – really. Look it up.) .

One: It is ridiculous how much easier it was for me to get my new DL than it is for my friends in Oxford. Ridiculous. They are Canadians who have lived the last twenty years in the US and moved to the UK three months prior to me. They started the UK DL process months before I did, and are now only at the stage of having a provisional licence (and that was by the skin of their teeth to get even that far along before the 12 month period was up). Because their last license was American, they had to go through a completely different process from mine. It seems that Great Britain will allow people from a certain list of countries to simply replace their old DL with a UK version. That list is mainly UK territories, former Commonwealth countries, and a few seemingly random countries including Andorra, North Macedonia, and Korea. But not the USA.

Turns out this sort of thing happens all the time with the UK, Canada, and the States, where one country is allowed leeway or holds a different status when dealing with another’s laws. But not necessarily always in Canada’s favour. When we were moving to Britain during COVID, the UK considered the US as a ‘green’ country, while Canada was listed as ‘amber’ (and therefore under greater scrutiny and restrictions). And that was at a time when Canada’s stats were better than either of the other countries in question.

So my friends continue to struggle through sticky red tape. How frustrating.

The second surprise was the type of licence I was allowed. 95% of all cars sold in Britain are manual transmission – everyone learns to drive stick. When I went to apply for the new DL, I was given two options: I could do a road test and get a blanket DL that allowed me to drive any automobile, or I could just apply for the Canadian DL to be swapped for a British one, in which case I would be issued a license limiting me to automatic transmissions only. I opted for the latter (I have driven a stick-shift maybe a dozen times in my life, and never on the lefthand side of the road), so I received my DL in the mail within 10 days.

Who thinks this stuff up?

So, my new home.  Well, there are just so many things about it that appeal.  It doesn’t have a street number, it has a name (that’s just so UK).  It’s not a house, it’s a cottage (or so the name tells me – looks like a house to me).  It has a flagstone path (dangerously slippy, but let’s not dwell on the dangers right now) surrounded by flowering shrubs and hedges.  There is a little wooden gate with a quaint little latch, and the roof is made of slate.  Brand new slate as the owners just had it re-roofed – the romantic in me loves the slate, the pragmatist appreciates its modernity.

My friends in Oxford live in a lovely old red brick house on a quiet street, with a steeply sloped slate roof, and a blue door.  And yes, I have been rather envious up until now.  Now, let us acknowledge I am still in the north of Scotland and there is only so much you can do with pebble-dash.  So, it may not have the cachet of a canal-side country house,  but nonetheless, it’s my bonnie, peedie hoose (for the time being) and I’m that chuffed about it.