Well, perhaps ‘evicted’ is a tad dramatic. But yes, it is final – I have until the 29th of October to find new digs. When the owners hinted at this a few weeks ago I began looking in the paper and online and, exactly as last year, properties to let are few and far between. I want, if at all possible, to stay in Kirkwall, but am willing to look farther afield and am considering the Orkney towns of Stromness (pretty, pop 2,200), Finstown (only 10 min from Kirkwall, pop 440) or even Dounby (in the middle of the main island, pop <300).

Or what about Shetland? I’m watching season 7 of the TV show and it looks lovely. But it is much farther away – the ferry to Aberdeen is 7 hours. Seven. Or maybe an island in the west, or a town in the north of England? I’m trying to be open to all possibilities, but I really really want to stay here.

My CIL was here last week. I only met him for the first time last March, but he seems like a very pragmatic person, very rational. On Saturday afternoon my visitors & I were sitting around my living room discussing my options and people were encouraging me to look farther afield, saying it would be interesting to move somewhere new. But, by noon on Sunday, after having seen the town, even my sensible, matter-of-fact CIL was saying, “you have to find a way to stay here, Elaine. It’s lovely here and you’ve built a network.”

So every conversation I have now has changed. It used to be: they would comment on the dog, they would hear my accent, they would ask why I was here, and that was that. Now every conversation is basically my opening with – “do you know of anywhere I could live?”

Well, fingers crossed – I will continue to search every website, write every letting agent, and ask every islander. Something is bound to turn up.

Being a cruise destination port means a variety of impacts to a community. Radio Orkney tweeted this announcement last week. It seems that a cruise liner’s voyage was being changed/delayed in some way and they had to offload some perfectly good frozen food, here in Orkney. So the local council and the food bank arranged to give the food away to whomever needed/wanted it.

Approximately 500 people queued up for thirteen tonnes of chicken, chips, vegetables, ice cream, etc. It was quite impressive – the locals nicknamed it Chicken Galore, after the classic Scottish film Whisky Galore!, a film about barrels of whisky that wash ashore on a remote Scottish isle.

No, it’s not Spam. It’s the previously mentioned Lorne or square sausage, a uniquely Scottish breakfast food. My CIL had been jonesing for square sausage since arriving back up here in Scotland and Sunday was his last chance before heading back to England. Figuring out breakfast that morning was tricky – they were leaving late morning and the only restaurant open on a Sunday before noon was a hotel (we couldn’t be bothered), the airport cafe (one of the staff had been mean to my guests earlier in the week), and the groceries I had brought in weren’t going to be adequate (I had forgotten to pick up fresh bread at the bakery stall at the County Show, and there was no OJ – bad for my heartburn). Then my cousin had the brilliant idea – Tesco run to get Lorne sausage!

Viv is used to whipping up brekkie for a crowd (she’s a fab hostess with a big family) so she took over the kitchen. Thank goodness she did; I would have, yet again, prepared British food incorrectly if left to my own devices. As always, I like to make my guests feel right at home by letting them do the work. It was an excellent Scottish breakfast: square sausage butties with brown sauce and butteries on the side (one can never have enough buttered carbs at breakfast) with marmalade (invented in Scotland). My CIL was a happy man: he had built stone walls, had drunk Orkney gin, and had eaten a Lorne sausage – a perfect week. We piled 6 people and 10+ bags into two car-trips to the airport (it’s a 6 minute drive from my place), and off they went.

There was one sausage left so I’m having for breakfast this morning. I don’t like bread, so I’m having it with leftover potatoes. Dee-lish.

Scout had a great time with the company – she started out the evening on one couple’s bed, then headed to my cousin’s room and scratched to get in (they were already asleep), then went and peeked in bedrooms in the morning.  Everyone seemed delighted.

As people were filing out of the bathroom after their showers this morning, I started to notice bruising on all the women – what on earth was going on?  Were they in abusive relationships?  Had the sheep fought back on North Ronaldsay?  No, it seems they had attended a ceilidh on their last night on North Ronaldsay, and the dancing had been beyond vigorous, to say the least.

A ceilidh (‘kay-lee’) is a Scottish gathering or party, often in local halls or community centres, and they usually involve live music & country dancing (like square dancing but with cooler names: The Eightsome Reel, the Dashing White Sergeant, the Gay Gordons), and pretty much always involve alcohol.  Combine alcohol, dancing, and Scots, and things get physical, physical (my nod to ONJ, who died this week).

This is what my cousin’s arms looked like 36 hours after the ceilidh – those are fingerprints you can see, where her partners grasped (not clasped as they should have, but grasped and clung on to) her arms.  Her friend Maura has a bruise the shape (and size) of Australia on her left shin.  It was black.  Souvenirs of an eventful holiday.

*(Oh, and behind Viv you can see two gifts I received last night – on the left is a lovely large bottle of my favourite local gin, Kirkjuvagr Origin – a thank you from my wonderful guests; and on the right is a massive bottle of Scotland’s official soft drink, Irn Bru – a thank you from the Chinese takeaway for our order.  The latter is being donated to the local foodbank (Irn Bru is an acquired taste I have not yet acquired) and the former will be lovingly nurtured and consumed over the next several weeks.)

My cousin, my CIL (her hubby), and their four friends arrived late afternoon, after four days of serious physical labour building stone walls (see prev post), last night’s rowdy ceilidh (more on that later), and a stressful journey from North Ronaldsay to Kirkwall – the flight is only 18 minutes; it was the four hours leading up to it that were stressful.  So, first thing for the weary travellers? – wine, obvs.  Once that was done we headed over to the County Show as it was slowly wrapping up in the late afternoon.  We checked out the horses, the wool, the gin, and, interestingly – the Lorne sausage.  My CIL is Scottish, now living in the south of England, and can’t get Lorne or ‘square’ sausage back home.  It’s a pork & beef sausage in a square patty, and Scots go nuts for it.  Okaaaaay.  It was his mission for the afternoon.  After disappointment at the first few food trucks (they’d run out of Lorne sausage by noon and it was now 4 p.m.), he was becoming more and more despondent.  He finally settled for a hamburger, and the only thing that cheered him up was when we hit the gin-tasting tent (God, a gin-testing tent.  How good is life?).  While at the tent, we ran into a young man working there who had spent the last 3 days with my friends building the stone dykes, and whom I’ve known a few months from one of the tasting rooms in town.  Gotta love small town life.

We thoroughly enjoyed the show – it was very small-town, country fair, and a perfect way for them to wind down their day.

After some snacks and wine at my house (the afore-mentioned all-island, all-highland charcuterie board), we headed out to a local gin distillery that has the cutest covered patio bar out back (called Oot the Back – get it?).  On the way they met another young lady who had been with them on North Ronaldsay; we scooped her up into our little gang off to the pub. Again, small town life.

They don’t serve food in this pub – although, as an aside, every pub or bar in the UK sells little bags of nuts, or crisps, or snacks – why don’t we do that in Canada? – but at Oot the Back you can order in from one of the local takeaways and eat on the patio.  The gin cocktails were delicious. It was mostly young locals at the tables around us – I am not going to get into a round of second-wave feminism – I will simply say that was the smallest lace bra I’ve seen worn as a top out in public.  Dear God.

We headed home and ordered in Chinese food to my house for a late dinner.  I’ve mentioned this British custom before: last fall I ran into my neighbours as they were bringing in six pizzas, one for each person in the house, as opposed to the North American custom of buying one or two extra-large pizzas for all to share.  Well, last night we got out the Chinese menu, and each person ordered what he or she was going to have.  So, one person was having the crispy beef, another the chicken chow mein, etc.  It seemed we were going to share the rice, but each of the mains belonged to one individual.  It was very interesting.  On the whole, I guess it is the more sensible way to order takeaway vs our method of: get two meat, two veg, one noodle, some rice, and some chicken balls and everyone dig in.  But I’m more used to our way.  *BTW – they don’t have seem to have chicken balls here – yet another example of British superiority. Well, as long as you ignore deep-fried Mars bars and French fry sandwiches (aka chip butty).

My cousin and her hubby are transplanted Scots, now living in Kent. They are currently on North Ronaldsay, re-building the sheep’s dry-stane dykes, and later this morning, are arriving in Kirkwall with their four English friends.

Unbelievably, I can sleep seven people in my peedie wee hoose. There’s the master bedroom with a double bed, and the guest room with twins. Because I couldn’t get a double bed the first week I moved in, there is a cheap and cheerful single in the boxroom (I will sleep there) and again, unintentionally, I ended up buying a convertible sofa-bed (it was the cheapest one that still looked good). I did have to buy a little bit more in the way of bedding and linens. Not much, because again, without planning it, I happen to have more towels and sheets than I would normally have needed (okay, they’re the dog’s towel & sheet, but if I don’t tell the guests, they’ll never know. I did wash them.)

I did buy a couple of things this week – 2 pillows (on sale for a ridiculously low price at Lidl), a bath towel (a hideous shade of green which is why, I am assuming, it was so cheap) and even the facecloths at Tesco were four for a pound – perfect. I cleaned the house. I went to all the wee shops on the high street and bought local cheeses, meats, crackers, gin, wine (well, the wine was only local in the sense I picked it up at Tesco). I booked us a table at Oot The Back, a local outdoor patio pub. I cleaned out the car so their luggage would fit, if necessary. I had the washer & dryer on hard rotation for four days, the dog was locked out of several rooms to keep them clean, and by 9am this morning, I was ready.

I should point out, I love doing this stuff. This was not work. I love prepping for company, matching towels to the room’s decor and folding them nicely, preparing charcuterie boards (in this case it was two dinner plates of meat, cheese & crackers, as the only board in the house is a white plastic cutting board with beet stains on it, but you know what I mean). I love planning out activities and booking the perfect pub and finding sites to show off in my town. I love every minute of it. (Also, the car did need to been cleared out.)

So, we’re all ready. I’ve even brushed Scout after our trip to the County Show this morning.

It is 10:55, they are due in 30 minutes and my cousin has just texted to say their flight to Kirkwall from North Ronaldsay has been cancelled due to low ceiling, and the airline hopes to get them out sometime after Monday. Hopes to get them on a flight sometime after Monday.

Well, great. Yes, I realise that all six of them have connections they will be missing. They will have to find accommodation until they can leave. They all have jobs to get back to, and children, and dog sitters, and their holiday is ending on a bad note. But, more to the point, and absolutely worst of all, this is my weekend spoiled. Great. Just great.

Edit: 1:35 pm. I’ve just been advised that the airline has come through and they are arriving in less than an hour. Excellent. Disappointment averted – let the fun begin!

Post Script: My cousins and their English friends may read this, so I want to re-iterate – I LOVED arranging to have them come & stay. I am absolutely NOT complaining about the work involved. My Canadian friends and family know this is true; they know I was in heaven doing all this prepping and organizing. I hope these people come again in the future, because the worst part about having them come this weekend (other than the delayed flight) is the fact that they won’t be here long enough for me to really show them around.

All Orkney has been talking about for the last fortnight is the county shows. It seems this is the first summer in three years that these shows have taken place, so they’re a big deal. There’s a show (think North American County Fair/Agricultural Show) on each of the major islands, plus one in each of the bigger towns here on the mainland.

The Kirkwall show is the biggest and is taking place today on a huge park/fairground near my house. We headed over this morning and wandered the show. I had a Lorne sausage butty for breakfast (Scots are crazy for Lorne sausage which, for reasons I don’t fully understand, is square and flat, and that makes it special – okaaay), and then watched the sheep & cattle judging.

It is basically Farm & Family. Giant farm equipment, massive cattle, pretty sheep, and frisky dogs. There’s rides and concession, and the kids are so excited. Political parties (there was a white board at the Scottish National Party booth where you could vote Leave/Stay for Scottish independence – I’m not sure which way to vote), local shops, volunteer organizations, and lots of food wagons – I’m heading back this afternoon for the beer (and more importantly, gin) tent.

There is an island at the northern tip of the Orkney archipelago called North Ronaldsay, pop. 72.  Sheep pop.: thousands.  The farmers have ringed the fields in the island in a series of dry-stane dykes (stone walls with no mortar).  These walls are not to keep the sheep in, they are to keep the sheep out.  These sheep live their entire lives on the shoreline, grazing on seaweed.  It gives a specific flavour to the meat (and may do something to the wool, I’m not sure what).  It is a fascinating story.

.Every year volunteers come from across the UK and spend several days in August rebuilding the walls the sheep have damaged (sheep love to lean on things: walls, fences, gates), and my cousin & her husband are doing exactly that this week, along with 4 friends.   On their way home, they will have 25 hours in Kirkwall and are coming to stay with me!  Visitors!  Yippee!  Coincidentally, they are arriving on County Show day, so a large of portion of their entertainment is already arranged.  I can’t wait!

Scout & I walked past this cat this morning. He/she/they (we didn’t get into preferred gender pronouns) didn’t move, no matter how close Scout got – until eventually the cat stepped off the pavement and sat down on the street.

Several cars came by and she did not move one inch. Honestly, only her head moved as the cars approached. My response from afar was to take a number of photos as cars worked their way around her. Eventually a lady in a Renault Clio stopped, got out of her car, and shoo’ed the cat off the road.

It was then it occurred to me that instead of standing there taking pictures, maybe I should have hustled the cat to safety. I’m hoping the reason I didn’t do that was because: (a) I have faith in cats’ abilities to look after themselves, and (b) in this small town traffic moves slowly; and it was not because I don’t like cats.

Oh dear, this doesn’t reflect well, does it?

Tucked away on garbage bins, alley walls, curbs, and sign posts in Kirkwall are a series of Banksy-like graffiti. They started a couple of years ago and occasionally a new one will pop up.