A couple of weeks ago I was chatting with some people and was talking about the process involved in getting here from Canada. I mentioned the day I received my U.K. passport and said, “I was so pleased when it arrived. I was a Brit!” Without missing a beat, one of the guys there said, “No, you’re not; that doesn’t make you British.” He said it relatively quietly and I didn’t respond at the time, as the conversation continued on as we were all chatting and talking over one another.

But I got thinking about it afterwards. Imagine that scenario in Canada. If someone came in and announced, “Hey, I just got my citizenship – I’m a Canadian!”, what would any Canadian say in that situation? We’d say, “Congratulations!” “Yay for you!” “That’s great news – you’re one of us!” This guy wasn’t trying to be mean or rude, he obviously just said what was in his head. And technically, he was right; receiving my U.K. passport didn’t make me British. Being born prior to 1983 to parents born in Scotland made me British the day I was born. In fact, as I am older than this guy, I’ve been British as least a decade longer than he has. But it does make you think about how the Brits feel about their nationality.

Currently there is a race on for the leadership of the U.K. Conservative Party (and therefore the role of Prime Minister). The news has been playing this one video clip over and over of one of the MPs who is in contention for the role, Rishi Sunak. In the clip, from many years ago, he is talking about knowing people of all classes. He rattles off having friends of each of the classes, including working class, then pauses and qualifies his statement, “well, not working class”. Can you imagine any Canadian politician talking about the ‘class’ of friends or acquaintances that they have? Can you imagine having that conversation with any Canadian at all?

I love living here. I like the people I meet here. But sometimes I do miss the Canadian frame of mind.

Over the last couple of weeks, excuse me, fortnight, three different people have asked me the same two questions: what does a typical day look like for me, and what types of meals do I have?

So, I thought I’d share a typical day/week (when I’m not driving up and down the A9 being a tourist) in this post, and my diet in the next.

I’m an early riser (currently the long days are really helping with that), and the very first thing I do is have a cup of tea. It’s a religious moment – I imagine this is how smokers feel about their first drag of the day.  I have two cups of tea while reading the online newspapers and social media (I use Twitter as a form of news gathering – I don’t follow anyone I know, only public figures or news sites).  Then Scout & I go for our first walk of the day – usually 30 – 45 minutes.  We can head in any direction and be in either a park, country fields, the shore, in town, or just in this neighbourhood. So each day is a different walk.

Then housework – a half hour or so each morning, then I sit down at my desk for what I refer to as ‘my work’.  For about two hours or so I: work on my blog, look after my finances, reply to people’s emails, write actual letters (I have a few family members or friends of my parents that I write paper letters to, so that’s about one per week).  I also look after my women’s group’s technology, pay bills, research possible trips (I’m hoping Scandinavia will be next, or maybe an overnight shopping trip to Glasgow, Edinburgh, Dublin, or Belfast), and sometimes do some proofreading for friends.

Lunches are usually either bento boxes or buddha bowls (my meals must be alliterative it seems) that I batch make, three or four at a time, in advance.  I probably have lunch out once or twice a week, either local pubs or food trucks.

Afternoons we head out: often driving to a beach, hiking trail, or historic site for a walk – I listen to a lot of podcasts and audio books on these walks (currently listening to Kermode & Mayo’s Movie Reviews and Alan Cumming’s autobiography).  Recently more of our afternoon walks include heading into town to check out the tourists – I don’t know why I find that so entertaining, but I do. 

I probably meet a friend for coffee once a week or so. Ditto walking our dogs – we meet up with a different friend or neighbour every so often for a walk. I go to yoga twice a week and my walking group meets Friday afternoons. I probably have one ‘appointment’ each week: hair, massage, pedicure, dentist, etc… and I visit the library at least once a week.  I’ve started attending services at St Magnus Cathedral on Sundays.

Dinners fall into three categories: most evenings I make my dinner (will address dining in next post); probably once a week I dine out at a local pub or restaurant; and once a fortnight or so I get takeaway.

I have a few Canadian friends who set up regular monthly Zoom calls for us when I left, so probably every week or every other week I’m visiting with them (afternoon for them, evening for me), which is really nice – I’m glad they did that.  I am a member of a group that meets at the library monthly, also in the evenings.  But for the most part my evenings are either watching TV or reading (much like at home).  I quite like curling up on the sofa with Scout and a book, and I even set my computer up such that I have a YouTube channel playing music (I turn the volume on that way down) on one screen, and another channel with a fireplace on my larger monitor (I turn the volume way up on that one).  I even have the fire going in the summer evenings when it is still light out (because it is also still cold 😊).

I make a point of not looking at emails, social media, etc after suppertime.  A short yoga bedtime routine, then in bed by 11pm.

Well, I gotta say, re-reading that it does make my life seem quite mundane, but I suppose that most people’s lives, if broken down hour by hour, would seem fairly ho-hum.  Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I like gadgets. I brought my logitech camera with me when I moved here; I bought a RocketBook as soon as I heard about them; I have more than one stand for my cell phone; I just got a new power bank; there was that retro mini crockpot that I fell in love with (and use at least twice a week); I’m even considering bringing my desk lamp back to Canada when I return because I think it’s cute.

My latest purchase is probably too big to call a ‘gadget’. I just bought a sewing machine! It’s a Bernina 707 from the late 1960’s and it’s cast iron – often referred to as the Rolls Royce of sewing machines. Seriously. I didn’t make that up. I bought it from a lady who lives a few streets away by going on Orkney Merkit on FaceBook. I’m not really much of a seamstress; the last piece of clothing I made from a pattern was a toddler’s sundress for my best friend’s daughter’s first birthday. She’s now in her mid-twenties, so it’s been a while.

But when you’re 5′ tall, often things need hemming. I was taking items to a local seamstress (she teaches sewing classes), but that’s not all that cheap. I figure I can sell this for what I paid for it and hem my new jeans and fix the waistband of my skirt in the meantime.

So, yay, a new toy!

I signed up for yoga classes a few weeks ago – they’re pretty good. I have to keep looking over to see what pose the instructor wants us to do next, because ‘shavasana’, ‘tadasana’, and ‘dhanurasana’ are all hard to understand when spoken in an Orcadian accent. Last week, as I unrolled my mat and sat down, I heard something unusual. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first and then I realized: the instructor was chatting with a lady who had a Canadian accent (at least I think it was Canadian – if not, it was a very non-regional American accent). Clearly this woman was now a local as they were chatting about common friends. It was all I could do not to jump up, rush over, and proclaim loudly, “Hi! I’m Canadian. Will you be my friend?” I restrained myself. I admit I did try to chat with the ladies on either side of me so she could hear my accent. But, they were too engrossed in their conversation, then it was time to start the class. Yesterday, I wore my Canada Strong facemask into class, but I don’t think she was there. I will play it cool going forward.

This morning I got chatting online with a woman who is moving to Orkney. She had just signed on to rent a house just up the road from my neighbourhood and is starting to furnish her place. She was on an FB page and I replied that I had just been through the same thing and if she wanted, I could give her some recommendations. When she replied, she told me the rental had be a scam and she had lost her deposit. I felt so bad for her. It’s hard enough trying to find a place here without that added insult to injury. When I had made my first e-transfer to the Property Management company back in October, HSBC phoned me and some man spent a good 15 minutes on the phone quizzing me about the e-transfer, and was I sure it wasn’t a scam? Seriously, the banker went on and on, and just wouldn’t take my word that I had been in the house, had the keys, had been to the property management office, and was confident this was not a scam. Now I see why. Poor girl.

This morning Scout & I chatted with some new neighbours – last fall it was sheep in this field around the corner from our house – now it’s cattle grazing there.

Just had an interesting conversation with a young woman who lives here in Orkney. When she found out I was Canadian, she said, “Oooh, you’re so lucky! You’ve got Justin Trudeau!”

Well, I assumed this was a reference to the fact that the Canadian Prime Minister is infinitely more competent than what’s on tap in the UK (to be fair, a badger with a drug habit would be more competent than what’s-his-hair in Westminster). But no, she went on to say, “Trudeau is so hot. You are so lucky he’s your prime minister”. As if somehow we get to date whichever of our members of parliament we would like.

I was going to point out that in Canada we try to look to our leaders to work in the best interests of the country, that our prime ministers have significant constitutional responsibilities, and that, whether one likes him or not, Trudeau is a reasonably sensible man trying to do his best based the counsel of the cabinet, and so on. But before I could say any of this, she went on to say, “And don’t you love his new haircut?”

Well, really, there was nothing I could add.

Remember the cows blocking Scout’s & my progress around Shapinsay island? I posted a photo of them (see July 6th post) and my amazing artistic sister was moved to paint them. I couldn’t draw a picture of a ball, let alone shaggy horned cows in a meadow, if my life depended on it.

She is so talented – here’s her work:

St Magnus (aka Magnus the Martyr) is one of the big guns around here – there are Norse sagas about him, he ruled Orkney in the early 12th century, and was martyred by being struck in the head with an axe (bummer). They built a cathedral named after him, starting in 1137. It’s so immense that its spire can be seen from many of the Orkney islands and (on a clear day, or so I am told) even mainland Scotland. In the UK, most of the tomb effigies you see in churches are of noblemen and women, recumbent, in long robes, clasping swords, or bibles, or crowns. In St Magnus Cathedral, the effigy is a guy lying with his arms clasped behind his head, in the buckskin clothing of a courier-du-bois, a rifle by his side. He’s Dr John Rae, an Orcadian who moved to Moose Factory to be an employee of the Hudson Bay Company (in the early 1800’s) and the first person everyone mentions when they find out I’m Canadian.

I was raised Presbyterian, but am now an atheist. Even so, I like attending church. I think there’s something to be said for taking an hour out of your week to be quiet, and to listen to a (hopefully good) speaker talk about how to do better in life. And it’s the only place I can sing in public and people can’t ask me to be quiet.

If I’m all the way across the ocean, and if I’m attending church, and if there’s a 900 year old cathedral just around the corner from my house, well, obviously that’s where I’m going.

Years ago, my Mum & I had attended a service presided over by a minister we hadn’t met before. After the service my Mum said to me, “Well, he was a very good speaker, but I do think he went on about Jesus too much”. A typical Scottish approach to religion: go to church, sure, but don’t get all pious about it. Well, she would have liked this minister – in the four services I’ve attended, I don’t think he’s mentioned Jesus once. Don’t get me wrong, he talks about the bible, but so far it’s all been Isaiah, and living with change in our lives. No Jesus.

The attendance is a mix of regular locals and tourists; I guess I won’t know until the fall how many are regular congregants. Although, in many cases you can tell the tourists – most Presbyterians don’t wear knapsacks to church.

I’m enjoying the services: the sermons are interesting and thought-provoking; there is something called a contemporary reading from a current book; he has referenced Chagall, Nietzsche, and fractals; and listening to a choir in that massive, vaulted nave is just wonderful. My only complaint is that each week we say a different version of the Lord’s Prayer – so far we’ve said four different versions and I haven’t recognized a single one of them – today’s was the worst, some sort of modern re-imagining. I’m a traditionalist – progress in the church is all very well and good as long as it leads to women ministers or gay marriage, but let us be clear here: the phrase is ‘give us this day our daily bread’ not ‘meet our needs every day’. Honestly.

I’ve lost a shirt. It’s not an important shirt (yes, it seems I rank my shirts in order of importance – who knew?), nor was it expensive. In fact, it was a tank top that I bought in France when my luggage went walk-about, and which British Air paid for. So technically, it is a free shirt.

But it irks me that I can’t find it. It used to irk me if and when this happened in Milton, but at least then I had several dressers, at least three closets, a laundry room, and even basement shelves with luggage on them for clothes to end up in. Eventually I found things.

I definitely have seen it here at home since my last trip south, and it’s not like I’ve been having a wild social life, arriving home in the morning after a night of pub-crawling, bits of underclothes stuffed into my purse. So I feel safe in saying I haven’t left it in anyone’s home. I do remember in my twenties, when my little Chevette didn’t have A/C, I was in the habit of slipping my pantihose off in the Bank’s parking lot before getting into rush hour traffic on a hot summer’s day, but the temperature here still hasn’t hit 16°, so I’m keeping clothes on, not taking them off. I did try on a pair of shoes at Begg’s on the high street last month, but I usually keep my shirt on when trying on shoes.

I doubt that one of my neighbours peeked over the hedge, saw a royal blue tank top and thought, “I just have to have that”, before slipping though the shrubs and snatching it off the line.

Scout wouldn’t have taken it; she likes to carry my socks around in her mouth, but only socks. I only have one dresser, two closets, a rail of fall & winter coats, and a laundry hamper. Where on earth could it be?

I know it shouldn’t matter; it was free, I wasn’t all that fond of it, and I do have other tank tops, but it just bugs me. The search continues.

Milk comes in 1.13 litre (= 2 pints – these Brits really resent metric measurements; they seem to think it’s the EU imposing their bureaucratic ways on them) or 1/2 litre(ish) square plastic jugs. I only use milk in my tea (or an occasional mac & cheese recipe), so I usually buy the little ones.

I don’t like loose open containers of dried food in my cupboards – I think they’re messy and they spill easily. So when I open a packet of rice, or lentils or beans, I pour the remainder into these washed-clean little jugs. They’re also great for making dressings, etc…

LL was so impressed with them, she took a half a dozen home with her for her new RV (they went into the part of the suitcase that had housed all the ramen on the way over here, I suppose).

But, while I like their convenience, and I do re-purpose them and re-cycle those I don’t need, I’m not crazy about using plastic. I noticed this Milk Refill Station in the local grocer & general store. Well, this is genius! You buy the bottle, and then re-use and refill. And, it’s buying local.

Laundry day today. My washing machine and dryer each take much, much longer than back home – I have noticed this here and at my Uncle’s, and my American/Canadian friend now in Oxford confirms it. So it’s more ‘laundry week‘. I can usually get through two loads a day, but at three hours a load in the washer alone, it is an all day undertaking. (And I don’t like running the dryer when I’m not home, so I have to turn it off when we go for a walk, and then remember to turn it back on.) Today is bed linens.

I don’t get the British approach to duvets. I mean, of course, I get duvets – they are nice and cosy and warm on a winter’s night, and they look nice on the bed. What I don’t get is their sheets. As at home, sheets are sold in a ‘set’; unlike at home, that ‘set’ is one fitted sheet and one or two pillowcases (depending on the size of the bed).

My first week in Orkney, I went into Tesco (the woman at the local linens shop had been a tad snotty when I went there first – maybe she thought I was a tourist wasting her time by asking about bed sizes in the UK? – so I decided not to ‘shop local’ that day) and picked up two similar-coloured but slightly different packages that looked like one fitted sheet and one flat sheet (each with a pillow case) for my temporary single bed. Turns out I had bought two fitted sheets – the slight difference in packaging was due to some re-branding by the manufacturer – so for my first few nights I slept with a fitted sheet on the mattress, and a ‘naked’ duvet. I hunted high and low (including going back into the local linen shop) to find flat sheets, but to no avail.

My cousin was quite surprised when I complained about this. It seems the Brits simply use the cotton duvet cover as their top-sheet. Why, she asked, what did North Americans do? I explained, as she & I were wrestling the duvet cover back on the duvet in her Dad’s guest room, that we buy fitted and flat sheets together as a set, and use both on the bed. Well, what about the duvet? I told her that we bought a pretty cover for it, and treated it like a bedspread. What was the benefit of that? Why not just remove, wash, and replace the duvet cover when changing the beds? Why involve an extra sheet? (Did I mention we were ‘wrestling’ with a cover as this conversation was going on?) I tried telling her that our way involved far less work: strip the bed weekly and wash those sheets, and maybe strip the duvet every few months or so – less wrestling. But clearly I am in the minority in this way of thinking – I have yet to see flat sheets in Tesco.

*There was even an article in a British newspaper this week – a Mediterranean journalist telling the Brits how to beat the heat during this unusual heat wave: one recommendation was to ditch the duvet for the summer, and just use a thin cotton top sheet at night. Genius.

But, here at home, I continue to dread, postpone, then angrily tackle changing the bed and washing the linens every week (who am I kidding – every two weeks). It was bad enough wrestling with a duvet cover when there were two of us, but when it’s just me, well, FFS, life it too short for this crap.

Edit: I found super-strong, made-for-the-islands clothes pegs last month, so I am now hanging much more of my laundry outside. I went out just now to bring in the duvet cover – it was gone! It must have blown away. No, wait, there it was – it had been moved?!? It must have blown off the line and a neighbour saw it and re-hung it on a different part of the clothesline. Except, my clothesline is tucked away in a back corner of my garden – who the hell had been wandering around my yard? Had it flown into my neighbour’s yard and they came all the way around and returned it to the line without telling me? Or, I finally realized, it is an umbrella-styled rotary clothesline stand, and the wind had spun it around – way to go, Einstein. Paranoid much?