I had the oddest experience on my way home from York.  I had booked at an inn I’ve stayed at a couple of times before: The Boat Country Inn in Boat of Garten (yes, the name of the town is Boat of Garten – I don’t know why a town in the middle of the mountains would be called Boat of anything).

I arrived late afternoon, tired and maybe even a tad frazzled; it had been a long drive from the York Bus Station to the Cairngorms.  And I knew Scout needed a pee break before we checked in.  So I walked into the hotel, intending to ask if I could leave my little wheelie case in the lobby and come back in 5 minutes.

As I grappled dog and bag in the front door, before I could say a word, the host popped up from her desk, hurried over to me, and first words out of her mouth weren’t “can I help you with that” or “welcome to The Boat Inn” or anything like that.  No, her first words were, “Would you like your cocktail with your dinner, or right away?”

Well, needless to say I was startled, but fortunately I knew the answer to that question: “Right away, please.  Well, after seeing to the dog.”  When we returned to the lobby, perplexed but more pulled together, a waitress came up and asked what type of cocktails I preferred, so she could make one especially for me.  “Um, gin, I guess, nothing sweet.”  “Got it, coming right up.”  I checked-in and took the dog and my little bag up to my room.  Two minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and the waitress was there with my gin mojito.  Okaaay . . . .   (BTW, it was lovely.  I would never have thought to order a gin mojito, but it was exactly what I needed after a long, warm day.)

Dinner was, as always in their restaurant, very good.  They asked me what time I wanted my breakfast (I didn’t remember having booked breakfast, but I thought, what the heck, instead of stopping for coffee and a roll en route, why not enjoy a leisurely breakfast – I paid for that the next afternoon when there were roadworks on the way to the ferry and time was getting tight).

I hadn’t really looked around my room all that much, but just before bed I noticed that the iced bucket with a bottle of champagne was ‘sweating’ puddles all over the desk.  Why did I have an iced bucket of champagne in my room?  With two flutes?  I’m sure that hadn’t happened last time I stayed here. Didn’t give it another thought until checkout when the host asked if I had taken my champagne (I hadn’t, so of course I went back and found a place for it in my bag).

This was all very strange.  Why were they boozing me up?  Why was breakfast free?  I got home to discover I had booked one of their packages, the Lazy Sunday, and I had actually paid for two people(!).  I had found the price a tad high, but put that down to tourist season (and to be honest, it was still cheaper than several of the places LL & I had stayed at in May).  So I had forked over the £140 without any thought – it wasn’t so much that I had paid for two people as I paid the same as if two people had been there. I really must learn to read the fine print.  Altho, to this day, I truly don’t remember clicking on a package deal – I’m sure I would have noticed that.  But, hey, what evs, I had a lovely visit in a pretty town, dined well, slept well, and still made my ferry with minutes to spare.

I hadn’t been glamping before.  Well, it was hardly roughing it when my friends and I rented an RV a few years ago: feather pillows, steak dinners, evening proseccos, etc… In our teens and twenties CB & I would go camping at Ontario Provincial Parks with our high school ‘gang’, but we were poor then – it was the basics. But I’ve never stayed in a yurt. 

We arrived at our yurt overlooking the dales, and immediately were blown away by our accommodations.  Each of the five yurts has wooden decking all around, an attached wet bathroom, a hot tub (yuck – fortunately CB has the same opinion of hot tubs as I do), a fire pit, and inside a huge living area with twinkle lights, a skylight, a Franklin stove (I have no idea what the Brit term is for that) and even treats for Scout.  Who, I might add, disgraced herself one morning by chasing the chickens at the farmhouse.  Stupid dog.  Breakfasts were delivered to our yurts each morning, and one evening we dined from their delicious menu.  Steve & Jo’s recommendations for local (and not so local) attractions were all bang on.  I know I’m going on and on, but truly – if anyone in the UK is reading this, you can’t go wrong booking in at Cherish Glamping between Hawes & Leyburn in North Yorkshire.

After getting a lot of housework and and laundry and emails done, I sat down to read a book. Scout was with me on the sofa, and I read, or petted her, or flicked through some emails on my phone. Finally I thought maybe I should think about making some dinner. I looked at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock. At night. It was daylight outside. And it stayed that way for quite some time.

Oops, I forgot to mention my least pleasant moment in York.

As I said earlier, we saw a lot of mediaeval history. A lot. And by day six, I felt I’d seen enough. I mean, really, just how many battles, dissolutions, and reformations can one girl take? So I sent CB off to do the town solo, arranging to head in later in the morning and meet up for lunch; and I stayed in the hotel. I took Scout for a walk, I ironed my new blouse (a peedie wee purchase from the day before), and took some things down to the car.

And that’s when I saw it. I simply couldn’t believe it. It was my own fault for parking under the trees, I know. But seriously, what bird is capable of doing that? Were there Canada Geese roosting in the chestnut tree above the car? Had a pterodactyl flown over?

And I wasn’t sure how long it had been sitting there, hardening – we’d arrived two days prior and hadn’t moved the car since. But this had to be dealt with. So, after taking Scout for her walk (what was another 45 minutes of drying going to do?), I drove to the nearest Tesco carwash. The attendant asked if I wanted the drive-through or the self-wash, and while I was pretty sure the self-wash (or self-scrub, really) was the way to go, the two buff young men waiting in the queue to hand-wash their sexy sports cars were probably going to take a while, so I plumped for the drive-through.

I couldn’t roll down the window to key in the code and I’m sure the guy behind me thought, as I was opening the door to use the keypad, “Stupid old broad can’t even park right”. So, through we went (poor Scout hates carwashes). Well, it improved the situation somewhat, but when I tried to use some paper towels to remove what the carwash couldn’t, it was clear the remainder was pretty firmly glued onto the window.

It was a huge Tesco, so I thought it might have an automotive section (it did), so I bought a squeegee and one of those cloth, noodle-y, wash mitts. But what to do for water? There was still a whole lot of poo left. I realized I haven’t seen those squeegee & water bins we have at gas stations in Canada, so I couldn’t really head back to the petrol station.

But then I saw their outdoor gardening trolleys by the entrance to the Tesco, covered in pots and pots of annuals – and those pots were sitting in water! Filthy water, but water nonetheless. So I slipped the mitt on, slapped my hand into the pools of water, and slopped back to the car, to do what I could. After three trips back and forth to the flower pots (the buggy boy was very confused), I got almost all of the poo either off, or at least loosened. Back to the garden trolleys one last time to throw away the 10 minute-old, shit-covered, sodden mitt in the neighbouring bin; then back in the car, and back to the carwash one more time.

It was at this point that I spotted the windshield washer stand to the right of the car wash – imagine, a hose full of soapy water that would have just blasted off the excrement – oh well, I’ll know for next time. (God help me, not a next time. There can’t be two monster birds with a bowel condition flying around the UK, can there?) So we drove through the carwash one more time, much to Scout’s dismay, then drove back to the hotel to park in a wide-open section of the parking lot. An hour and a quarter of my life I will never get back.

And I can still see little flakes of residue every time I open the driver’s door window. Sigh.

After the Dales we headed to York. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess in the past I’ve found towns with a lot of tourism to be a bit ‘junky’, full of tatty shops carrying kitschy knickknacks for tourists. But York was beautiful. A walled city with a spectacular cathedral (please, Elaine, it’s a ‘Minster’ – the tour guides all made a lot of that point), museums, abbeys, and lovely parks. The Minster has survived for centuries and sits smack dab in the middle of town. I am not a religious person, and I do recognize that churches have not always been the tranquil havens we think of today, but there is something both sobering and uplifting about wandering around a space like York Minster.

But, much like Orkney, York’s history extends waaay beyond the Minster, so we saw walls built by Romans and sacked by Vikings; church ruins picked over for their stones by Anglo-Saxons building houses and shops; and even office buildings from the 1960’s that our tour guide presented in a whole new light. At one point we were perching on what we thought were large rocks in the park, but turned out to be Roman building blocks.

The weather was fantastic, the patios were open, and we even did a boat cruise down the Ouse River. It was also Pride Week in York and it was nice to see flags and signs of support everywhere we looked. We saw a bit of the parade from the top of our Hop-On Hop-Off bus tour; it was a tad more low-key than Toronto’s parade (York is a city of ~200,000), but still very upbeat and festive. Oh, and as Kirkwall doesn’t have a Thai restaurant (good Indian & Chinese, but no Thai), we ate at Zaap Thai twice for lunch – delish!

I absolutely loved York – if I lived in Britain permanently, I could see myself coming back again and again. But there is still so much of the UK I want to see, and I’m already realizing that 2023 is looming. So while I won’t likely be back in Yorkshire again, I would recommend it to anyone and everyone – so glad we went!

An old friend from high school and university is now living in Oxford.  Earlier this month we met halfway (well, not quite halfway) and spent a few days in the Yorkshire Dales and the city of York.  We started the week glamping in the North Dales.  No wonder James Herriot fell in love with this countryside (All Creatures Great and Small has been one of my favourite books & TV shows for decades).  CB lives less than half an hour from the Cotswolds, considered some of England’s most beautiful regions, and I have the Scottish Highlands and Islands just outside my back door, but we were both blown away by the hills, moors, and dales of Yorkshire. Every curve in the road brought a stunning new vista.

This was an A.B.C. tour with a vengeance; I saw more mediaeval castles that week than I have in my entire lifetime.  Years ago, I was in Belfast with LL and we went to the Game of Thrones exhibit.  I have never seen GOT, have no desire to see it, don’t know any of the characters, and, apart from something called The Red Wedding, couldn’t name a single thing about the series.  But LL is a big GOT fan, and I’ve gotta say, going around the exhibit with someone who was so into it was fun – her enthusiasm and expertise made my experience that much more enjoyable.  

Well, it was exactly the same with CB and British mediaeval history.  I have what might be called a working knowledge of people like Richard III, Henry VII, and so on, but CB’s knowledge of the Plantagenets & the Tudors, the Yorks & the Beauforts, and the Henrys & the Edwards is encyclopaedic. Her passion made places like Middleham Castle and Skipton Castle really really interesting and I appreciated what I was seeing so much more by touring around with her (just don’t get her started on the War of the Roses – seriously, I thought she was going to smack one tour guide upside the head when he mentioned red roses).

By now I am becoming quite the expert on the A9.  This is the motorway (sorry, I have since been advised by locals that it’s not a motorway, it’s a road) that runs from the very north shore of Scotland, all the way south to Stirling.  I have driven it 13 times in the last nine months.  That’s more than many of my Orkney acquaintances have driven it in the last decade.  

There are things I like about it: they have ‘Average Speed Cameras’ that monitor your speed over a 2 or 3 mile stretch, thereby ensuring speeders can’t just brake right before the camera; the views are always spectacular regardless of weather (except that one foggy day in April – I saw nothing but pavement and the tail lights of the truck in front of me); and there are lots of places to pull over, for stretch breaks with the dog. 

There are also challenges: from Thurso (or Gill’s Bay, depending on the ferry du jour) to Central Scotland is a 6+ hours drive (that’s long); I can’t stand night driving on a highway that is that busy & narrow, so in winter I have to break my journey halfway (that’s expensive); and Transport Scotland does not believe in straight lines, so I am constantly anticipating coaches and transport trucks coming at me around every curve (that’s exhausting).

We now have quite a little routine. Once off the ferry, Scout gets a romp either behind an Aldi parking lot or beside an old cemetery (depending on the ferry du jour); then we stop in Golspie for good coffee, clean bathroom, and lovely beach; and then a stop at the House of Bruar for a hike along the burn and lovely washrooms. I can now tell you my favourite petrol station (in Brora), the scariest round-about (Bannockburn Roundabout), the nicest washrooms (Bruar), and which are my favourite hotels (more on that later).

Last week I headed out for yet another trip south to Scotland and England.  I was catching the 7:45 am ferry from St Margaret’s Hope.  It’s about a 25 minute drive (less if you drive like the eejit who overtook me doing 70+ mph on a curve – after all that idiocy he ended up being exactly one car ahead of me as we boarded – way to go, genius), and my drive goes over the Churchill Barriers.  The barriers are straight and narrow with no shoulders, just one car lane each way, massive concrete blocks, then the sea; and the speed limit is 60mph.  Imagine my reaction when an orca jumped straight out of the water just ahead and to the right of my car, before plunging back under the waves. Yes, I shouted, which woke Scout up, but despite all instincts to the contrary, I didn’t swerve and more to the point, I didn’t drive into the sea. 

My first Orcadian Orca.

I’ve stayed at the European hotel chain Ibis many times; they are always clean and inexpensive and, for all that they’re not exactly luxurious, I like the decor. It’s very northern European: clean lines, light colours, functional while still being attractive and welcoming. So for LL’s last two nights in Scotland, I booked us in at the Ibis on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

I chose it for several reasons: it allowed dogs, it was cheap, and it was: near the motorway; near the airport; near shopping; near a train station that would take us into downtown Glasgow; and near The Lang Whang, a road that would take me to my uncle’s after LL left. (the ‘Lang Whang’ is a lovely drive over moorland across Scotland, aka the A70)

Well. When we walked into our room, we were a tad surprised. It was all Ibis: light colours, streamlined, inexpensive. It was also quite barren. And small. Apart from our cabin on our first river cruise, LL & I have never stayed in a room this small. (Even the Class C RV we rented years ago was roomier that this).

And it was also very, um, hospital-like. Pale green walls, a waist-high railing around the room (never did figure that one out – it can’t just have been aesthetics – there was not one single item in that room that wasn’t fully functional and utilitarian), skinny, high beds remarkably like gurneys. There was even a little panel between the two beds at ‘face-level’ – their idea of giving us each some privacy, I guess. The sink was in the room, the toilet had its own teeny, plain, closet-like cabinet, and the shower assumed an intimacy between the guests that was beyond what LL & I are used to (frosted glass door with gaps all around it, opening directly into the bedroom). No tea-maker (tea in the lobby was free), exactly two Dixie-sized plastic cups, no hand-towels, just a bath mat the size of a placemat and two medium-sized towels. This room was smaller and more basic than the room I had in Credit Valley Hospital all those years ago.

The hotel lobby was very busy, very popular, very multi-cultural, and very nice. So in the end, no complaints. Just very surprised to end LL’s visit in the Edinburgh Ibis Hospital.

When I decided to move to an island in the North Sea in October, I was driven by two things: COVID & the feeling that if I could survive short days and a wet, windy winter, I’d be all set. Turns out there was an added benefit.

If I had moved here in the more obvious springtime, as the days were getting longer, it would have been harder to fit in. For the months of October through April, my accent set me apart, and people got to know me and remember me. I stood out. But now, every other person walking down the street or wandering into a shop or pub has a North American accent, and every local I met would have assumed I was a cruise-boat tourist, in Orkney only for one day.

Yesterday, as I was weaving in and out of the crowds on Albert Street (our main drag), I was hailed by a neighbour, and then by a pub owner. This afternoon I was in one of my favourite shops, which also gets a lot of tourist foot traffic. I was trying to get past people, saying, “excuse me; pardon me”, in my polite Canadian accent, sounding, I am sure, exactly like many of them. But when I got to the front of the line to pay, the clerk said, “hiya, did you friend get back home okay?” and the clerk behind him asked, “How’s Scout?” And one of the bus drivers waved to me at the zebra crossing.

(I do know it sounds nuts to keep harping on about being ‘one of them’, but I’m on the other side of the ocean from friends and family, I’m on my own, and, well, anything that makes me feel more a part of a community matters.)