I’ve mentioned before that because in-floor heating, while wonderful in many ways, is a very slow way to change the temperature in one’s house, I stopped using it as of May. That’s mainly because my living room and kitchen face south with huge picture windows, so the afternoons and often evenings can be quite warm. And, because it’s light until after 11, and again by 4am, I have to leave the curtains closed in my bedroom. But, if I were to put the heat on in the evening in preparation for the morning chill, I would be sleeping in a stuffy room and sweating each afternoon. So, the heat is off and I’m living with wild temperature swings throughout the day.

Therefore, in order to cool the house down and air it out, I have to open my windows in the afternoons. In the UK they don’t have window screens, or A/C, so everyone just opens their windows to the open air. My cousin leaves her French doors wide open from March on – her garden is absolutely lovely, so it is quite nice to have this additional ‘room’ to wander in and out of, and look out on to. But still, it feels weird to my North American sensibilities.

Open windows lead to a whole new set of challenges. Insects. It’s not like Australia, with monster cockroaches or poisonous snakes, but there are bugs. House flies, mosquitos, etc… It seems to be a non-issue here in the sense that no one mentions the incoming insects, or seems to care. And it’s not just bugs. Last month a bird flew into my patio door; if that door had been open, it would have flown right into the house. And I’m constantly hearing people on the radio talk about neighbourhood cats wandering into their houses and either getting comfortable on the sofa or getting into fights with the house pets who already live there.

The best work around I’ve found is to partially open the patio door and pull the floor-length curtain in front of the opening. There’s air coming in (and yes, some bugs), but no obvious invitation to the local cats and birds. But it just seems to me – get screens. Seriously.

Maps and jigsaw puzzles. One is an interest; one is an addiction. I have loved one all my life, and have come to love the other over the last few years.

When I was eight or nine, for some reason I was out with my Dad as he was running errands and at one point we pulled into a parking lot and, lo and behold, there was a huge sign saying, ‘Atlas’. OMG, an entire store devoted to maps and atlases! Imagine! Yes, well, imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a store that sold tires and automotive parts. The sorrows we carry with us from childhood.

Even with SatNav, I have to have a roadmap in the car. Driving down to South Carolina, we didn’t have my handy Rand McNally Road Map, and each time the GPS said to turn in a direction that sounded counter-intuitive, I grew more and more frustrated (which entertained my passenger to no end). Once we arrived I made our host drive me from store to gas station to supermarket all over Hilton Head until I found one. Whew, vacation salvaged.

That’s the love of my life, now on to my addiction. I can go months without doing a jigsaw puzzle. Not even think about it. But the minute one is set up on the dining room table, I can’t leave it alone. It’s like an itch, or a loose tooth; even when you know it is time to stop, you just can’t. There are times when I have woken up with a kink in my lower back from hovering over the table all evening, and I still won’t stop.

I have purposely avoided jigsaws since arriving in Orkney: (a) because my dining table isn’t all that big, and (b) because I’m afraid I’d never leave the house. Well, last month LL & I were in a lovely shop in Fort Augustus, and she pointed out these Mazzles (yes, Elaine, it is entirely LL’s fault – she held the gun to your head until you bought it). A mazzle, it seems, is a map-jigsaw puzzle. They had Loch Lomond, The Munros (that’s all the mountains in Scotland over 3,000 feet – ‘bagging the Munros’ is a thing here), and The Cairngorms. The Cairngorms are the beautiful mountains I drive through every time I go south, so that’s the one I bought.

Oh dear. It is hard. And I can’t stop. The photo is Day One (which was June 22 according to Google Photos) and it’s ten days later and I’m still not done. The grunt of disgust I hear from Scout when she sees me head over to the table is annoying – who is she to judge me?

My goal is to finish by the end of the weekend. And to NOT buy another one until the long winter nights start to close in.

What was in the package that I had to pick up at the Royal Mail, you ask? Well, no surprise; I have the best friends in the world. A very dear friend (any friend who offers to come and clean your house from top to bottom before you move is an absolute BFF) wanted me to have a great Canada Day. So she sent me a care package. I had talked about maybe finding other Canadians on Orkney, and having a July 1st get together, so MB assembled everything one would need to host the perfect Canada Day party.

As well as a scarf for Scout and a hat for me, you can see all the party decorations: paper plates & napkins, a banner, balloons, and flags. Plus: and I can’t say thank you enough for these added items: Club House poutine gravy, ketchup chips and all-dressed chips, and, of all things, PC KD (President’s Choice Kraft Dinner). I’m ashamed to admit the chips are already gone. Oops.

Well, here’s the thing (and this is going to sound sadder than it really is). I did reach out on FB, but there really aren’t as many Canadians here as I had thought (I have still yet to meet one in the flesh). I was going to suggest to my walking group (we walk on Fridays) that they stop by for a beverage, but over half of them are away this week. Yesterday was the last day of school, so my neighbours took off this morning. And, to top it all off, COVID numbers are way back up this month in Orkney. So, I’ve decorated the house, put away the poutine gravy to share with my cousin’s family next time I’m there, and am having the KD for dinner tonight. My playlist for the day includes Bryan Adams, Sarah McLachlan, Diana Krall, and Rush (but no Bieber). And I will use the rest of the decorations, the plates & napkins FOR SURE next year – and Scout & I will be decked out in our Canadian best when we go for our walks today.

Thank you MB, for a lovely gift – Happy Canada Day!!!!

I got back from holiday and found a notice tucked in my mail slot – they had tried to deliver a parcel but I was away.  Just as back home, they left a card with the phrase ‘your parcel has been returned to our local office’ on it.  So, I headed down to our local post office, ID in hand.  The conversation went like this:

“Hi, I’m here for my parcel.  Here’s the ticket.”

“Oh, no, sorry, we don’t have it.”

“But this card says you do.”

“No, it says the Royal Mail has it.”

“Yes.  That’s why I’m here. It says it was returned to the local office.”

“Yes, but that’s the Royal Mail.”  (I should mention, I was surrounded by all sorts of government postal and mail signage, books of stamps, pictures of the queen, people standing in windowed cubicles, the whole nine yards.)  “We’re the Post Office.”

“Huh?”

“We’re the Post Office.  The Royal Mail is the mail carriers and so on. That’s not us.”

“R-i-i-i-ght.” Pause.  “So what do I do?”

“Just go to the Royal Mail.  It’s right next door.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Except it’s only open 8am to 10am.” (it was 11:30.)  “So you’ll have to go another day.”

“Okay, well, thanks then . . .”

It seems the Royal Mail and the UK Post Office are two completely different entities in Britain.  They have different offices, different employees, and even have separate websites.  You give your mail to the Post Office (who sells you the stamps and takes your letter, parcel, or package).  They in turn give it to the Royal Mail, who takes your letter, parcel, or package, and delivers it to the recipient’s home.  Unless they can’t, in which case they hold on to it for them.  Oh, and when you give your letter, parcel, or package to the Post Office, they give you a Royal Mail tracking number so you can follow it to its destination.

The phrase WTF comes to mind.

Years ago, after I’d been living in my condo in Mississauga for about 3 or 4 months, I remember walking in the front door one evening after work and thinking, “Ah, I’m home.”  I remember thinking the same thing after a few months in Milton.  I’m very much affected by my surroundings: it’s not unusual for me to be sitting on my sofa reading a book in front of the fire back home and look up and think, “Life is good.”

I got the same feeling from the countryside here in Orkney almost immediately.  Even on a dreich day, one where I hadn’t talked to anyone other than via What’s App messages, going for a walk in the country would make me feel better.  I’d look around and think how lucky I was.

The last two months have been fantastic: LL was my first house guest, and we had a blast touring Scotland, drinking gin, and eating local delicacies (yes, a good black pudding is a delicacy, thank you very much). It was great.  And spending 10 days with an old friend whom I had only seen one hour/year for the last two decades (she lived halfway across the continent and we’d have lunch at Christmastime; it wasn’t like I saw her only on visiting days at the prison or anything), was so nice.  I loved our trip together; we can still make each other laugh over the stupidest things.  And I really do like driving around the highlands, in spite of complaining about the length of the journeys.

When I walked in the door last week, coming home from York, I dumped the bags in the closet and the groceries in the kitchen, and sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea.  It was just me, alone (well, with Scout), in my peedie wee hoose. And I thought: “It’s good to be home.”  Home, with all my stuff.  I hadn’t not felt at home before, but this week seems to have been when the penny dropped and I feel truly At Home.

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!