Earlier this year I shared some key pointers on how to make yourself an absolute treat of a guest in someone’s home. Allow me now to educate you on how to be the best host possible.

When you have someone coming to stay for a few days, first you must set the stage. Make sure your Hoover is broken beyond repair. Then shave your dog in the living room. After you’re done fluff-plucking to make the carpet somewhat presentable, it is time to clean the bare floors, which is when you remember the broom supply-chain fail last fall. (Seriously. When I arrived in October, there were no long-handled brooms in the four stores I looked in (Tesco, Lidl, and the only two hardware stores I knew of in town at that point). They explained that they couldn’t get any; the supply chain was held up due to COVID/Brexit. Really.) So for the first months here, I kept my floors clean with a combination of hand whisk & dustpan, followed by the hardwood extension on the vacuum, then mopping. Worked a charm, so I never did get a full-sized broom. But you’re seeing where this is going, aren’t you? No Hoover – dirtier floors. Also, be sure to wash your sandy dog in the shower. Okay, stage set, let’s go.

An ideal host has activities for her guests. One activity is vacuuming. Her first week in your house (which remember, hasn’t seen a vacuum in at least 3 weeks), buy a new vacuum, preferably heavier than the old one, assemble it, and take it into the bedroom. As you tackle the carpet in there, be sure to complain long and loud about how hard and heavy it is. Then, when your guest offers to do the living room carpet for you, mumble a faint, “oh no, you don’t have to”, then sit down at your desk and surf the net while she struggles with the heavy mower vacuum on a well trampled, well dirtied carpet. It’s fun.

Be sure to spend lots of time wiping the kitchen counter, and going online to check the weather – it sends the message that you are very busy looking after your guest’s comfort. Hopefully that will prompt her to, entirely of her own volition, lift out and clean your truly, truly disgusting sand & hair filled shower trap. Don’t tell her about the Marigolds (yellow rubber gloves in the UK are called Marigolds) under the kitchen sink until she’s almost done. And don’t stop her – she’s having fun. (Honestly, it was the grossest thing I’ve ever seen and I once had a baby throw up on me as I was changing his extremely full diaper. Just sayin’.)

Now, if you really want to go above and beyond as a host, every time your dog comes up to you to be petted, nudge her towards your guest who is reading quietly on the sofa. And be sure to position grooming tools just within your guest’s reach, allowing her to work out all those matted clumps behind your dog’s ears. It’s the least you can do.

For those of you planning on visiting me, you will see I go out of my way to be the ideal host and make my guests’ holidays more special – can’t wait to welcome you here!

I mentioned a few weeks ago that in Orkney each month of the year has its own flower.

Obviously, I do know that flowers are seasonal; you won’t see forsythia in bloom in October back home, and the flowers on the caryopteris in my garden won’t be showing up until August. But the sheer profusion of flowers in Orkney – gardens, ditches, fields, window boxes, parks, even the cracks in the corners of parking lots are just jammed full – means each new bloom is so, just so . . there.

May is bluebells – the town is awash and they look lovely.

I have seen puffins at Birsay, a little island you can walk to at low tide, just off the mainland (quite near Twatt).  But the guide book assured us that Westray was THE place to see puffins.  Most particularly some sea stacks called the Castle o’Burrian.  The guide book also assured us that the signs marking the road to the cliffs and the Castle o’Burrian were large, colourful, and easy to spot.  Hmm. Much like the directional abilities of the locals, the signage left a little to be desired.  You be the judge.

However, we did indeed find the path to the cliffs.  We did make it to the Castle o’Burrian, but there were no puffins to be seen.  Arctic terns, shags, fulmars, and gulls; the cliffs were covered in them.  But zero puffins.  It seems they head out to sea at just about the time we arrived.  Sigh.  We could have kept walking to the next set of cliffs, but  stupidly, I had taken Scout.  Big mistake.  I had her in such a choke hold for fear of her lunging at the birds (she really does not know how cliffs work) that continuing was useless.

We went back the next day.  LL was on a mission.  She had not travelled 8,550 km not to see a puffin.  We left the dog in the car and LL pretty much frog-marched us back to the Castle o’Burrian.  And there they were.  Puffins. We saw them in nests, on outcroppings, swooping to the sea, and one little guy let us get within about 5 metres to take the picture below.

It was well worth the second trip (but I still say this island is directionally challenged).

We asked pretty much everyone we met the same questions.  We asked the clerk in the little general store; ditto the staff in the hardware/booze shop; we asked the waitress in the hotel; we asked a man sitting at the bar: where else is there to eat here?   where is Wilson Cheese manufactured? where is the Westray Chutney Company?  Oddest thing: on an island of 588 people (they’re hoping to break 600 next year), when it came to local shops and manufacturers, truly nobody seemed to know where anything was. Yet I know they exist; I’ve bought all those products in Kirkwall.  (Westray Chutney Company purportedly produced the first local food I bought here in Kirkwall, Granny Reid’s Rhubarb Jam, so I knew it was a real company.  After blank stares from all the locals, we went to social media and drove to the three different locations for Westray Chutney that had shown up on the Internet – one was an unlabeled warehouse, one was a ruined barn, and for one, the road just stopped.  I’ve given up on Westray Chutney – I think it’s actually made in a factory in Wishaw.)

Then there was the ‘bistro’.  While we were perfectly okay having five of our meals at the Pierowall Hotel (the food was good), we thought we should mix it up a bit.  Jack’s Chippy didn’t open until Thursdays, ditto Groats Buckies (coffee shop inside the General Store).  But everyone mentioned ‘The Bistro’ – it would be open, it was nearby, we should try it.  We drove up and down and up and down that damned road at least five times – Pierowall only has one single, 1 kilometer-long road, but we could NOT see a bistro anywhere. Gave up and headed back to the hotel restaurant.

That evening we asked the proprietor of our B&B, who said, “oh, you mean the Saintear” and proceeded to give us perfectly clear, correct directions.  Not only had no one been able to point us in the right direction, not one other person on Westray had even used the actual name of the bistro; we honestly thought it was called ‘The Bistro’.

We never did make it there – by the time we knew where it was, we were ready to leave Westray.

I want to visit ten of Orkney’s islands by the end of the year – that was one of my New Year’s Resolutions, along with cook more types of seafood (doing pretty well there so far), and swear less (bit of a fail there,  dammit) – so LL & I headed off to the isle of Westray on the early morning ferry for a two-night stay in the town (village? hamlet? string of 25 buildings?) of Pierowall. 

Slightly questionable start to the trip – could not find an open cafe or coffee shop anywhere.  We saw the outside of a few, but none were open on a Monday morning.  Finally, at 10 o’clock, we stepped into what was going to be our gastronomic home for the next 60 hours: the Pierowall Hotel. Good coffee and fresh scones baked by the waitress’s mother that morning.

I hadn’t really done a lot of planning – everyone said check out Westray as it is known for its farms producing amazing cheeses and meats, so I figured it would become obvious what to do once we arrived.  But it really wasn’t all that obvious and we started debating only staying the one night, because what else were we going to do?

I did have a couple of guide books, and it was a sunny day, so we started driving.  OMG, what a beautiful island! Rolling hills, rocky shores, white, white sandy beaches, and cattle, sheep, ducks, & farms dotted about the countryside.   We wandered through the ruined Noltland Castle (its original owner sounded a real treat – jailed at least twice for plotting royal assassinations in at least two countries), a lighthouse, and a salmon farm, all before lunch.  Maybe we should stay the full two & a half days after all.

LL wants to try as many different types of Scottish and British foods as possible while she’s here.  We’ve made scallops and black pudding (neither of us can understand why they don’t leave the coral attached to the scallops back in North America, like they do here).  We’ve made lamb three different ways; she’s tried neeps (mashed turnip); Friday night was cod with samphire; and Sunday evening we made mince, neeps, and bubble & squeak. 

Cullen skink was a big hit, as was this morning’s kedgeree.

Also rans: Irn Bru, sticky toffee pudding, ox tongue, Marks & Spencer’s crisps, and her new absolute favourite: Cadbury’s Double Decker Chocolate Bars.

When I first arrived in Kirkwall, I saw, tucked away against a corner wall along the harbourfront, a tiny bar called The Standing Room Gin Bar.  I went onto Facebook, and it seemed it was exactly as it said on the label, a peedie wee bar only opened weekends, specializing in gin (among other things).  I thought it sounded intriguing, but I didn’t see a mention of dogs, and the idea of standing, all by myself, in a room than only takes 10 people, all of whom know each other, and drinking gin all alone, just wasn’t on.  When (a) Scout is with me, and (b) there are tables and chairs, I can sit comfortably in a pub, bury my nose in a book and wait for someone to come up and pet the dog. 

So I waited for LL to arrive to check The Standing Room out. Well, I needn’t have waited – it is delightful.  We went Saturday afternoon and just fell in love with the place.  A tiny, dark, wooden, quintessentially pubby inner room, and a light, pretty (not much bigger) covered patio.  It was only tourists that evening, we met a very nice young man from the Czech Republic, and while the owners weren’t there, Hazel was sooooo nice, and made us feel so welcome.  And, they love dogs.

And yes, I bet that as claimed, there were at least 150 different gins there.  Paradise, in a seven foot by twelve foot room.  My new ‘local’ going forward.

Scout is becoming quite the food snob. A couple of months ago, I bought a small container of duck pate – when I opened it, it turned out not to be to my taste. It wasn’t awful, but I didn’t like it and I have a rule about fattening food and alcohol. If I’m not really really enjoying it, I won’t eat it. As opposed to, say, more normal food like crackers, or maybe a tin of soup. If I truly hate the flavour of something , of course I won’t eat it, but if it’s just not my favourite, well, I won’t waste the food. I eat it and just don’t buy that brand again. Whereas with fattening foods or alcohol, if I’m not absolutely loving it, waste be damned – out it goes.

So back to the rich, fattening, but not greatest duck pate. I gave it to the dog. Not all at once, but for the last two weeks of March, her highness had a tablespoon of bloody expensive duck pate mixed into her kibble. (As my Dad used to say, “most spoiled dog in the world”.)

The other day LL & I bought some crab mousse. It was pricey, and from a well known high-end highland producer. But it tasted awful – it even smelled awful. Neither of us liked it. So LL did some research and yes, in small quantities, dogs can have crab. I put about a tablespoon in her breakfast just now. She won’t eat it. Just walked away. This is a dog who will eat roadkill and goose poop, and she’s turning her back on ‘Luxury Orkney Crab Terrine’.

Today, I am questioning everything I have ever thought about how I travel. I have travelled all my life. I try to be a ‘good’ tourist, respectful of the locals, learn to say hello and thank you in their language, be aware of my surroundings. And I suppose, when I worked in downtown Toronto, I was often surrounded by tourists, but as the streets were already pretty busy anyways, I didn’t really pay attention to them.

Which means that the last four days have been a complete revelation to me. I left Orkney on the first of May at 7am – (as I was driving out of town, I should have paid more attention to the parade of empty coach tour buses that were headed to the cruise ship in the harbour to pick up the 500+ people disembarking – I might have glommed on to what was to come). When I returned at 9pm on May 8th, everything had changed. The first change I discovered was when trying to getting a free 1-hour parking sticker in the town, and LL finally had to say to me, “The sign says it’s only free for the first hour from October to April. As of May you have to pay.” Ah, I see.

We walked into town on Monday and the streets were busier than normal, but it didn’t really click. Even the number of people in sensible walking shoes with backpacks didn’t register. It was as we headed into the various shops to pick up groceries that I became aware of people ‘in my way’. Not intentionally blocking me, just oblivious to my need to get some turnip. Tuesday we were driving along a single-lane country road and a car coming towards us pulled into a passing place (I’m assuming she was a local) to let us by. As I moved forward, a car tried to overtake the local driver who was stopped, thereby blocking our way. Clearly not a local. We waited patiently while she backed up – she may not have understood the protocols. Yesterday a car with left-hand drive and Belgian license plates struggled with pulling out of a parking lot. And today, the parking lot at the Italian Chapel was almost full. Full! That just doesn’t happen here.

All of these people have seemed polite, and pleasant, and accommodating. But they annoy me. Not in an I’m-getting-angry sort of a way, but in a heavy-sigh sort of a way. All those years I thought I was being the best of tourists, the most respectful and considerate of travellers, it turns out I have been completely inconveniencing every local near me.

My mind has been blown.

Ramen is very ‘in’ right now – there’s a good restaurant on Richmond Row in London, and another near Square One in Mississauga. But, much as I like the proper restaurant-style ramen, with overnight dashi broth, I gotta admit, I like the grocery store packets best. I don’t eat it often, maybe once a month or so, but they’re handy to have in the house if you don’t feel like cooking. There’s lots of different types here – the square packets with Asian flavours or the pot noodles like our cup-a-soup. The versions of the square packets are pretty good, but there’s not a huge selection in Orkney. And there’s no Ichiban.

Sapporo Ichiban is my favorite ramen. And much as I like the Demae Sesame or Mama Kim-chi flavours here, I miss Ichiban. So I went online and found I could order a package of 5 from Amazon. I was just about to hit the Purchase button when I saw the price – £17! Seventeen GBP for five packets of ordinary, original flavour ramen!! I hit Cancel – and picked up some more Demae at Tesco.

When LL asked me if she could bring anything from Canada, I said (and I quote), “If you could pick up a couple of packets of Ichiban original ramen, that would be great, thanks.”

The first words out of LL’s mouth when we met at the airport last week were, “They’ve lost one of my suitcases, but don’t worry, it’s not the one with the ramen.” Someone who clearly understands me. Then we got out to the car, she asked for a large grocery carry-all bag, opened a case, and started pulling out packets of ramen and bags of Miss Vickie’s Spicy Dill Pickle chips. Two bags of chips (that was a nice surprise, thank you very much) and eighteen packets of ramen. Yes, eighteen. You know how I said that on our road trip, pretty much every day we had to re-pack the trunk of the car? That massive grocery bag of Japanese noodles moved daily, from behind my coats, to on top of the cases, to under LL’s feet, you name it. It’s a wonder she wasn’t stopped at customs.

Here is what she brought. Now I did say I only eat ramen about once a month or so, and I’m already 7 months into a 24-month stay. But you see, this is also the best ramen for Best of Bridge’s Killer Coleslaw. Which I love, as does LL. If you’ve never had it, you really should try it – dead easy to make, and good on the second day as well.

Thank you, LL. Thank you very, very much.