Approximately 22,000 people live in the Orkney islands – of those, about 4,300 people have been tested positive for COVID since the outbreak began. That’s not too bad compared to many other places.

Except . . . . more than half of those cases have occurred in the last 6 weeks. Almost 2,400 Orcadians have tested positive since February first. Currently 1 in 19 people are known to have COVID in Orkney. WTF?

I don’t understand how that is possible. Everyone I see here is masked indoors; many out of doors. There are no tourists – they don’t start arriving until May.

I was going to run some errands today – but I’m seeing my 89-year old uncle on Monday – I’m not going anywhere between now & pulling up to his house. I think I’m going back to my self-isolating habits of March 2020 – at least until I get back from our trip.

Here I was worried about going to the south of England – turns out I’m in the eye of the storm.

I realise that several of my more recent posts are complaining about people here, either in Orkney, or Scotland, or the UK. And yes, I am still pissed that businesses won’t answer their phones. Let it go, Elsa, let it go.

But these complaints are NOT indicative of my overall experience here – it’s just that whining makes better copy, as a rule. Last week a young lady, Polish by birth, who has lived and worked in Kirkwall for the last 17 years, posted on an local Facebook page that she was looking for a new apartment, as hers is being sold. One local made a point of replying to tell her, “you are not Ocadian” [sic] (* I left her typo in out of spite). I was so incensed and ready to do battle, until I saw all the subsequent replies, chastising the “True Orcadian” and trying to find ways to help the ready-to-move renter. That backchatting besom was the exception that proves the rule: in my almost 6 months here, everyone has been so nice.

Locals here have gone out of their way to answer my questions, to help me navigate red tape, to explain the ‘whys’ of certain customs, to share what is available to islanders, in other words, to make me feel welcome. I am now a regular in more than one social group, I have been invited into people’s homes for coffee, I have received flowers, I have spent 10 minutes with a waitress discussing Anne of Green Gables and the beauty of P.E.I. This morning the cashier at Tesco’s & I got chatting and I mentioned Scout. She looked over her shoulder, leaned in, and told me about the best kept secret beach for dog walking, including the best place to park. I didn’t have a £1 coin for the car vac, and one of the staff offered me the money and said I could pay him next time.

The librarian recognized my voice on the phone and asked if I would be at next month’s meeting. The local garage owner told me “not to waste your money, luv” when I asked about a service for my car. I run into acquaintances in the street or parks. Scout is now recognized by a few of the local school kids. More than one person has teased me and told me, “You’re a local now!” (I know, I know, that was just being polite; I mean, unless my great-grandparents had been born here and we’d never left, and I had a tattoo of the Orcadian flag on my arm, well, I’d never truly be a local).

So, while nothing is perfect, and nasties like that little social media madam are out there, on the whole, I’ve landed pretty well. Thanks for the welcome, Orkney.

How hard can this be? Is it that businesses in Scotland don’t need clients?

Today I had to deal with the fourth company in Kirkwall that won’t answer their phone. Every time I try to call a dental office, they either (a) answer the phone (well done) but then tell me that due to NHS wait lists I have to go to a non-NHS dentist. Okay, fine, but then, (b) the dental office in question is always on lunch. Always. At least, that’s what their voicemail says. First of all, they’re not open the same number of days or the same hours in a day as at home, but come on, Elaine, you moved away from a major metropolis, of course there will be limitations. But how are they always at lunch?

Then the hair salon. No answer. Second salon, still just ringing. Third was a charm. Whew – these roots won’t hide themselves, you know.

Then a massage therapist. I called a spa within walking distance of my house. After a few times, someone picked up, and gave me the number of their massage therapist (at this salon, each individual therapist makes his/her own appointments). I tried the number they gave me a half a dozen times – just kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing. Obviously I had written the number down wrong. Called the spa back and eventually got through to a machine & left a message. They did call back to say, no there was no mistake, I had the correct number for the therapist. Kept trying. I understand that a massage therapist can’t suddenly dash off to answer the phone and leave their client lying face down on a table. Which is why answering machines exist. For the love of God, it’s 2022, get a machine! ( I gave up and found someone who does answer the phone – she’s excellent.)

Friday afternoon I started calling a local garage – my car needs a couple of things done. No answer, no machine. Grrrr. Tried again on and off all morning. Finally got in the car, drove out of town, and booked my car in for later this month. The gentleman was lovely, very accommodating. But I had to DRIVE to get my car fixed (there’s irony in there somewhere).

FFS, Alexander Graham Bell was born in Scotland. It should be in your blood – answer your damned phones.

Update: hair salon just cancelled – three staff down with COVID. Right, Miss Clairol it is.

This month the Scottish census is being taken, and I received the form in the mail. I wasn’t sure if I was eligible/required to participate. I’m a British citizen, but not a taxpayer as I pay tax in Canada, so I called their 0-800 number and the official confirmed that yes, I was expected to complete the questionnaire.

It was pretty much what I had expected: age, family status, education, ethnicity, employment, and the last category, languages spoken. They asked about English (I consider myself quite proficient there, thank you), then Gaelic and no, apart from the words for ‘cheers’ (slainte), ‘party’ (ceilidh), and ‘lake’ (loch); I haven’t a clue. In fact, I don’t know how to pronounce half the towns in the Highlands because of their Gaelic spelling.

But then I was surprised to be asked if I could speak or understand spoken, or write or understand written Scots. I had no idea it was considered a real language! My mother would be rolling her eyes at that piece of news; to her Scots was a slang spoken only by people like those in the comic strips The Broons and Oor Wullie. But reflecting on the last few months being here talking to people, and the last couple of years following Scottish social media sites, I realized that while I can neither speak nor really write Scots, I can read it, and I can understand (mostly) when people around me are speaking it.

To give you an idea, “D’ya ken yon kirk?” “Ay, I wid nae bide there alane.” “No, I ginnae no’ dae that!” translates to, “Do you know that church?” “Yes, I wouldn’t stay there by myself.” “No, I’m not going to do that!”.

So it seems that I am more multi-lingual than I knew. Hunh.

I said I’d share more about the local cuisine – well, timing is everything. Just this week John Oliver did a segment on The Late Show about British food – my sister sent it to me. I can’t really argue with any of his points, except for Scotch Eggs. Those, I like very much. And when talking about tea, he says, “hot water”, which IS NOT WHAT HE MEANS. See, this is why I never have tea in the United States – I swear they just turn on the hot water tap and run it over the teabag. What he should have said is “boiling water”. Anything else is just wrong.

He is bang on about Indian & South Asian cuisine; even here in a remote corner of Great Britain we have two excellent Indian restaurants, and the ready-to-eat meals in the supermarket are pretty good too.

He didn’t mention Mexican cuisine – I warn North Americans coming here to never have Mexican food here. This is based on a few visits and mistakes I’ve made when ordering, over the past 30 years, either in big cities or at airports, along with watching British cooking shows. “No,” I yell at the famous English TV chef, “you can’t replace salsa with ketchup; naan is not the same as tortillas, and NO, Mexican food isn’t ‘just like Creole cooking’!”

But desserts – again John Oliver is right about that. Brits make some of the most amazing ‘puddings’ in the world. I don’t like sweet things much, but even I love sticky toffee pudding, their cakes & cookies are delish, and they make the best jams and marmalades in the world. And Scottish shortbread – well, what is there to say?

I will leave you with this – I saw this in the grocery store on the weekend; after he saw me take a photo, another shopper walked up close to read what was on the can. When John Oliver talked about ‘a full English breakfast’, this is not what he was thinking of. Dear God.

Both of my sisters are quite artistic. I am not – I have accepted that. I do have nice penmanship; that must count for something.

Several weeks ago I met a very nice neighbour as we were both out walking our dogs. As so often happens we got chatting, first about the weather, then the dogs, then my accent, then my move here (these conversations follow a pattern). But, unlike other ships-that-pass-on-the-pavement, we didn’t just leave it at that; she took things a step further and asked me to join her weekly walking group, which I thought was awfully kind of her.

These 8 – 10 people (almost all are retirees) meet every Friday afternoon and, weather-permitting, follow one of the Kirkwall trails for an hour, then stop for a coffee. I’m really enjoying it: I get to see new local trails; they are an absolute font of local information (I am now saving big-time on my ferry rides and I found a place to rent a power drill (don’t ask)); and they have all made me feel very welcome.

Earlier this month one of the ladies (I think she’s the ringleader) suggested something a little different: instead of going for a walk the following week, we were going to try our hand at painting ceramics! All week I practiced my hedgehog drawings – it had to be a hedgehog, because you see, my family decided years ago that I like hedgehogs (well, I do, but I now have an awful lot of them, including one remarkably dramatic version in my garden in Milton) – so I would be ready on the day.

It was a lot of fun, the coffee in the workshop/café was particularly good, and I think the whole group really enjoyed themselves. Here’s my output. Don’t laugh.

I’ve had a couple of questions this week from friends and family around how much I cook vs dining out, and just generally what my diet is like here.

The Brits love wrapping things in pastry (except fruit, oddly. I’ve yet to see an apple, or berry, or peach pie. Hunh.). I was trying to think what the meat pie section of Tesco’s would compare to back home, and the best I could come up with was the frozen pizza section of the Superstore. I would say that the same amount of shelf space is devoted to meat pies (fresh, frozen, ready to eat) in our local supermarket in Kirkwall (pop. ~9,000) as is devoted to frozen pizzas in the largest grocery store in Milton (pop. 140,000+).

Dear God, the selection! There’s sausage rolls (just like at home but at least twice the size), steak & (insert 2nd ingredient here: kidney, tatties, mushroom, stilton, or ale), Cornish pasties (beef & potato half-moons), Melton Mowbray pork pies, Forfar bridies (minced steak in what looks like a small calzone), Lancashire cheese & onion pies, mince pies (ground beef with gravy), baked beans & cheddar in pastry (seriously, it was pretty good), fish, game, or rabbit pies, and my absolute favourite: Scotch pies (minced mutton with lots of pepper).

I must admit I probably have one or two variations on a meat pie each week, but to be clear, unlike the British, I don’t have any additional starch with them, usually just a salad or some homemade coleslaw. Pies here are usually served with mash, or chips. Or beans. Or all three – on menus here I have seen pie, chips, baked beans, and peas. All starch, all at once, all on one plate.

These are not the only things I eat, I promise. I will share a few of the other culinary delights I have tried (or even made) in future posts – and just wait until you see some of the things this country sells in cans.

One day last month, just after a light dusting of snow (and I do mean light), a little girl ran up to us on our walk and squealed excitedly, “It snowed!” I looked at her with contempt and sneered, “That’s not snow.” No, of course I didn’t; I scrunched up my shoulders like hers and squealed back, “I know, isn’t it fun?”

Today Scout & I headed down to Scapa Beach (dead seal count: 2. She sniffed both and rolled in neither – this is progress). It was very windy, we walked the length of the beach, and on the way back it started to snow. Well, not really snow. I’ve realized something – I have not seen a single snowflake on this island. Any snow we have had has really been teeny, tiny bits of hail, and has arrived horizontally. I don’t know if Orkney has ever experienced that heavy, gentle, silent, fluffy snowfall that we get back home, big fat flakes that you can catch on your tongue, or that rest on your eyelashes. It may be that it doesn’t get cold enough for that kind of snow here. It’s February and we’re hovering around the 4° – 7° Celsius mark (the wind chill brings it down to a frosty -1°C) – combine that with the ever present wind, and maybe hail is all they know?

It is a very Scottish expression to ‘do one’s messages’. That means to run errands. I don’t remember ever hearing my mother say it, so it was relatively new to me and I assumed it was maybe a highland turn of phrase. But my uncle uses it, as do the locals here in Orkney, as well as a friend of mine back in Milton who was born in Scotland. And in Britain, ‘the High Street’ is what North Americans might call Main Street, or even more specifically ‘Main St, USA’, referring to the primary downtown shopping & business street.

This is Albert Street, Kirkwall’s High Street, and at first glance one could easily assume it was a pedestrian-only walkway, as it is very narrow, windy, (that’s a long ‘i’ as in twisting around, not blowing around), brick & cobbled lane. Many stores welcome dogs, some food-based shops very sensibly do not. This is Scout, waiting patiently as I get my messages. I used to tie her up directly outside the shop I’m in now, but then I realized just how close the cars come to its front door. So she sits across the street and watches and waits.

I forgot to mention one of my other IKEA purchases – a little round hanger for drying clothes like socks, underwear, etc. I know I should be using the rotary drying stand in the back yard more often, but I really don’t see the point, when I know it is going to rain at some point each day. I see people with their drying out on the line, and I find myself wondering how often they have to haul it in soaking wet due to a sudden downpour.

But I thought this little guy would be very handy for smaller items, indoors, so I ordered it. As usual, when it comes to me and ordering online, something has gone wrong. The main hook at the top doesn’t fit over any of the railings in my house. The only place the hook works is if I open a kitchen cupboard and hang it on the handle there. Just what I wanted whilst cooking, damp socks and underwear dangling in my face, and absorbing the cooking smells. Nuts. (Yes, those are googly eyes – I guess IKEA figured that if you were going to have an 8-armed round hanger, it might as well have a personality.)

And, as a follow-up to yesterday – I did get the second guest bed assembled, and the bed linen is in place. I’m now all ready for visitors. There was one piece missing when I was finishing the second one – I don’t think I’ll mention that to guests and just hope they pick the more stable of the two beds. After all, how important could that dowel be?