In the UK, in order to have access to TV channels, you are required by law to hold an annual TV license (sort of like our cable bills, but this is government-run and funds the BBC). When I moved here I decided not to spend the money as I am not a big TV-watcher. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those “oh, I think there’s nothing worth watching on TV” types; I just already spend way too much time on YouTube, Netflix, Amazon Prime, BritBox, etc. And I get my news by subscribing to online newspapers. I was a little disappointed when I arrived to discover that no TV license also means no access to BBC’s iPlayer (plays BBC shows after airing, sort of like CBC Gem), but, as I said, I really do watch too much online already.

I received a letter addressed to Occupant yesterday and I nearly didn’t open it, thinking it was junk mail. But I did open it his morning – turns out it was a threatening notice from something called tvlicensing.co.uk. In large, bold, red font it warned me that “you could be at risk of breaking the law.” Sounds exactly like every one of those scam phone calls from the “CRA” – I nearly tore it up. It warned me that if I hadn’t replied by a certain date in February, my address would “be passed to the Dundee Enforcement Agency”. I went online – turns out it’s legit – the government monitors each house address to see if they have a license, and if not, immediately become suspicious and get in touch.

But, I figured all I had to do was pick the option stating I didn’t need a license, as I don’t own a television. Then I started reading the fine print and it seems that even streaming a show on my computer requires a license. By that I assumed they meant live-streaming of news channels or something, so still not my problem. But no, it turns out that even the two or three times I’ve streamed a YouTube Q&A on travel or a live YouTube logic puzzle video without a license, I’ve been breaking the law.

So, I’ve got a couple of options: pay the £159 annual fee, or tell them I don’t watch live TV/streaming, and make sure to never click on one of those videos again. They did warn that if I chose the latter, they could still send someone to my home to verify my claims. You should see what it says on Wikipedia about their various forms of monitoring and enforcement: “Enquiry Officers”, “TV Detector Vans”, and “Search Warrants” are only a few of the ways they check up on us. To paraphrase Dr Johnny Fever, “These TV cops play hardball.”

I’m getting the license.

For most of my adult life I have lived within 30km of one of North America’s largest airports. Getting anywhere has always been fairly easy (if you don’t think about GTA’s rush hour traffic).

It’s not so easy when you are trying to get somewhere from an island. I’m currently trying to work out how to get from my house to Heathrow. Do I:

1. Fly Kirkwall to LHR with at least one stop-over?
2. Ferry then drive to Inverness and fly to LHR?
3. Take the overnight ferry to Aberdeen and fly to LHR?
4. Fly (or ferry & drive) to Inverness and take the Caledonian Sleeper train into central London and the Underground to LHR?

And what about staying overnight? I can’t make Kirkwall to LHR all in one day and be assured of not missing my flight. Do I:

1. Stay overnight at a B&B near Heathrow that I stayed in 22 years ago?
2. Stay in a sensible airport hotel at LHR?
3. Stay at an airport hotel in Inverness?
4. Sleep on the train or ferry?

The factors impacting my planning are: the obvious – Money; the convenience – Time; and the surprising – Weather (can’t fly or sail off an island in a storm).

Yes, yes, yes, I know – first world problems, Lainey. Well, back to planning – there must be a way to maximize convenience, minimize cost, and mitigate weather.

Obviously there are a lot of words that are different here – some of them everyone knows (wee, lass, lift); some I grew up hearing (peely-walley, crabbit, clipe); some are easy to guess (eejit, tattie, outwith); some are purely Orcadian (peedie, blide, abune); and with some it’s the same word, just with an accent (hoose, dug, auld).

Fortunately, the Orkney accent is a very easy accent to listen to and follow. It’s very soft, and somewhat musical, and apart from the elderly men Scout & I meet on our walks, I find Orcadians easy to understand. (I really think it’s just a combination of age and being from a small community that makes those gentlemen near-incomprehensible – I imagine years of smoking have made them ‘growly’, loose dentures has added a bit of a ‘slur’, spending 80+ years on a remote tiny island has them speaking in the local dialect almost exclusively, and the winter weather has their voice muffled up behind a scarf. Truly, I just grin and nod and say “uh-huh” when they address us, and say, “yes, she’s a very good dog.” They probably think I’m just daft.)

I joined a cookery club last week and during the conversation I realized I’ve started to pick up not only Scots words, but Orcadian ones as well. One lady ended many of her sentences with “d’ya ken” – sort of like the Canadian “eh”. They talked about making a peedie pot of soup, having neeps with their stovies, and going their messages before heading hame – and I followed all of that, easily. I also learned a few new words that night: they did have to translate when one lady spoke of a seafood dish with spoots and partan (razor clams and crab).

But there are some words that just sound wrong. As in PC-wrong. I have heard U.K. newsreaders use the word ‘oriental’ on air – I told someone that we don’t use that term in North America anymore and they were quite surprised. They throw the word ‘racist’ around a lot – if someone from London makes a comment about someone from Cornwall, they are ‘being racist’. Ditto comments about the Welsh, Geordies, etc. I don’t get it – it’s as if I teased my friends in Calgary and they accused me of racism?!?

My favourite is when I had a drink in The Clansman pub. I am looking at booking a couple of nights in May at Clansman hotel. When I signed up for a local discount card, it said ‘Welcome to the Clan!’. All of this looks okay in print, but saying any of it out loud feels weird to North American ears. Clearly no one else feels that way here – I’m the only one. Silly bunt.

Back home, even on rainy, snowy, or cold days, Scout got at least a morning walk (the worse the weather, the shorter the walk, granted). Well, today is probably the fourth or fifth day since arriving in Orkney where we haven’t gone for a walk due to wind. Today’s wind is about 50km/h with gusts up to 80 km/h.

Yes, I could still walk in this, and yes, she would love it. But years ago I remember hearing a comedian talking about some idiot who tied himself to a tree during a tornado, announcing he could withstand the winds. As the comedian said, “It’s not that the wind blows, it’s what the wind blows.” I remembered that during last week’s windstorm when we were at the foot of my driveway and I saw a branch snap off a tree and land on the pathway we had been about to follow. We turned around immediately.

So, indoors it is. Someone is sulking, and someone else is about to have her third cup of tea of the morning.

Years ago, when my mother was kinda starting to lose the plot, I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t always as patient with her as I could have been. When it came to things like forgetting where she’d put something, or struggling to remember the name of an old friend, I got it; we’ve all done that. And I understood that short term memory was often the first to go and it was longer term memories that would tend to surface, and be more accurate.

But sometimes she just said the silliest things and I would get frustrated. I remember Mum & Dad driving up to my house. It was mid-winter, deep snow, and they were staying a few days. That late January afternoon, Norma looked out the window of my house at the snowdrifts and said, “Where are the flowers? Why are there no snowdrops?”. I’m afraid I was a tad impatient with her, “It’s January, Mum. The bulbs don’t come up until April.” (said with a bit of a tone, because any idiot knows that regardless of the country, flowers don’t start blooming until the spring.) She looked confused.

Well, here’s what Scotland looks like on January 31. These are just a tiny portion of the snowdrops (and crocuses) that are already blooming here on Orkney, and down in Lanarkshire.

Sorry, Mum.

More differences between Canadian and British groceries.

1. Potatoes here are sold by type. In Longos my choices were: New (red or yellow), Fingerling, Baking, & Yukon. In the greengrocer’s this morning my choices were: Maris Pipers, Setanta, Rooster, Russett, King Edward, Marabel, and Navan. It just seems friendlier, somehow.
2. Hot dogs here are sold in cans. Or in one supermarket, jars.

Scout met her first sheep today. She (Scout) was quite excited – the sheep seemed quite contemptuous. But I would never have let her off leash had there not been a ditch and two barbed wire fences between them – in the UK, while they do love dogs, any dog that conducts sheep-worrying is in a lot of trouble. Some have been shot.

It was a lovely walk – no flying pasta, no dead seals. It seems my standard of what constitutes a nice dog walk has shifted since arriving here.

We went for a walk this morning – a few minutes into the walk, I saw a man off in the distance. I have passed him many times when walking Scout and he never responds to my half-smile-to-a-passing-stranger nods. Today he came out of his house, crossed the road, and pitched a bowlful of what looked like large breadcrusts over the little wall into the park. We were far off; I really didn’t give it any more thought.

We neared the park, but were several yards away from the food, on the outside of the park wall, when Scout started really pulling. Clearly she smelled something, but I pulled back and we carried on. On the way back from our walk 50 minutes later, we were at the far end of that same park, quite a ways away. A dog she knows came running up, off leash, so I let Scout off leash so they could romp. She immediately took off. I didn’t panic; I assumed she was off to ‘do her business’. But she kept running. Then she jumped the creek. And headed for that pile of food. Now I panicked. I ran and got her and dragged her away but not before she had consumed several mouthfuls of what turned out to be some sort of cooked tomato fusilli with little white squares of something – cheese? chicken? I dunno.

Two things: (1) Scout is now being punished. Strongly. She is getting the worst punishment I can give her – I am not speaking to her or looking at her. I walked her home, I’ve filled her water dish, I dried her paws – all silently. I will do this for probably another hour or so – she does not like it one bit. The last time I did this to her, she had lifted a slice of pizza from my plate on the coffee table (she was 5). I didn’t speak to her or look at her for 3 hours that day – she’s never touched food on a table since. And (2) I’m now a little freaked out about that food. I had assumed from a distance that he was feeding the birds, but although I saw them fly around, none touched the food when we were there the first time. He watched me from his living room window as I chased, caught, and chastised her after eating the food, but he made no sign from his window, didn’t smile or nod or acknowledge us in any way. Who fires off a pasta dinner into the park? What else was in the food? I’m not looking at Scout right now, but I am watching her very closely.

Update: Scout is fine. She is remorseful, healthy, and (for the time-being) obedient. I’m still baffled though – such an odd thing to do. Maybe he doesn’t like Italian food?

Having a dog is handy; I knew that before coming here. In fact, if I hadn’t had Scout, I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to make this move. People talk to people with dogs. I lived 10 years in my neighbourhood back home before getting Scout, and in the 10 weeks after her arrival, I had met more of my neighbours than in the previous decade.

On top of the canine connection, my accent is a talking point. One day last week, in a single walk, I met Skye & her owner, who suggested we take the dogs for a walk up the hills one day. About 10 minutes later I ran into Buddy & his owner, who told me all sorts of gossip about the town. And then, on the way home, we met Bertie and his owner. After chatting for a few minutes, she invited me to join her group of ‘walkers’; they go out for a one-hour walk in a different part of town each Friday, then stop for a cup of tea. I’ve joined them twice now, and everyone is very friendly.

This same lady invited me to her home on Sunday afternoon for tea and cookies (biscuits) with her and her husband. I had a lovely time. Granted, he doesn’t think too highly of my old employer because of a run in he had with a branch in Edmonton sometime in the 1960’s, but as a banker you get used to that. If someone gets poor service at the Lancôme counter at The Bay, they don’t stop shopping at every Bay store, or give up on all Lancôme products, they just avoid that counter for a few months. But, one screwed-up mortgage payment in 1992, and that’s it – that bank (whichever one it is), is to be maligned for all eternity. Ah well, once he unburdened himself of that complaint, we had a very nice time.

And, last night, I plucked up my courage and went down to the library to join the Thursday Supper Club. I had no idea what to expect, but I figured the only way to meet people is to get out there. It was a group of about a dozen very nice women, who chat about food, share recipes, and just generally compare culinary notes. I’m so glad I went; everyone was very welcoming, and I got some new recipes.

None of this has been easy, not only from a getting-oneself-out-there perspective, but also in a COVID world. But I’ve decided – the whole point of two vaccinations and a booster was so I would be able to resume some form of a normal life, and not stay hidden away. Kirkwall, here I come.

I like to think I’m a pretty good cook. Not everything turns out perfectly, but I’m adventurous and enjoy being in the kitchen. But there are certain things I struggle to master. Years ago I decided to make Rice Krispy Squares (I must have been volunteering for something at a school). I made them at a friend’s house (she has 4 children and is a school teacher so she was an absolute expert in kid-friendly cooking & baking). She watched in amazement as I made a complete botch of a 3-ingredient recipe. “But you make salmon en croute, you make souffles; how can you be screwing this up?” (There may have been melted marshmallow in my hair at that point.)

Years earlier my best friend in university watched as I tried to make coffee. Just make coffee. In a Mr Coffee maker. I think it was the coffee grounds skittering across the kitchen floor that really set her off – I can still hear the laughter. (Of course, as I type this, I’m starting to wonder about my choice in friends – never mind, I digress.)

So, I should have realised that the pigs in blankets debacle was my fault, not theirs. Pigs in blankets are little bacon-wrapped sausages. I had heard about them for years and figured, much like Homer Simpson, that any food group that combined two kinds of pig had to be a good thing, so I bought a package. But the design was so stupid – every time I made them, the bacon would burn, then unwrap from the sausage and fall off, and I would end up with a plate of overdone bacon slices along side some pale sausages. How stupid – I am not buying those ever again.

I shared my opinion of this British culinary classic with my cousin and her chef-daughter. There was laughter, a face-palm, and then a kind explanation that you roast pigs in blankets in the oven; you do not fry them in a frying pan.

Life is so complicated. Sigh.