I was in Dublin a few years ago, and I have to say, I wasn’t blown away by it. This is going to sound harsh but, what actually is there to do in Dublin? I don’t like beer, so a 30 minute line-up for a 1 hour tour followed by a 15 minute tasting at Guinness isn’t for me. Last time we tried to see the Book of Kells at the University of Dublin, but the exhibit was closed that day. But really, was that a loss? I mean, isn’t that kind of like going to see the Mona Lisa: great long queues, crowds jostling, and a 30 second glimpse of a masterpiece. Wouldn’t it just be better to sit down at your computer, with a cup of tea, and spend 30 minutes reading up about and closely viewing the same piece of art? (I know I sound like a philistine here. I think it has more to do with my dislike of queues and crowds than a disdain for original masterpieces. I happily spent two hours in the Crawford in Cork, looking at tapestries, staring into the eyes of portraits, and admiring the ‘cloth folds’ in Grecian sculptures., and I would go again and again to the National Gallery in London.) But I’ll pass on the Book of Kells, so no visit to Trinity College.

Yes, there are cathedrals and castles that are most likely worth a visit, but as with many European trips, by the last day you feel you’ve seen your fill of antiquities so those weren’t much of a draw either. We took the bus from our B&B into Dublin and went to the Tourist Info Bureau where were given some good advice: skip Guinness, pass on the boat tour up the LIffey, and instead take the local Hop On Hop Off, and don’t miss The Little Museum of Dublin. We did as we were told, and had a lovely day. The rain mostly held off, our bus driver was pretty good (we ignored his recommendation to avoid Temple Bar and ended up having a delicious Boxty lunch as a result), and after a wander about the town, we beelined straight to the coolest, quirkiest Dublin-centric museum, The Little Museum. It was odd, and informative, and entertaining, and I would recommend it to anyone going to Dublin. Loved it!

It turned out to be a very nice day, but as far as I’m concerned, the jury is still out re Dublin. Maybe I need to visit with a local (I know I really enjoyed Boston mainly because I was with a friend who lived there, and my opinion of Calgary did a complete 180 once I knew locals) or maybe it’s just too expensive, too touristy, and won’t every be my first choice. That’s cool – we had a great time last week, and that’s what matters.

We had driven from Dublin to Cork on the motorway, and even though the scenery was pretty good from a car doing 120kmh, I thought it might be nice if, on the way back up to Dublin for our last couple of days, we took a less efficent, more scenic route. At some point in every Maeve Binchy book (and I have read them all), somebody talks about visiting the beautiful Wickow Mountains (they also talk about going to a place call the Forty Foot Hole, once a ‘Gentlemen’s only’ bathing spot, via something called the DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit), but the books never made that sound as appealing). But Wicklow sounded lovely.

So I mapped out a route from Cork, through the Wicklow Mountains National Park, to the seaside village of Bray. We had had spectacular weather for the first seven days of our trip, but we knew that just couldn’t last. And, it didn’t. But even though it was bucketing down, we did get to drive through some lovely villages (very unlike Scotland’s wee villages, which are in turn, very unlike those in England), and saw some wonderful scenery.

We stopped at a well known hiking launchpoint and photo op at Turlough Hill and, fortunately for us, the rain lifted long enough to get a photo. Then continuing through the rain and twisty roads (my sister either has nerves of steel, or a seriously bitten lower lip – nary a peep from her) to what we can only assume was a pretty little town, Bray (hard to tell in a downpour). We had a lovely lunch at a well known seaside pub, then she braved the elements (no let up in the rain this time) and got a picture of the harbour and its inhabitants.

Then off to Swords, a small town outside Dublin, to another cute AirBnB and a quiet evening.

We visited Cobh (pronouced ‘Cove’) and Spike Island (it’s been a monestary, a fort, a prison, and now a heritage site). Lovely town.

We spent an afternoon at Blarney Castle – there was no kissing of the Blarney Stone, as the Reid women have enough of a gift of the gab without getting a boost from hanging upside down and smooching a rock.

We spent a lot of time at the English Market in Cork – OMG, the seafood, the meats, the produce, you name it – they had it, we ate it.

Our last day in Cork was the Hop On Hop Off bus (I love those tours), then a tour of a prison (magnificent and terrible all in one), then an absolutely fantastic art gallery. The Crawford Art Gallery is due for renovations starting in the next couple of months, so we were lucky to see it while we had the chance. We found several of the exhibits interesting and my sister and I both fell in love with a small tapestry by an Irish artist, Ciara O’Connor.

I cannot recommend Cork enough as a holiday destination (and I even think I would say that had the weather not been absolutely spectacular).

My sisters are here! Well, not here. Not in Scotland – both of my sisters have spent what they feel is enough time in central Scotland – instead we are getting together to explore Ireland. It started out that it was to be just my youngest sister and I; then my niece told my middle sister she had to come; then two English friends joined up. Siblings flew into Dublin, I took a ferry from Scotland to Belfast, and I picked them up at the airport. Then we drove three hours south to a little B&B in the town of Cork to meet Lindsay & Helen, only taking the wrong turn three times (well done me) and nearly running out of gas (petrol) once.

Yesterday we drove The Ring of Kerry (and when I say ‘we drove’, I mean one of the English friends did all the driving and I relaxed). What a spectacularly beautiful country! We’ve had the best time so far – and we’re only two days into the trip.

I thought I knew ferries. After two years in Orkney, I felt I had really mastered the whole getting there, queueing up, walking the dog in the parking lot, parking in the boat’s belly, avoiding seasickness, rolling off smoothly on the other side, and heading on our way with the Sat Nav primed for our first desination. So this week I headed off on my next road trip, knowing exactly what to expect.

I took my time driving through the southwest of Scotland yesterday, and checked into the dullest hotel I’ve ever seen, in Stranraer. Up at six the next morning and off to the ferry terminal ten minutes away, for the ferry to Belfast. Dear God. As I said, I thought I knew ferries.

It had never occurred to me: the Orcadian ferries I knew were going back and forth between Britain and an island of ~20,000 people. These ferries were going to an island (Ireland) with approximately 7,000,000 people. Bigger boats, more trucks, more cars, longer queues. The transport trucks alone took up several lanes. Duh.

And the queues – from the time we arrived, we didn’t move more than 20′ in 20 minutes. I finally peeled off to the parking lot (car park) to take Scout for a last minute pee break, before re-joining the queue, where I was wedged between massive transport trucks. As we got closer to the main gate, I saw that the police were searching every truck and car. I had heard about these random checks in Orkney. As islands are a great way to smuggle drugs (or worse), ferries are a prime spot for catching mules, etc… But I had never experienced this level of scrutiny. When it was my turn, the police officer informed me that this was no random check. This was a manhunt. Of course – a terrorist had escaped His Majesty’s Prison, Wandsworth the day before. The heavily suited, booted, and armed police officer saw that Scout & I were alone, no hazard to the general populace, and let us on our way.

Off to Ireland we go!

*They caught the escapee the next day, just outside London.

I needed to order some more of Scout’s joint supplement – the vet in Orkney gave a 4-month supply when we left. So I went online looking for a vet – I could only find one in town and they are only open M-F 2:30 – 5:00pm. Hunh. When I finally got through to the receptionist, she explained that she’d have to call to one of the other offices (they have surgeries all over Lanarkshire, it seems) to get a supply of the pills. I wasn’t worried, as I still had a few weeks’ worth left (this was on Aug 4). After 10 days I realised I hadn’t heard back, so I called again and the receptionist said, “Oh dear, the other office must have forgot. I’ll call again and get back to you.” The ‘other office’ forgot? Okaaay.

Two weeks later – still nothing so I called again – by now I’m running out of the pills (and patience). After some searching the new receptionist found them and booked an appointment for the vet to see Scout first. NP, they have their protocols before handing out meds, even OTC. Then someone else phoned back and said the appointment wasn’t necessary; I could just pop in. But by now I was starting to worry about this veterinarian’s office’s approach to, well, everything. In just under 90 days I am transporting a dog via air to another country. Are these people going to be able to meet all the requirements? Will they have their sh#t together? For example, rabies shots aren’t a usual thing here, so most vet’s offices have to order the vaccine in specially – and a rabies vaccine is a deal-breaker for animal transport. So, I decided to keep the appointment so I could ask the vet a few pointed questions and assess their overall competency. I mean, I prided myself on my organizational skills at work, and I admire it in others, and right now, with the move imminent, that skill set is particularly important. And they seem to be the only game in town. So I took Scout this afternoon; we just got back.

The vet was a young lady from France. I had a whole bunch of things I wanted to ask her about: rabies shot, expiration date of some of Scout’s meds, flea, tick, de-worming, and distemper meds, Scout’s medical history from Orkney, etc. Instead of writing all this down on a list, like any sensible, organised retired businesswoman would, I just started throwing out questions; I was all over the map, mixing things up right, left, and centre, and jumping from one topic to the next. We finally sorted through most of it; I’ve got a date for ordering the rabies vaccine, she clarified my misunderstanding about expiry dates, and we reviewed Scout’s recent history. But I truly was all over the place – it was at the point that I mixed up de-worming and distemper (they both start with ‘d’, you see), that the sweet, young, French veterinarian leaned over to me and kindly said, “This is all causing you very much stress and confusion, isn’t it?”

OMG. I am a dippy old lady. When the feck did that happen? Why wouldn’t I have taken a list? Why? I always use lists (either paper or OneNote). I wanted to jump up and show her my phone with the Trello software outlining the various steps of my move; the app with all the details of an upcoming trip to Ireland; the way my Outlook is sorted to maximize efficiency and stay on top of things; my spreadsheets tracking the Milton property, my taxes, my expenses. Dammit, I am not a dippy old lady, current evidence to the contrary. (Thank God she didn’t realise I had arrived 20 minutes early for the appointment because I hadn’t checked my Calendar and had had to kill time in the park waiting.) Instead I just apologised for all the mix-ups, stood quietly while she examined Scout, and let her be kind to the doddery old fool in front of her.

I felt like an eejit.

Edit (30 minutes later): I just noticed that the receptionist charged me completely the wrong amount for today’s visit (£130 in my favour – completely her fault, nothing I would have been aware of at the time). I will correct this with them when I am in later this month, but I am not going to address it now – let’s just see how long it takes them to catch it and let me know. *Suddenly I’m not feeling quite so stupid. But I am back to worrying about their competency for the move in November.

I took the train into Glasgow on the weekend. There was a mum sitting across the aisle from me with her little girl. The mum and I got talking – the weather, the man speaking loudly on his phone farther down the carriage, that sort of thing – idle chit chat.

As they were waiting to step off the train at Bellshill, I heard the little girl ask if I was on TV. Her mother asked why she thought that, and she said, “Because she talks like the people on TV.”

What can I say? Fame is the cross I bear.

Part of my ‘mission’ while in Carluke is to help my cousin clear out her loft. Her parents weren’t hoarders, but two ninety-year olds, after 60+ years of marriage and in the same house for 50 years, are gonna have stuff. Periodically my cousin and I will FaceTime, I’ll head up into the loft, shine the camera around the room, and as I point to things, she’ll say, “Keep, Toss, or Donate”, as the case may be. Then I’ll head up there in a couple of days and do some sorting per her guidance.

Like most people of that generation, my aunt & uncle had a fair amount of silver cutlery. During the flood, (the burst pipes in December; I’m not getting biblical here), Viv and her family tackled the clean-up by just gathering things up, and either chucking them in the garbage, or shoving them up into the loft. There was no time for sorting then. Included in all that shoving things out of the way was a lot of sliverware. This morning I went through the various bags, boxes, and trays of cutlery, sorting the Tesco stainless steel everyday-ware from the bone-handle, sterling silver. And then I came across this little guy – how cute is he? What I want to know is, why on earth doesn’t every home back in Canada have one of these? Surely our lives would be better with a toffee hammer to hand.

As well as culling objects, I have been re-arranging items in the loft to make things easier for Viv to find in the future. (My mother always said, “even if you’ve got clutter, things look better in neat piles.”) A few weeks ago I pulled down the hatch, climbed the ladder, and started shifting items around the dim, dusty, every so slightly spooky loft. I picked up this little chalet made of what looks like matchsticks (about the size of a Kleenex box), and set it down over beside some other decor pieces, and turned away. As I walked away, unprompted it started playing this thin, reedy, tinkly tune; it was a music box. I’m not going to lie, it made me jump. All I could think was, imagine it had started up randomly like that in the middle of the night. How freaked out would I be to wake up to that haunting melody at 3 in the morning? I would have been lying in bed, with the blankets up to my chin, thinking, “There is no way in hell I am going up to see what is going on up there.”

Well, I’ve done it. No turning back now. I’ve bought my ticket and will be back in Ontario by the end of November. Not sure how I feel about this – still processing.

Going out for a massive midday roast dinner on a Sunday is a big thing here. Or at least in England and the southern part of Scotland. As I recall, the hotels and restaurants in Orkney didn’t really big it up – roast was often on the menu, but not as its own ‘let’s go to the Harbour View for a Roast Dinner after church’ kind of a thing. But elsewhere in the UK? It’s what you do.

Whenever I’m down in England, every hotel restaurant, inn, and gastro-pub has a box on the bottom of their menu offering a Roast Dinner from 11:30 in the morning until 8 or 9 at night, only on Sundays. Same around here. Online, if someone poses the question, “I’m new to the UK; what food should I try?”, a Sunday roast dinner is at the top of the list. Or they post on social media, “I’m coming from Canada/ USA/ wherever to London/ York/ Edinburgh for a visit and I want to have a roast dinner, where should I go?” And dozens of people weigh in on the best dinner in town. There are restaurant chains devoted to roast dinners, called carveries. Toby Carvery is kind of the Keg of England, but slightly less pricey (not by much, tho; dining out here can be expensive). The meal will always be beef or lamb, plus gravy, roast potatoes, often with mashed potatoes as well, a Yorkshire pudding, and at least one veg. I never think to order it – my Mum made delicious roast dinners on a Sunday evening, as do both of my sisters, so why would I bother here?

But I was looking for foods to introduce Nancy to last week. We did all the obvious: fish & chips, Scotch pie & sausage rolls, Cullen Skink, ordered in an Indian; we even had sticky toffee pudding. And of course I warned her not to order anything Mexican off any menu. (Seriously. I’ve said it before: unless you know that the owner/chef was born and raised in Oaxaca or Yucatan or Chihuahua, ‘Mexican’ food in the UK is to be avoided at all costs.) I wanted something special and classically British for her last day, so we went to The Horseshoe Inn in Peebles for Sunday Roast Dinner. She had the beef; I had the lamb. And Scout had Sir Woofchester’s Bark Burgers off the inn’s doggy menu. All three of us were very pleased with our dinner – absolutely delicious.

(But, to be perfectly honest, I still think my sisters’ & brother-in-law’s roast dinners are better.)