I’m still in Orkney. Kirkwall, actually. Orkney Islanders populated the area of Canada known as Arcadia, were chased out because of some concerns about their loyalty, and moved to French Louisiana where they are known as Cajuns.

Things went a little sideways last night so I’m in a rough shape, but I’ll tell that story when I’m far enough away from it to be less embarassed.

I went up to Westray Island (northwest Orkney) on Wednesday and took a look around. I stayed in a absolutely incredible hostel called ‘The Barn’ — 7 out of 5 stars for these folks, the best hostel I’ve seen or heard about. That evening I went down to the (only) pub and tried to understand the stories being told; The accent gets easier to understand after a couple pints. I met a couple of young guys — a 22-year-old sailor who’d given up the deep-sea cargo runs for the Petland Ferry, and an 18-year-old farmer. They took me out of a night on the town, which is a different ride at this end of the earth. Again, I’ll tell that story when I’m far enough away from it to be less embarassed.

This weekend there’s the big party of the year in Kirwall. It’s some kind of all-island festival. And here I am:

I’m still torn about returning state-side. I’m told I could get a a job on a fishing boat up here. I got invited to work on a banana plantation in the Canary Islands. These are bat-crazy things to do, but I’m tempted to do them just to say I have.