Morning. The weather reports were increasingly dire. Bacon sandwich. I went to yet another yarn store because I had left a double-pointed needle in Medford that I needed to finish the socks, and the Macguyvered approach I used to get through the class wasn't cutting it. The store was run by a woman from Arizona who had moved to Scotland with her husband, worked as a research scientist in Aberdeen, then moved to Shetland after he died. I bought a skein of a local lace weight and asked her to wind it into a ball for me.

To kill time while she was getting it ready, I went to the post office and got some more gifts. On line for coffee I met a couple who had just moved there from Leeds. I don't remember how we got on this topic but I said we had to get a service to clear the snow from our sidewalk in Medford while we were gone. "Yes I heard you have all these rules about your lawns in America!", said the guy. I guess that's one of the more benign things to think about us these days, I met another lady here in Manchester who said she heard we have very severe punishments for jaywalking.

Anyway, I got back to pick up my yarn and saw that this saintly woman had decided the ballwinder was going to be too rough on the delicate yarn and was winding it by hand. I made a token offer to help but we both knew how that would go. A regular, a woman probably in her eighties, came in to buy some ribbon and she just dove right in and started winding. I had to leave again for a museum tour so I don't know how long it took them but it was probably over an hour. In contrition I bought more stuff when I came back to pick it up- sock yarn that comes already wound into a ball.

I ordered lunch, cullen skink, at the cafeteria in the community center next to the hostel. Every table was reserved so I ate in the lobby next to a woman who was taking a conference call on her laptop, Boomer style, with no headphones. If I hadn't been so frazzled on Thursday I might have done a little more research into the bus schedule but I had maxed out on logistics so I took a very expensive cab to the airport. It was a nice ride though. I asked the cab driver what she does with lamb. She said she grew up on a sheep farm and was too sick of lamb to ever eat  it again.

The hourlong flight was extremely turbulent, and I could not even seek comfort in the shortbread and Tunnock's Tea Cakes passed out by the crew. When we landed in Aberdeen it was so windy that there was some question of whether anyone would be able to come outside to bring us into the airport. They eventually let us get off, but not until after I had gotten up to ask if I could use the bathroom and been told no which, since I was sitting near the front of the plane, everyone got to witness. Our bags, we were told, would stay on the plane until the wind died down to get them at some unspecified time. I waited at baggage claim for about an hour as people gradually peeled off in despair. When I gave up, the frazzled people at the desk pointed to a QR code for a missing luggage claim even though I knew exactly where the bag was. Placing your fate in the hands of a QR code was also the only solution they could offer to the many many people whose flights out of Aberdeen had been canceled. Thanks to them, my relief at reaching the Scottish mainland outweighed being annoyed about my suitcase.

A 45 minute bus to central Aberdeen. Terrifying but atmospheric walk directed by Google Maps that required going a dark cobblestoned alley, taking a flight of slippery stone stairs, then squeezing between two metal dumpsters to get to my hotel. Congratulations to Past Anne for packing my emergency carry-on underwear, then the welcome embrace of oblivion.

Morning. Bacon sandwich. Walk around town which did not change my impression of Aberdeen as the grayest place on earth. I had finished my book and my backup book was in the suitcase so there was NO CHOICE but to buy new one(s). Brief pop-ins to two underwhelming museums which were fortunately free.

I had refreshed the status of my lost bag about 800 times and the hours before my train back to Manchester were ticking away. I went back to the airport to see what was up. Yes the bags are off the plane, come look in this closet! Except my bag wasn't there. The woman at the counter went clickety clack. We know you didn't select this option, but since you have a UK address your bag is going to be delivered, it's being loaded on the flight to Manchester that is leaving in ten minutes. That bag was not un-heavy so part of me wouldn't have minded if I didn't have to lug it home, but at this point I wanted to have all my worldly possessions with me so they got it off the plane and I was free to lug.

Two trains back to Manchester. The last ten minute leg to our house was delayed so I caved on yet another cab. A British train station on a Saturday night has much of interest to observe to the anthropologist, but I wanted to get home. After all the gray of Aberdeen, the red brick buildings felt as cozy as a seat by a fireplace. Over the next few days there were increasingly frantic messages in the Wool Week Facebook group from stranded guests that made me feel some sympathy for Shetlanders who probably just wanted life to go back to normal but were instead unwillingly roped into supporting roles in someone else's bottle episode. But everyone seems to have made it home eventually, and if anyone decided that it was a sign that they were meant to stay on an island full of sheep permanently I could see the appeal.