But I’d prefer things the other way around. Ah, well. What it is to be an adult. Nonetheless, look: socks!

These are winter house socks for him, although my foot thinks that’s unfair. The yarn is interesting: it’s a pure Wensleydale Longwool aran weight from Cross Lanes Farm, bought at Woolfest because the yarn has a lovely sheen, is a perfect denim blue heathered with black, and I’ve been wondering whether Wensleydale would make a good sock yarn. I must have been a magpie in a previous life: I like shiny, worsted yarns that catch the light to show how the stitches flow in the fabric. And this is lovely stuff, shiny but soft, and developing a lovely slight bloom of loose fibre as I knit it. On 3mm needles (magic loop) it’s making a dense, soft fabric that I think I’ve finally got sized to his liking for his feet. I just hope it doesn’t felt badly during wear.

I’m beginning to feel the urge to knit a garment. Real clothing. Socks somehow seem a bit like ‘cheating’ now that I now I can knit them to fit me, and possibly him. I think I’ll want something more challenging soon. So why on earth have I just ordered more sock yarn? Because on Sunday night I dreamed of knitting socks. I frequently dream of knitting. How sad is that? I’m actually not certain it is sad; it may be that my knitting skills will improve because of it. Let’s keep thinking that, shall we?

Mindie, I bought two of the three patterns the Museum had for sale; the Gairloch diamond stitch pattern (charted) and another for a man’s sock with Scotch thistles decorating the wide knit panels in the ribbing. A similar pattern with the Mackenzie stag instead of the thistle had sold out (not that I wanted it). Anyway, I dreamt I was knitting the Gairloch pattern. But not in sane, traditional colours. Apparently my subconscious wants ‘Indisch Rot’ and ‘Gewitterhimmel’ from Claudia, the Wollmeise. Next week I’ll see if it’s possible to do this without going blind. If I need a break, I could use the prize I won for donating to Claudia’s MS Ride. Thanks, Rebecca!

I must say an even louder, more heartfelt ‘thank you’ to all of you for reading my words. It’s such an ego boost to read your comments, especially when I’m feeling down. Incidentally, I don’t know the best way to respond to questions in the comments; it’s more personal if I answer directly in another comment, but I don’t know whether you’re obsessive enough to check for an answer, especially when as now I’m so slow.

Catsmum [Everyone stop reading this and go see the quilt!], I can only approximate the Gaelic pronounciation. I’ve got a ‘Teach Yourself Gaelic’ course sitting on my desk, but it takes more concentration than I’d thought; [did you see that lightbulb?] I might be able to manage it while knitting, though. ‘Baosbheinn’ I can do, sort of, because I checked with a native Gaelic speaker. It’s my favourite of the Torridon mountains; I loved that long ridge even before I discovered the name means something like ‘magic mountain/wizard’s peak’ or, alternatively ‘hill of the forehead’. The latter because seen from the coast the western end looks a bit like a craggy, noble face. ‘Baos’, the first syllable, should sound like ‘bush’ but modify that ‘u’ with a hint of ‘e’ as it would sound in ‘besh’. ‘Bheinn’ is roughly ‘ven’, with a short ‘e’. I spent an entire evening muttering that name to myself so I can get it right. After all, names have power.

And now for something completely different. If you need a laugh and are in the right frame of mind, try lolcats. Some leave me cold, some make me smile and some make me LOL. [“Luke I is ur fathur”]. I’m also intrigued by the way such memes develop; Anil Dash has some thoughts on this here. And here’s me this morning…*

Your Score: Sad Cookie Cat

65% Affectionate, 37% Excitable, 75% Hungry

You are the classic Shakespearian tragedy of the lolcat universe. The sad story of a baking a cookie, succumbing to gluttony, and in turn consuming the very cookie that was to be offered. Bad grammar ensues.

To see all possible results, checka dis.

* Believe it or not, I actually threw the last half packet of Bourbon Cream biscuits (my favourites!) in the bin last night to prevent them following the first half down my throat. I can has cookie? NO.

A bit like Slow Food, I hope. One of my capillary-feed drawing pens has started flowing too fast, so I have to stop frequently to allow the lines to dry. It takes about 15 minutes to enter the right mindset for other work and I don’t dare spin (time flies as fast as the spindle), so I thought I’d start drafting another post. Partly because I’ve got to acknowledge the laurel accorded to me by La Cabeza Grande…

And partly because I want to share my encounter with some knitting history.
The Gairloch Heritage Museum is well worth a visit. After our marathon walk we spent a wet morning trying-not-to-limp (we have our pride) through the linked white-washed buildings, looking at a classic assortment of village odds&ends assembled to tell interesting, coherent stories about the life of Gairloch. Those not interested in local history can examine a real lighthouse lantern (the glass structure that magnified and deflected the light of a single lamp to make it visible for 23 miles) in detail, up close and personal. It’s an absolutely amazing structure.

Pictures would make this far more interesting, but the Museum does not generally permit photography; the one I did take required a formal permit. There are displays of old photos, giving both Gaelic and English names of the people (no one could tell me why the different names were given, or when they were used. Sometimes the English was an obvious anglicisation, more often not). The postmen and postmistresses were given pride of place, for they held the network of rural communities together. There’s a tiny village shop counter, a miniature schoolroom. At one end of the largest room a window opens into someone’s house. It’s full of wool. There’s a spinning wheel ready for use, carders and a basket of fleece. The sheets on the box bed are made of old flour sacks, 4 per sheet, covered with handwoven blankets. A handwoven shepherd’s plaid hangs on the wall by the door.

In another room a display takes the uninitiated from fleece to sock. Carders again. Fleece (possibly rolags, but I can’t remember now) to be spun stored in the coolest basket, resembling a large, very rotund (American) wicker football with a large slot at the top through which fleece is pushed/removed. There’s a spinning wheel. There’s a display of handspun beautifully dyed using local dyestuffs. There’s a cabinet containing socks and a Sock Top sampler(!!), a long cylinder demonstrating various options for the tops of socks. Quite different from modern socks: all the ribbing had much wider stockinette ribs (roughly 1″ wide) than purl (1/2″ or less). The socks are thick and long, probably over the knee. All those I can remember were knitted in two colours, in variations of a pattern of diamonds (squares on end) filled with a uniform texture. This is apparently the Gairloch Knitting Pattern. I won’t describe any in great detail, as the Museum sells their own knitting pattern booklets and might object: I don’t want to offend them, I honestly admire what they’re trying to achieve. If they’d like to produce PDFs to sell online I’ll generate them gratis.

Here’s part of the photo I took. The display is ostensibly of the wooden sock blockers on which wet socks were dried, but my eyes were drawn to the darns on the well-worn heel and foot. I’d like to think this sock was knitted and repaired with love as well as wool, but I suspect desperation was involved.

From the mid-1750s Scots left the Highlands voluntarily or were forced to do so. Life was hard at the best of times in a landscape where every fertile corner was already supporting someone; besides this, the former clan chiefs were becoming ‘Lairds’ on the English model, charging rent for farmland and finding other ways of raising money, such as pasturing lucrative sheep on what had been small farms. The Clearances reached their height at the beginning of the 19th C. Many of those forced off their land had no alternative but to leave Scotland. Those who stayed were usually allocated crofts, new land in settlements planned by the Laird. Some crofts were deliberately made too small to support a family, forcing the crofters to work for the Laird to earn cash for necessities. All the small farms had to produce as much food as possible: enter the potato. And, from 1845-1849, potato blight. I hadn’t realised that the Scots crofters relied on potatoes to the same extent as the Irish.

I think these may have been ‘lazy beds’, ridges created by covering layers
of seaweed and bracken with soil and leaving it to rot over the winter.
In spring seed potatoes dibbed into holes in the ridges would produce good crops. Usually.

“in Gairloch, where the tenants had ‘a little meal [oats or barley] or milk in the season of it’, the food of the poor was herring and potatoes” (Malcolm Gray, The Highland Potato Famine of the 1840s). The resulting famine was devastating. The poverty of that economy is hard to imagine even when you’ve walked the landscape. Most people lived on what they grew themselves, relying on the sale of one or two cows every year for cash. The Lairds of Gairloch were among those who created jobs for local crofters, to be paid in oatmeal. Men worked 8 hours a day, six days each week building ‘Destitution Roads’ such as the road along Loch Maree; for this they received 24oz per man, 12 oz per woman and 8oz per child.

What has this to do with knitting?

While the men laboured on the roads, the women knitted. Lady Mackenzie of Gairloch even brought an expert from Skye to improve the quality of local knitwear: in 1847 she was said to have over 100 women spinning 490lb of wool per week to be knitted or woven. Eventually she built this into a local industry (more information is in the museum leaflets). Now I’ve got to go and choose(!) what we will enjoy for dinner tonight. Herring and potato aren’t on the menu.

Gairloch Harbour seen from the sea

I’m told that’s what I used to say when I was much, er, younger than I am now. And somewhat smaller. We’ve been in Scotland! Camping! In the rain! (no surprise there if you know Scotland :-)

That’s me, grinning inanely. With luck you can’t see just how silly I look when happy even if you click for big. If you can, feel sorry for him: he says that’s my characteristic expression. That’s a 35l Atmos pack loaded until it squeaked for mercy. It weighed about the same as his half-full 70l which is to say about 20-25lb. We very quickly became accustomed to the weight, even when hauling it up and down trackless mountainsides (this was An Adventure), which is a credit to Osprey‘s designs. There was knitting in my pack, but no knitting was harmed during the adventure: shortly after that photo was taken, things got much more interesting very quickly indeed. See the next hill, just behind me?
That’s the view from it. We planned to camp near that loch, which lies at the western foot of Beinn Alligin. The plan (when we left at 0645 on a sunny morning 9hrs earlier) was to pitch the tent, amble up Sgurr Mhor (the peak at right obscured by cloud), and have a leisurely meal followed by knitting. What happened was that the cloud fell like a stone down the mountainside as we walked to the loch. The rain started just as we unrolled the tent and within about 5 minutes it was bucketing down. The tent was up as quickly as when we pitched it on our lawn (the only other place we’d ever put that tent), we dumped our packs in the vestibule and hurtled over them into the tent in record time. There followed a night of weird contrasts. GOOD: enough water in our hydration packs to cook our dehydrated dinners. BAD: I have never, ever eaten anything more utterly disgusting in my entire life. And I write as someone who’s eaten really cheap bologna and sandwich spread, octopus sashimi, soil (I was younger then) and loads of flies (happy cyclist!). GOOD: tent didn’t leak. BAD: Constantly checking for non-existent leaks. GOOD: Blissful night of warmth wrapped in my new down sleeping bag. BAD: I accidentally used his (thicker) sleeping pad, so he wasn’t as blissful. GOOD: watching the @**! midges trying to squeeze through the mesh panels. BAD: listening to the @**! rain hammering on the tent all night. Cut to the next morning
That picture’s not as bad as I feared. For 5am. Can you see the rain? We could hear it… Worse, our planned route out led along the ridge of Baosbheinn, which was almost completely hidden in mist. Not a good time to walk it for the first time. So we decided to retrace our route in, with some trepidation because the cloud was brushing even the 650m summits of the hills we’d walked (there were alternatives, including a short emergency escape route to the Torridon road, but we decided we could cope with the conditions). At one point my worst fears were realised: the cloud dropped so densely we couldn’t sight the next landmark. We were standing 3/4 of the way up a high hill, the only people for several miles, with visibility less than 10m, known sheer drops somewhere to our right and unfamiliar extremely steep slopes to our left. A fall of only a few metres can kill. I felt sick. I wondered if we’d made a Really Stupid Decision in choosing to retrace our route. I wanted someone to tell me what to do… but there was just him, who knew no more than I. So we kept calm and worked it out for ourselves. The ‘escape route’ was obvious on the map if not in the mist: there was a straightforward compass bearing that would take us well out of our way, but safely down to lower ground. So that’s what we did. I tell you, the sense of relief when we broke out of the cloud was, well, it was amazing. Total distance walked: c. 34 miles, at least a third of which was bush-whacking. We arrived home tired but triumphant and, over corned beef hash, agreed we’d keep the tent and the sleeping bags. We’re already planning the next expedition :-)

Baosbheinn seen earlier in the day. I want to walk that long ridge so badly…

Sadly we’d wrecked ourselves a bit, so we took it easy for a couple of days. Intermittent, frequent showers would have made for unpleasant walking anyway. I finished the Electric Sox:
Pattern: Sidewinders, a PerpenSOCKular Pattern by Nona
Yarn: Colinette Jitterbug in ‘Jewel’
Modifications: this is only a 260m skein. Having finished, I think I’d probably have run out of yarn if I hadn’t shortened the leg by 7 stitches, but I do think it could have been shortened by less. If I did it again I’d try reducing by 4.

We did the wildlife boat trip, we made a pilgrimage to Knockan Crag. We read. And I spun.

Didn’t I mention we stopped at Woolfest on the way north? He didn’t know either, until after I’d booked it. Our first fibre festival. Togetherness. Listen to the hollow laughter of all the men patiently following their partners. They all have the same glazed eyes, bemused expression. A bit like people in a dentist’s waiting room. He didn’t *enjoy* most of it, but there was some interesting stuff and he did occasionally touch fibre voluntarily and almost, almost persuaded me to buy an 8g Bosworth. I was good. I got everything on my list and relatively little else, a bit frightened by how easy it would have been to blow a lot of money. I did not buy the discounted yarns (Rowan, DBliss, Noro): I wanted stuff I’d been watching online for months. Like that baby alpaca from Fyberspates, patiently becoming a light fingering yarn. I like spinning. I like spinning a lot. I really, really like spinning with a spindle, especially with a good drop from a rocky seashore. And a glass of wine.

Even when you’re not having fun.

I can still remember the look of utter exasperation on my mother’s face when, many years ago, I whined about being bored. Ah, those golden days when summer holidays lasted forever, or at least until school started. No time for boredom here, and no golden days either: it’s grey and cold and wet, but at least we haven’t had any flooding. I’ve been apologising to my sweetcorn, though. I think it was expecting sunlight.

Stuff is happening fast and furious here as the countdown to holiday continues. I’m trying to herd cats encourage clients to finish some work projects so the transition from holiday back to Real Life is less painful. For us it happens on the 12-hour drive home from Scotland. Glasgow is the transition point: south of the city conversation ceases as we both remember things we’ll have to do the next day. I hate that. It’s even worse after two weeks away, because that’s long enough that ‘holiday’ is becoming Real Life. I was going to say ‘We won’t make that mistake again’, but we might well: if our knees hold out and we enjoy wildcamping, then we might do the West Highland Way next year. Where are we going this year? Torridon and points north. What are we taking? Well, there’s bound to be books, some food and some clothing and walking gear but mostly I’m considering knitting/spinning projects. The Sidewinders Socks I are finished:
And a second pair is just past the halfway point:
That’s Colinette Jitterbug in ‘Jewel’, the yarn I wanted to be Jaywalkers. I think of these as the Electric Sox: they’re painfully bright in full sunlight. (I look forward to seeing my mother-in-law’s face when she sees them.) Joanne, I understand why you (and many others) have given up on Jaywalkers: I failed several times to get a fabric I liked and a working pattern variation to produce a sock that would fit me. Jitterbug is just too thick for that pattern on my feet. Also, a word of caution: the skeins are less than 300m. Which is short. Too short to make socks for him, for example, and I shortened the leg of this Sidewinder by 7 stitches to be on the safe side for me. Looking at the leftover (I always wind the skein into two balls for socks), I would probably have run out if I’d tried the full length. I could save the second sock for mindless knitting: I could almost knit these in my sleep now. And grafting stockinette will never frighten me again.

I could start a shawl:
I’m rather pleased with that. It’s the first time I’ve spun sufficient handspun to make something: that’s over 600m of 2-ply fingering weight alpaca/silk. It’s precisely the weight I wanted (I’m so proud); it could be just a little more tightly twisted, but I love it as it is, soft and with a gentle silken sheen. It’s going to be a birthday gift for my mother. I really should make a final pattern choice and start knitting BEFORE I succumb to something else for me. But I think it’s too valuable for what could be rough handling, being stuffed into and out of a pack. I’ll just have to have a look through the stash and make some decisions. This is where Ravelry comes into its own: I spent about 2 days (yes, I should have been working) in total photographing my stash and uploading the images into My Notebook via Flickr. Now I can see what I’ve got and whether it’s enough for, well, anything. If you want to see, search for cinereous and you’ll find me.

That’s Slioch, on the north side of Loch Maree. One day, possibly soon, I hope to take a photo to pair with this one: looking down on the mere mortals parked beside the road. Incidentally that photo was taken on the warmest October day on record a couple of years ago. This year we’re thinking of taking our architectural raingear. I call it that because it’s like a house, complete with windows and ventilation flaps and so far it’s kept us perfectly dry even in horizontal rain in November. Look on the bright side, I say: midges HATE rain.

Now: nose to grindstone, or more accurately, eyes to monitor. Illustrator awaits :-(

A Fabulous PerpenSOCKular pattern!
Pattern: Sidewinders Socks, a play in V Acts from Nona.
Yarn: Socks That Rock lightweight in Rooster Rock.

Comments: Got gauge (gauge is crucial) on a 2.5mm circular, which produces a slightly looser fabric than I’d normally knit (I prefer 2mm). No matter, the fit is PERFECT and I love this sock. It’s a witty, elegant pattern (the toe shaping is wonderful) that really shows a handpaint yarn to perfection. Nona’s instructions are almost foolproof; I managed to mess up the toe the first time round (I should have placed the marker one stitch from the edge, not two), which means I’m late finishing but did give me the chance to relax a bit and thus improve my gauge. I was getting a bit tense by mid-sock as my competitive spirit rose to the challenge of finishing each installment in time for the next. I spent over two hours grafting this morning, but part of that was re-working the toe graft three times. It’s the first time I’ve worked across the stitches: my first attempt resulted in a tidy line of purls across the right side, the second was an almighty mess, and the third I can live with. I’ve posted a picture for those who don’t know what it could look like; I’m not certain this is what it should look like, but I think it will even out a bit after washing and wearing.
Life is about to get very interesting indeed. I’m on holiday at the end of the month, my annual large typesetting job started landing (late!) a fortnight ago, another large project has just announced a tight deadline, and all the little projects are crying because they want to play too. My Ravelry invite arrived (which means cataloguing my stash for the first time), I’m not yet finished spinning that [expletive deleted] alpaca/silk for my mother’s scarf/shawl, I’ve got silk to spin for me, I’ve got some Addi Turbo lace needles petitioning to be introduced to Sundara’s silk and the gift shawl… and all I can think about are Sidewinders Socks: a PERFECT PerpenSOCKular pattern.

Get thee behind me, Satan… too late.

Nona, would you write me a note to explain why I’m late for work?

Life is currently throwing just about as many balls as I can handle given two arms and the occasional judicious use of my teeth. Others might deflect balls by bouncing them off their heads, but I want to catch and keep everything I see. I’m like that.

Nonetheless there is another pair of socks in my drawer:
My Ugly Socks.
Yarn: Tofutsies 722 ‘Stand on your own two feet’ (I think).
Pattern: my own. Basketweave rib instep and leg, sole and heel ribbed for snug fit because I doubted whether the yarn would be stretchy. It’s worked, and I haven’t noticed the ribbing texture when I’ve worn them.

I had doubts about the appearance of this yarn as soon as I opened the parcel. The colours don’t work particularly well for me, and I dislike (is not too strong a word) the vague heatheriness added by a strand of white in the mix. It’s very splitty indeed, but as others have said, once washed it blooms and gains a slight silky sheen. The fabric is quite thin, eminently suitable for summer wear. I will knit with it again – I have another ball in a different colourway that will be socks for him, he likes thin socks – but I don’t think I’ll buy more unless I can inspect the colour in person.

What else is new? Well, not new, but I’ve been trying to find time to make the summer top that’s living in my head a real project. Remember the Duct Tape Dummies? Here’s mine, fully marked-up with my measurements:

Very Strange. Like people, dummies gain weight when seen through a lens. I was honestly surprised by my shape. I’m not fat, really I’m not. Just… stocky. Not wobbly, no gross bulges (other than the bust, but that’s not my fault). Sturdy. Ages ago Joanne asked what it looked like wearing a piece of clothing I like; that’s another Crea Concept top. I wear it over a tight-fitting camisole roughly the colour of the duct tape.
Again, I love the structure of this garment. It’s so interesting. Knitted in rayon, according to the label. I’ll spare you pictures of the dummy draped with a bit of cloth heavy enough to emulate the fall of knitted fabric while I tested the ways that a cowl neck (or whatever you call the thing with excess fabric falling into folds above/over the bust) might work on me. I don’t know why, but the thing in my head has one. And it’s just developed what could be a very interesting way of growing that excess.

Next: a quick glimpse of some spinning. This is my first attempt at silk cap, beautiful stuff hand-dyed with indigo by the Mulberry Dyer. I initially spun the singles quite thickly and very loosely as I tried to work out how to handle the slubs and variations in thickness spinning from the cap. The end result would not have knitted, so I put it on a felt plying ball and basically re-worked it thinner, and with more twist. This time the singles looked pretty (so blue! so shiny!) but still very uneven, so I plied it back on itself. And decided I’d ruined it: the yarn looked a mess. Now, after washing, I wouldn’t say it’s ruined. I think it will knit or weave a very nice rough fabric that gleams in the light. I have to try again for a better single, then compare singles vs 2-ply when knitted. I might need to buy more cap, though. It’s a challenge, but so interesting!

Not quite last, but far, far from least:*

If you don’t recognise the thing stretched out under the rocks (it’s shy), go and get that fabulous hand-paint sock yarn out of the stash, the one you’ve reserved for a very special pattern, and take it to Nona’s place. Can you resist it? More importantly, can you get gauge? This came close enough to be worth a try (there are lies, damn lies, statistics and then my swatches). Go on, what are you waiting for? Shoo!

* I abandoned my first pair of Jaywalkers for this. Just dropped them in the project bag and headed for the stash.

The view from our bedroom window. Thanks, Mindie — the knitting karma landed!

Started September 2006, finished May 2007 (stockinette is boring).
Yarn: Lisa Souza laceweight merino in ‘Wild Things’
Pattern: Mim’s Seraphim Shawl
Modifications: first and most obvious, I converted the triangle into a square. What was I thinking?
The pattern called for 800–900yds fingering weight yarn and 3.75mm needles; I used c. 1500yds of laceweight on 2.5mm needles after knitting more stockinette rows to add an extra pattern repeat as compensation for the smaller stitch size. I must have been mad… The pattern gives a blocked size of 72″ point-to-point; mine is 150cm on the diagonal, which is just about fingertip-to-fingertip on me. I could have made it bigger – I’ve got at least 800yds of yarn left – but I wanted something roughly my size.

Joanne, you might want to look away now… 99,940 stitches. This is an accurate estimate, lacking precision only because I know I made some mistakes. We habitually discuss strange stuff during long car journeys. How electricity works, from the electron up. Why that idiot is weaving to and fro across the road. The relative merits of Rhubarb and Gooseberry Fool. On Saturday it occurred to me that, given I know the number of stitches I started with, the number of stitches bound off, and the increase per two rows, it should be possible to calculate the actual number of stitches in the shawl. We forced our memories back into the grade school archives to look for factorials, something I can very dimly remember thinking would never, ever be useful. The number we wanted is (2(8×111!))-16 [because the first row is knitted only once]. The teacher whose name is lost in the mists of time would be proud of me, but the Excel Wizard did the calculation.

Comments: the pattern is a straightforward easy knit, bar the boredom inherent in a lot of stockinette. I am particularly taken with the way Mim’s used different decreases to move from solid stockinette to stockinette ‘islands’ with clearly defined edges to stockinette islands with diffuse edges. Very feathery, very, very clever: you’ll have to buy the pattern to find out precisely what I mean!

I bought the yarn in the first flush of enthusiasm for hand-dyed yarns, not thinking (not even aware) of how colour changes can obscure lace patterning. Thanks to myriad knitblogs, I rapidly became very wary of variable colouring in lace. I considered plain garter stitch (too boring), or some of the simple shawls in Folk Shawls, (classic designs that seemed to me to deserve a plain yarn to show the pattern of the stitches). Then I spotted Seraphim. I squared it because I had the yarn (2500yds), and because it’s to be my comfort blanket. I’ve spent two transatlantic flights huddled under a scratchy grey blanket trying to pretend I’m not crammed into a cigar tube with several hundred other far-from-perfect people. And their children. Now I have a lavender-scented cloud to remind me of the Asian lad on the train to Edinburgh whose first-ever stitches are part of the shawl. And his Scots girlfriend. And Arthur’s Seat, and all the other places I’ve worked on it. And I’ve lessons to remember, too. Memo to self: Pay attention to the stitches during the straight ‘knit’ rounds; they’re your chance to correct errors in the preceding pattern rounds. More importantly, I think my tension has improved aka loosened.

I’ve just taken it off the pins. It’s gorgeous.

I’ll add the classic ‘on’ shot when I’ve got one. After spending my morning knitting and my lunch hour sitting outside reading Pratchett, eating chocolate chip cookies, and gloating… I’d better get to work.

I like knitting lace. I shall knit a ‘proper’ garment next, but will be thinking about lace.
In the bag, Habu Kusa (silk mohair, apparently similar to KSH but far, far nicer) in three colourways, 400-600m of each, plus hand-dyed cashmere. I don’t know what any of this will be, perhaps I love it more because of the sheer weight of potential in that bag. On the grass… Sundara’s silk laceweight in a non-repeatable colour. Probably an Icarus. I’m looking forward to seeing the play of light and colour across those bands of stockinette.
From left to right, Jaggerspun Zephyr in ‘Sage’ probably to be Anne’s Wing o’ the Moth; centre is Handmaiden Ivory Sea Silk for the Kimono Shawl in Folk Shawls; right is Handmaiden’s new Mini Maiden, 50/50 silk/wool heavy laceweight singles in ‘Periwinkle’, destined to be a gift. Possibly another Kiri (scroll down) – it’s such a fast knit. Decisions, decisions.
Are you jealous?

I’m sorry.

No, I must be honest. I’m only a little bit sorry. Mostly I’m still gloating.

My feet are not nearly as elegant as Cara’s.

sister/brother/friend/client/printer/cat (please delete as appropriate)

I regret that I have been unable to reply to your letter/telephone message expressing concern/angry email/plaintive meow. I was exploring space-time with Dr Who/paralysed from the neck down by sudden illness/isolated from the rest of the world by a total electricity failure/desperately trying to finish knitting a shawl. I hope to send a response to your query/those proofs/that print job/clean the litterbox and placate you with gooshy food in the very near future.

All my love/Yours sincerely
sarah

—————————————————-

Three rows and the bind-off to go. Fortunately? my husband knows the score. He didn’t even try to talk to me last night.

On Saturday we again drove up to the Peak District to prove? test? our fitness. Debby, competitiveness can be a good thing if the body is up for it. In our case(s), the spirit is willing, but the flesh (more specifically the joints) are weak. He’s had an arthroscopy on one knee and the other’s just as bad; mine aren’t much better after decades of abuse. If we attack one hill flat out, we might not be able to get back to the car, let alone up the next hill!
I was thrilled by the thought of pure unadulterated ‘knitting time’ during the drive, so took the Purple Thing. Car-knitting proved less ideal than I’d thought, even the motorway has rough bits and distractions. I’ve had to pick up some dropped stitches, which left some tension anomalies (one is visible in the photo). Never mind, they’ll remind me of another place this shawl has been. I’d intended to leave the shawl in the boot/trunk of the car (obviously any thief worth its salt would have stolen it if I’d left it in plain sight) at Winnat’s Pass but found I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Suppose someone stole the car? They’d have my shawl. The insurance value would be derisory by comparison to the hours of my life it embodies. It’s FAR more valuable than the car. Despite having spent quite a lot of money on lightweight walking gear I disregarded the noticeable weight of the stitch markers and stuffed it into my pack. My explanation of the value of the shawl vs that of the car met with some amusement.
It was a good day out. In weather ranging from hot sun to horizontal rain and hail we climbed Mam Tor, walked the Great Ridge to Lose Hill, then turned around and walked back and further, along Rushup Edge to Lord’s Seat and beyond. About 14.5km in total, less than last time, but much more upanddown. My knees are still complaining.

Respect is due to the myriad teachers out with their students. The paths were lined with them, measuring the width of the paths (studying erosion?), sketching the landscape. We occasionally caught words on the wind… (all my images click for bigger, this one will be legible if you do!)

I find everyone’s different hair stories intriguing. Even while I wish I’d had the courage to disregard my parents and cut my hair as a teenager, I try to imagine wanting long hair. Diversity is the spice of life. One of the spices of life. There are so many, we just have to recognise them.

Work, I must work. How else can I earn money for the sock monkey? DON’T ANSWER THAT!

Not one of those purple things! They’re English bluebells, not triffids. But just imagine you could see tiny people down amongst their leaves… can you tell it’s Friday?
I’ve only got 13 rows plus the bind-off to go. Barring accidents, I will survive and I’ll have yarn left over, probably about 1200 yards. Might be some time before I feel like knitting with it again!

I’ve been tagged for the ‘Seven Random Facts’ MeMe by Joanne. The rules are:
Each person tagged gives 7 random facts about themselves. Those tagged need to write in their blogs 7 facts, as well as the rules of the game. You need to tag seven others and list their names on your blog. You have to leave those you plan on tagging a note in their comments so they know that they have been tagged and need to read your blog. But I’m going to break the rules and not tag anyone else: if you want to do it, go for it – and leave a comment in the comments so I can come and find out more about you.

1. I love the smell of lavender. I have lavender soap, I dab lavender oil on my pillow if I’m having trouble sleeping, I sprinkle lavender oil under the rugs and carpets because it smells nice and might deter moths.

2. I’m afraid of lightning. At 49 I’ve got the self-control to keep the flinch internal, but it’s a weird fear. My parents took me to see Fantasia when I was very, very young. They hoped it would be memorable, and it was, but (I hope) not for the right reasons. Remember the segment where lightning apparently pursues centaurs (I think it was centaurs) across the landscape? I think that did it: when I saw it again a couple of years ago, something clicked. Somewhere very deep in my brain I think lightning is sentient, and it’s out to get me. When I was young enough to act on my fears I used to spend lightning storms hiding indoors where it couldn’t see me through a door or window. Thunder is fine, thunder is non-existent gods moving furniture. Lightning, and to a lesser extent, any moving light (car headlights can make me close doors slightly more quickly than I might otherwise)… they’re not so fine. Even at 49.

3. As a child I taught myself to imitate loon calls so well that the birds would swim toward me standing on the shore. One evening I was asked to demonstrate this in front of some of my parents’ friends: I think the reaction must have been negative in some way – they laughed? – because I stopped doing it after that.

4. I really like Mexican/ Tex-mex food. I cherish several cookbooks despite living in a country where most of the fresh ingredients are unavailable and those I can find are seriously expensive.

5. But I loathe cilantro/coriander leaves. If I wanted that flavour I’d eat soap.

6. I love walking barefoot. My toes burrow into sand. Hot asphalt under my feet is the feel of childhood summer. I like contrasts, the exclamation points of gravel compared to the cool green grassness of the lawn. I like to feel mud squishing between my toes, I enjoy the shock of cold tile or even snow on the warm soles of my feet.

7. I used to have extremely long blonde hair. As a child in the late 1960s/early 1970s my plait was longer than the average hem length of the dresses I wore to school; when it was unbraided my hair reached my knees. It was washed every Sunday, piled on my head in a towel then brushed almost dry (the pain! the pain!), then braided into a single very fat plait down the middle of my back. Every morning and evening it was unbraided, brushed, and then braided again. I had a white stripe down the middle of my back all summer. It was never cut, my mother just trimmed the ends once each month. From about the age of 9 I begged, I pleaded to have it cut. It was so incredibly heavy when it was wet, it was a nuisance in more ways than I care to list (think about compulsory swimming). My father flatly refused to allow it. Finally, when I was about 12, it was cut to mid-back. I can remember the change in the weight. My parents divorced, I got older and bolder, and when I was about 18 I had it cut to shoulder-length. The hairdresser didn’t want to do it; I told her if she could think of ONE way of putting it ‘up’ that would stay ‘up’ and out of my eyes and everything else (loose hair/braids used to fall forward into the dead shark dissection. Not good, the smell lingers.) I’d pay for the cut and leave it long. She couldn’t: every time I shook my head the new style would fall out. The price I pay for thick, heavy hair. For a long time it rested near my shoulders. Eventually about 15 years ago, even older and bolder, I had it cut ‘short back and sides’, just like my brother’s back in the 1960s. I can still remember feeling air on the back of my neck for the first time. Now I’m older still and I want it shorter still. I’d love to find out what a ‘Number One’ feels like or, better yet, no hair at all. But Stuart (who cuts it) flatly refuses ever to consider it, as bald really, really wouldn’t suit me. But I know the time will come when my curiosity will win, after all I don’t have to look at myself. And it will grow back.

This has been the first bright, sunny day for what seems like ages. We needed the rain, but…
Fortunately I’d already planned an expedition to photograph wild lily-of-the-valley. I’d never thought about where it was native (Eurasia and eastern North America); for me lily-of-the-valley was found in the flower bed by the front door of the house where I grew up in western Canada. Here it is in its natural habitat in an ancient wood. (‘Ancient’ meaning trees may have grown here since they appeared in Britain after the last Ice Age.) The plants shoot and flower quickly, before the slower oaks come into full leaf and cast dense shade on the woodland floor. Not all the plants have the energy to flower each year, and those that do are far more delicate than the robust thugs spreading across my garden.
The scent is the same, even more haunting as it drifts through the trees.
In Britain ancient woodland (this is King’s Wood, near Heath & Reach) is not wilderness: it’s been managed to produce crops of timber (building-size, er, timber) and wood (as in firewood) for centuries or millennia. As trees became scarcer in a landscape cleared for agriculture, individual woodlands became more and more valuable. Their boundaries were marked by permanent earthworks, woodbanks and ditches, and hedges. Several centuries ago someone felled the trees in one corner of the King’s Wood, a process known as assarting. The clearing (known as an assart) is still grassland, with the woodbank visible as a long mound in the grasses. But the flood of bluebells shimmering across the area in spring is the clearest indication that this field was once wildwood.

With luck by the end of next week I will have more knitting and spinning to document! Oh no… I can hear the Purple Thing. It’s calling me, I must go to it. Noooooooooooooooooo…..

It has fangs. It’s devouring the second ball of laceweight as fast as I, its slave, can work. Eight hundred stitches in circumference means progress is slow but steady; I do an hour before I start work, for example, and well over an hour every night, plus whatever time I have during lunch. Only 21 rows and the cast-off to go and then I’ll be able to see the pattern complete (it’s Mim’s ‘Seraphim‘). This is where I stopped this morning. Had to stop. I can feel the muscle tension in my forearms already and I’ve a whole day of computer work ahead of me…
Tuesday Spinners offers sanctuary from my purple master. Although others do knit (I’ve been running impromptu classes in toe-up socks for the last month), I welcome the chance to spend 2 hours on the wheel without a head popping around the door of my room to say “I wondered what that strange noise was”. And I’m starting to worry a little about fibre build-up in the computer. My last one was making felt in the back of the CD holder, and that was only cat hair! It’s taken longer than I’d expected to spin this, but I’ve been trying for consistent thickness rather than speed and I’m pleased with the result. I plyed about 150m of 2-ply alpaca/silk on Sunday, reluctant to display my lack of plying expertise in front of everyone else tonight. A little bit loose but I can add some twist if it doesn’t knit well. It’s my longest length of handspun, only my second? third? plied on the wheel. The only thing that bothers me is that there are still some guard hairs in mix which project from the yarn and might cause some irritation. I spent about 15 minutes pulling the worst offenders out of the skein yesterday: any excuse to fondle this stuff!
I was going to switch to some merino/tencel for socks tonight, but the sheen of this inspires me to continue: I want about 600m of this fingering-weight for a shawl/scarf for my mother. So that’s me with a sample length of singles on my right knee, feeding the wheel again tonight. On the left is a medieval Chibi. I’m not joking: it’s a pewter needlecase modelled on a 15th C original found in the Netherlands. The leather tab slides down to secure the lid, although it’s heavy enough that the lid won’t move much when it’s hanging from my belt. We met friends at a re-enactors’ fair on Saturday; the venue was dire, but the cool weather meant I could wear my ‘Lady Sarah’ gear to visit the traders as a prosperous 14-15th C woman of means attended by M, wearing her standard garb and carrying all my purchases in her basket. Bar the needlecase, which went straight onto my belt! I also bought a bottom whorl spindle in holly and beech to use at such events, shown here with the Gotland I’d brought with me.
An educational experience. The spindle isn’t incredibly heavy, although it feels it by comparison with the sub-30g spindles I seem to like, it works just fine: it’s made and sold by a spinner. It just feels so clumsy by comparison with the modern artisan top-whorls I’ve been using. The Kundert, the Golding seem to spin by themselves, forever. This one requires work. The slippery Gotland was not the best choice of fibre to start with, either: it’s fortunate that this is so, um, sturdy.

Reviewing what I’ve written, it’s clear I’m not lacking fun fibre-related stuff. But the US fibre-festival season is well under way, and I feel so jealous! Woolfest (I’ll be there Friday afternoon/evening), and The Knitting and Stitching Show at Alexandra Palace are months away. I was beating off the impulse to do a little web-shopping (I have a list of stuff I want need from Habu *, from Crown Mountain, from Blue Moon) when the postman rang the doorbell and I was reminded that I’d already done some web-shopping.

I can’t think whose blog it was that showed me a square spindle whorl. I love the idea and it’s functional, it would stay where I put it! So I visited Spindlewood Co and emailed Steve to ask about an elegant applewood spindle shown on the webpage. I love my tiny Golding, but I wanted to try something even lighter. By the next morning he’d emailed me a picture of the spindle he’d made just for me… and here it is. Applewood, 0.5oz, beautifully detailed and finished. When the time is right I will be spinning frog hair.

* Look! They’re going to publish an english translation of Setsuko Torii’s book. Register your interest if you like seriously interesting garments: I have the Japanese edition and it is fascinating.