Yes, Sock Knitting Is Definitely An Addiction

I remember it quite well. I posted on Knitter's Review Forum, I aired the topic on these pages. Why, I demanded to know (last year, last year, ah how long ago) is sock knitting so trendy? What is it about socks that makes the knitting thereof such a desirable habit to pursue? I didn't get it, I declared. I just did not GET it about this passionate fashion for knitting socks.

Oh I was answered. The replies poured in, each more fervent in its missionary zeal than the last. Ideal for carrying around with you, said many. So easy to finish, as so many projects are not, said more. Luxurious indulgences said others. I listened. I told myself not to be narrow minded. I gave in. I purchased yarn. I cast on.

I left that first sock after two rows. It was boring. The only kind of sock yarn you could buy in Ireland (still the only kind of sock yarn you can buy in Ireland) was a wool-nylon blend in assorted shades of black, brown and grey. Not all together, heaven forfend. Black OR brown OR grey. To go with school uniforms or depressing suits or something.

But then I found Simply Socks on the Net and purchased some Tiny Toes Interlacements in the most incredibly beautiful mix of blues. Like a page from an illuminated manuscript the ball of yarn was, and when you knitted it up - utter heaven. I worked on those socks early and late, finished them, wore them, washed them gently, wore them again - and again and again. Anne, and all those of you who warned me that the Interlacements yarns tend to bleed, were you ever right! After myriad washings, those socks still turn the water a rich bright blue! But I forgive them. They're so beautiful. Indeed my pet name for them was my Book of Kells Socks. No, they didn't win a prize at Bantry Show, but I think that was because Bantry had never seen anything like them in its life before. Black, brown, grey socks yes, but this bright illuminated blend of blues, never. Bad stuff. Burn it at the stake. What is the world coming to?

Anyway, to get back to the point I originally intended to make. Socks, and the knitting thereof, can lead to dangerous addiction. It doesn't happen immediately - I made another pair, then worked casually on a third pair over several months. I could take it or leave it alone, and that, I assumed, was the way it would stay with socks and moi.

Enter Sock Madness, stage left, cackling. Exit all sense and reason.

Over the past month and a half I have knitted five pairs of socks and another pair is on the needles even as we speak. Four pairs for Sock Madness and the first pattern done a second time just for fun. For fun? To what sad extreme has Celtic Memory come? And I can't stop. I simply can't stop. Friday sees the launch of Round 5 of this amazing event. There are just eight of us left in the central ring, with the other 120 competing fiercely with each other around the perimeter and having a wonderful time. We should be spending these last few days resting up, oiling our hands, flexing the joints, or at least clearing away the backlog of housework and day job.

But I can't relax. Life doesn't seem right any more without a pair of socks on the go. I miss them when I'm on a bus, in a car, sitting in a cafe. So today I gave in to my desperate craving and cast on a pair to keep me going until Friday. I'd try toe-up socks, I decided, since I haven't done too much in that line. And the pattern I chose? Why Wendy's Toe-Up Sock, of course, the name of the division in which I found myself for Sock Madness and which is now represented solely by Celtic Memory and Stitchinwench who on Friday and all over the weekend will have to battle it out for supremacy. Only one of us can go through, that's the pity of it.

Here's the first sock, working up the foot. I must say this starting at the toe is rather fun. No grafting to dread at the end, just work away until you see that the ball of yarn is almost finished, and then cast off. Thought the top of the foot looked a bit plain, so added in a few Celtic twists to perk it up. The yarn is my current favourite, Crystal Palace Panda Cotton, a blend of bamboo and cotton, in a nice oatmeal shade.

The other day, hearing that our unaccountably fine weather was about to come to an end, I made a trip down the Dingle Peninsula to Slea Head. I had a special purpose in mind: there had been news of a cliff fall down there, and the spectacular coastal road had in part been swept away. This is one of the most amazing tourist routes you could hope to find, and any damage to the road would impact very badly on local business, which depends on the short summer season. But I had a more personal interest: Denise is coming over in May, and Deb in June (Deb with a group of Maine shepherds, how cool is that?), and I couldn't bear to think of either of them missing out on the Dingle peninsula with its ancient beehive huts, and Dunquin, and the legendary Blasket Islands. So I went down to see for myself how bad it was.

Well a good bit of the road had certainly collapsed a few hundred feet into the sea, which wasn't too hopeful. But - and here's the amazing bit - everybody had rallied round, including the local farmer landowners, agreements had been thrashed out, and a new stretch of road laid out across an adjoining field in a shorter time than you could believe possible - a few days in fact. Now normally Kerry isn't noted for getting things done quickly, but this they did achieve. And well done to them. Denise and Deb, all is well: you won't miss out on the Dingle Peninsula and the Slea Head drive.

I did though. Miss out, that is. You will see from that picture that it's a very misty dark day. To tell the truth, most days are like that down on Slea Head. The weather sweeps in from the Atlantic and since Kerry is the first thing it's seen since leaving America, it falls on it like a long-lost brother. To the detriment of the view.

These pictures were taken when the mist lifted slightly. When it was really down, you couldn't see more than a couple of yards.

You can just make out in this one the long lines of old drystone walls crisscrossing the headland, far further up into the mountain than seems practical or useful. That's an echo of the past: the pre-Famine days when the population had reached its highest level ever (we're still not back to it) and desperate people scrambled ever higher to find some - any soil to till.

I didn't want you to go without seeing the magical Blasket Islands though, so DH was prevailed upon to search in his library and find a sunny day image for you.

There was never a place like the Great Blasket for producing writers. Half a dozen classics still avidly read today - Peig Sayers' life, Tomas O'Crohan's The Islandman, Michael O'Suillebhain's Twenty Years A Growing, and more, all chronicling a way of life that has gone for ever. The last islanders were taken off in the 1950s, broken hearted to go, but unable to continue in their isolation. Can you see those tiny white dots on the island? They're the islanders' cottages. Fires were left ready laid with wood, kettles on the hob, mugs on the table when they sailed away to the mainland, as if they could not bear to think that they would never return. You can go over on fine summer days (and trust the boatman if he says it's not a good day, they know how quickly the weather can blow up around this coast), and wander around these relics of an earlier, more simple existence.

In a sheltered patch on the road back, the first bluebells were out - very early for these, since they normally herald May Day.

The sun came out as I crossed back into county Cork, so just to awaken your longings, I photographed two glorious old ruins for sale near my home:

How can I tell you to be sensible? I was nearly on the phone to the estate agents myself - and I live in a perfectly good house nearby! Look, they'd need millions to do them up - don't imagine the second one has heard of indoor plumbing, let alone a damp proof course, while the first one was invisible for years under a thick growth of brambles, and has only recently emerged into the open air. But they're tempting, oh dear heaven are they tempting!

Now I really must get on with creating the Bealtaine yarn. We're almost at Beltane, or May Day, a great festival on the ancient Celtic calendar. It will be inspired by the bluebells that carpet the woods in May, the white of the hawthorn or May blossom, and the vivid springing green that you can see everywhere at this time of year.

Here is the preliminary stash trawl. Now all I need is a little time to create the yarn. Don't let anything else distract, just get on with assembling the work of art...

Where did I put those toe-up socks?