Forget HTML, Give Me The Milking Parlour Any Day!

Celtic Memory is just not one of those techie fiends. She wishes she was, but she isn't. Big time she isn't.

Have just spent most of the morning trying to make a few simple changes to the layout of this page but have only succeeded in working up a real temper. Go AWAY computer complications! Why can't you be simple? On the other hand, I wouldn't be here talking to the rest of you if it were not for the wonders of modern technology...

The milking parlour? Well when the world of wires and Java and computer-speak and HTML and URL gets as trying as it has done this fine Sunday morning, it is comforting to think that somewhere, not all that far away, a patient cowman is milking a red shorthorn in the old traditional way. How do I know this? Read on.

It started with Noro (oh shut up you at the back, if you can't stop giggling I'm going away right now to eat chocolate). Jean and Jo, my friends at The Little Yarn Shop In the Far West, sent me a terse email saying 'Noro arrived - looks beautiful.' Now what would you have done? Of course I headed off at the first possible moment. It was a very wet West Cork morning, and the hills going over the Kerry border had pulled the cloudy duvets right down over their heads and said they were staying out of sight for the day. DH had had an early start on that particular morning, so I did too, which meant that there was time on the way to Kenmare to call in at the Traditional Farms at Muckross in Killarney.

These farms are a particularly inspired idea, for Ireland at any rate - those of you in the New World have been doing things like this for ages, but it's taken us longer to get far away enough from our past to take pride in it again. They are a series of old farmsteads set along a winding lane, tucked away behind high hedges above Muckross House Estate. In the old days they would have supplied the Big House with milk and eggs and labour too. The estate had the vision to restore these old buildings and put in people to talk to visitors about the old ways and the old days. And they didn't choose bright young things straight out of college, but the genuine article - men and women who had grown up on farms themselves and had done all these old jobs and tasks in their younger days. As a result, when you go in there - as I often do, just for the pleasure of seeing the genuine article - you can tap into an incredible richness of reminiscence and information and bright images of life in years gone by.

This is the first cottage you come to as you toil up the steep muddy lane between high hedges. It would have been the cottage of a labourer rather than a prosperous farmer. The next one along is a little larger, and the third is a big farmhouse with all the little luxuries that someone with enough land and cattle could provide for his family. They're heartcomforting to visit. Would you like to go inside?

Here it is, a simple whitewashed cottage with Kitty Brennan making soda bread at the table. We had a quick chat and then I went out to the shed to see Patrick O'Sullivan milking his two cows.

Patrick first started milking when he was about eight or nine, he told me, 'when I was big enough'. Before that, though, he'd had plenty to do around the small family farm. 'All of us had to pull our weight. You did in those days. The kids now, they're indoors all the time with their Gameboys and their computers. They should be out wandering in the fields and getting the fresh air into their lungs like we did.'

When he'd filled three buckets with foaming creamy milk, we went back into the house to relax for a minute and talk about the old days. About the times when people shared what little they had, and came visiting to spend the evening in song and story.

The dancing at the crossroads was something they both remembered with affection. 'Everybody would come from miles around, they'd think nothing of walking all the way there and back for the chance of a bit of a music and a dance.' Indeed Kitty would sometimes travel further afield, all the way to Aubane near Millstreet, more than thirty miles distant, if she could get a lift. 'You'd meet big farmers there - some of them had their own tractors.' She'd been after one of those farmers herself, she confided, laughing merrily.

'Did you get him?,' I asked.

'I did not. I got a civil servant.' More peals of laughter.

She showed me the thick coarse handknitted socks airing by the fire. 'I used to make these myself, but nowadays I think they'd be too itchy. You weren't so particular back then.' Michael, stretching his legs comfortably, agrees. 'We had the long socks, to go under the rubber boots. They'd keep you warm on a winter's morning.'

Then it was time for Michael to take the milk up to the next house, where it would be separated, prior to its churning at the third farm. And it was time for Kitty to check on her bastable bread.

Here she is lifting the lid off the iron pot with a tongs.

and here is the bread, rising nicely. I wish I could bake bread like this. One of these days I'm going to try. And who'd mind the bit of turf ash? It adds flavour.

The poultry were clucking around the door, hoping to be allowed inside on the wet morning it was, but Kitty was firm about keeping them out.

And it was beyond time for me to be on my way, so I took a cut of fresh soda bread, spread with butter of their own making, and headed off.

Yes, to Kenmare (via Moll's Gap, Deb, via Moll's Gap) and to the Noro, of course. I'd spent so much time at the farmhouse (wouldn't you have, on a wet morning, with a turf fire like that?), that there wasn't much left for Kenmare, but I will confess I did yield to temptation a little.

Two new books, and - oh gosh, how did that yarn get there? I simply couldn't resist that little vest on the right of the picture, in Silk Garden Lite.

In fact, to get it over with, let's have the full picture. Not only was new yarn bought -

(Dez, isn't there something in the records about Noro not counting or being allowable when there's a vowel in the month? Sorry for disturbing you, but you're the only one with the full set of volumes from the Kashmir Stash Summit, I think it's on the eleventh shelf up, in Volume XVIII(b) or maybe on the fourteenth in Volume XCIX(d)?),

- but a NEW PROJECT was started. Well you were probably going to find out about it anyway so might as well tell you right away.

Here is the vest so far. Oh frailty, frailty, thy name is Celtic Memory. But it was the colourway, and the gorgeous picture, and the temptation...

Other work has been proceeding, nevertheless (yes, yes, I do have a day job). The Fawkes Socks are both well under way,

and the crop cardi based on Nicky Epstein's Gazebo Lace pattern has the back and both fronts complete, with one sleeve started.

Still wondering what kind of band to work on the fronts of this little jacket. Thanks for all the suggestions - I might go with either a rendering of the rib strip or an i-cord.

Then there has been some more dyeing here in the West Cork woods. The new sock yarn colourway was inspired by the wonderfully scented sweet peas which are blooming in pots (our slugs are much addicted to tender young sweet peas, hence big pots on tall stands) at both the back and front of the house, wafting their perfume in at open windows. I love the way one shade blends into another, with even the white blooms showing a touch of soft blue or pink on their petals.

Of course the pots couldn't be moved and their background didn't look right, so had to photograph the skeins against the Japanese anemones which are wonderful at the moment. Then used a vase of sweet peas for the close up.

Sophy Wackles wanted to get in on the picture too.

I'll put this one up on eBay tonight, along with Strawberry Mousse and the second of the Phoenix Feathers skeins. If the computer behaves, that is. Do you think they can scent fear? I really feel they know if you're afraid of them. DH storms in, slaps the keyboard, thumps the box, and it behaves like a lamb. Maybe it's a man thing.