tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308777202024-03-14T18:50:04.296+00:00Celtic Memory YarnsWriter, historian and fibre fiend talks about life in Ireland, travel in odd places, dogs, cats, scenery, knitting, and that constant search for the unusual and undiscovered.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.comBlogger293125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-81837800277059176102023-05-01T17:07:00.060+01:002023-05-01T17:57:02.953+01:00May Day, Bealtaine, The Start of Summer!<p> What a joy to see May Day. This was one of those long and dreary winters, with the tardy spring delaying its growth as long as possible, but at last the trees are in fresh green leaf, and the white lilac is coming into full scented bloom.</p><p>Something else has come into bloom, our latest book!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbS_81FBoCvlUIDuumr-6HWjlClDzGBcqRGT8RHE01haKKdmEmSYhDAzAR-tOzLNywjGwQI3kS1VWLVzE6c2_Sp6NpZuU6I65MgdNX3NTx8ByMh2FCKgHNu5CQRiAY9JxZlTcyHW-GDrdNZHaw6ZG2bHwgjEfWmR6mVVMZ6ftJlrypfS_HwA/s576/Grand%20Canal%20book%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbS_81FBoCvlUIDuumr-6HWjlClDzGBcqRGT8RHE01haKKdmEmSYhDAzAR-tOzLNywjGwQI3kS1VWLVzE6c2_Sp6NpZuU6I65MgdNX3NTx8ByMh2FCKgHNu5CQRiAY9JxZlTcyHW-GDrdNZHaw6ZG2bHwgjEfWmR6mVVMZ6ftJlrypfS_HwA/s320/Grand%20Canal%20book%20cover.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br /><p>All The Way by the Grand Canal is published by O'Brien Press on Monday next, May 8, and will be in all the bookshops then. It can also be purchased online from<a href="https://obrien.ie/all-the-way-by-the-grand-canal"> O'Brien Press</a>.</p><p>We had a lot of fun researching this new child of ours, spending a great deal of time crossing the midlands of Ireland from east to west, from Dublin to the Shannon, and discovering quite a lot of places we hadn't known anything about before. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3smP-JXNf93Bpm4NN7ikCOsQWibOBOgAw07-g4LKMWoNEOhKOMdLfO1GoiwiPOTLRpyw3n2sDANB4fXqragnNvpz3iMa4hau211q4IbVZSN1kxNNJH8TUzfatABbKWmeVLt-YychDQtislwtcHes0IpyFpF2euNJWd0adTAgCo_mb5Kw5ww/s576/Lock%2033%20at%20Belmont-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3smP-JXNf93Bpm4NN7ikCOsQWibOBOgAw07-g4LKMWoNEOhKOMdLfO1GoiwiPOTLRpyw3n2sDANB4fXqragnNvpz3iMa4hau211q4IbVZSN1kxNNJH8TUzfatABbKWmeVLt-YychDQtislwtcHes0IpyFpF2euNJWd0adTAgCo_mb5Kw5ww/s320/Lock%2033%20at%20Belmont-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Like the utterly gorgeous little hamlet of Belmont where the lock and the cottages and all the old buildings around combined to make it the most peaceful place possible. Really fascinating were the round indentations in the sides of the lock, which were where the bargemen would insert their poles to guide the boat along. Remember the phrase 'wouldn't touch it with a barge pole'? Well, the canals are where that saying originated, and here they really did touch the walls, and push hard too - they had to, since the horse would have been untackled and walked on to the other side of the lock, leaving them with no other means of propulsion..</p><p>The book is two things really: a guide to anyone wanting to walk or cycle this wonderful long greenway from our capital city right across the Bog of Allen to the mighty Shannon, but also a history of how it came to be, who built it, what stories and incidents happened along it, and all sorts of fascinating facts that you find when you are researching something right out there in the field. So as well as being ideal for the strolller with the family, the keen hiker, and the ardent cyclist, it's perfect armchair reading too for anyone who wants to know more about hidden Ireland and its history.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMm-HNDpoOBjIcDOcxGdoanstd5o3qOUhb7WPQGa2EjljW_T3kE6Hrgzp06YcecrSCGRIyvFNQmsMN6OOM-ZdUvWYnGOPbrHGr-mVReazKgpLRxRlmNJywQHqDdy7aFph8RPr3Dkv6WYV3aatdBW9hL2Wgr7BxwSu_QHQrQQAl8z_M1CVTIg/s576/White's%20Castle%20and%20Crom%20a%20Boo%20bridge%20in%20Athy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMm-HNDpoOBjIcDOcxGdoanstd5o3qOUhb7WPQGa2EjljW_T3kE6Hrgzp06YcecrSCGRIyvFNQmsMN6OOM-ZdUvWYnGOPbrHGr-mVReazKgpLRxRlmNJywQHqDdy7aFph8RPr3Dkv6WYV3aatdBW9hL2Wgr7BxwSu_QHQrQQAl8z_M1CVTIg/s320/White's%20Castle%20and%20Crom%20a%20Boo%20bridge%20in%20Athy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Look at the splendour of White's Castle and Crom-a-Boo Bridge (great name, isn't it?) in Athy. That was where the Barrow Line branch separated from the main Grand Canal and headed south to join up with the river Barrow and thus connect Dublin efficiently with the port of Waterford. Remember, all this was before railways were thought of, let alone roads and cars, so the canals had a vital purpose for conveying goods and people. Guinness even had its own barges plying the canal from Dublin to thirsty purchasers in other towns and cities. They always claimed that the slow peaceful carriage by boat added a certain <i>je ne sais quoi </i>to the barrels!</p><p>We are fairly proud of this, our sixth offspring, Richard and I. But of course it didn't take long to start wondering where we should explore next. Somewhere mystic and mysterious, with a few ghosts and goblins and unexplained occurrences maybe? A haunted island, perhaps? Will keep you posted.</p><p>Last weekend, having finally relaxed on the book (there are always last-minute changes, alterations, queries) we headed over to Wales on the ferry. Richard wanted to get a few new shots of red kites, and I wanted to indulge my yarn habit at Wonderwool Wales, a huge annual occasion in Builth Wells where sheep farmers and spinners, knitters and crocheters, buyers and sellers of all kinds converge for a weekend of fun.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWyYxp6R9mBa3Ht2N7MTz1LscoFdoh6WnZd1SH02k2061u4s5i4yI07wEPi795QU6zctZ7T1PtMErGA3omC9Zr0vmFG7NSW-iV2-dSi57JU_yGIcVQwxvpgNE4xRIW4-uKdtPMDX9Uhn6xxui2IaPHNnJ2hO46cgs2qBWlbeGYLr5JDprjw/s576/Wonderful%20March%20Hare%20with%20proud%20owner.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="384" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWyYxp6R9mBa3Ht2N7MTz1LscoFdoh6WnZd1SH02k2061u4s5i4yI07wEPi795QU6zctZ7T1PtMErGA3omC9Zr0vmFG7NSW-iV2-dSi57JU_yGIcVQwxvpgNE4xRIW4-uKdtPMDX9Uhn6xxui2IaPHNnJ2hO46cgs2qBWlbeGYLr5JDprjw/s320/Wonderful%20March%20Hare%20with%20proud%20owner.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p>Look at this splendid felted March Hare being wheeled proudly around by its creator! She had lost the use of one arm through illness and got it back to full working order by making this amazing project! I didn't get her name, but well done you!</p><p>I am always on the lookout for Norwegian yarns, and found a stall which stocked them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-xIdyypQkGrQ9KasFmWBbW0gYXObK0LeYQcGQzB6-91yqDXJ3x9QDuLE-mAuiMxDo2zYK0JsAs-c9zBdyVLuvT0xltWxNUwa-Rz5rVCeYCMkusWxCv2FSqnohqY9DtNtb2AJnTrXI3POPLIuiBX1agmd7iGMkKEOH2m26koIseMtdiAZbQ/s576/At%20SKD%20stand.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-xIdyypQkGrQ9KasFmWBbW0gYXObK0LeYQcGQzB6-91yqDXJ3x9QDuLE-mAuiMxDo2zYK0JsAs-c9zBdyVLuvT0xltWxNUwa-Rz5rVCeYCMkusWxCv2FSqnohqY9DtNtb2AJnTrXI3POPLIuiBX1agmd7iGMkKEOH2m26koIseMtdiAZbQ/s320/At%20SKD%20stand.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Yes, quite a few skeins and balls found their way into my ample shopping bag at SKD Yarns!</p><p>Got to meet in person at last one of the great exponents of the traditional knitted gansey, Deb Gillanders of Propagansey.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7ig4k4nGnUax-xg7RKIPa2JL0bmj6IywgU_rxupdqG-LzP4S4rLP_ZsJOYJMfIHRENURyuwpsak2ERYEAGg2N8igDz7JAatQz0vO-W_-OygH0sixDpExO2VItaN6XdQdysH_CXF56wfSh9XcAhyOVKXF3u5aq1mRnIP6vM4OY0zeSkxzTQ/s576/Meeting%20Deb%20Gillanders%20of%20Propagansey.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7ig4k4nGnUax-xg7RKIPa2JL0bmj6IywgU_rxupdqG-LzP4S4rLP_ZsJOYJMfIHRENURyuwpsak2ERYEAGg2N8igDz7JAatQz0vO-W_-OygH0sixDpExO2VItaN6XdQdysH_CXF56wfSh9XcAhyOVKXF3u5aq1mRnIP6vM4OY0zeSkxzTQ/s320/Meeting%20Deb%20Gillanders%20of%20Propagansey.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We tend to disagree when we meet on Zoom, about the tightness and gauge necessary for ganseys. I always err on the side of softness and drape, she insists on rock-hard work knitted on piano wire, but we get on just fine. That reminds me - I have a traditional gansey to finish for a much-loved nephew's birthday coming up in June - better get a move on.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6G70B7Mrdl1l_B8GKEalr7-NxJ1IS7QQJb4e4lWURtuaKYV7Zo7ojcpq9xqkrpUs4Wh8ppHmgOGnHl9UEOag9SZOPePZ053jQVzyGpYCM_j3JaHNjcW4-gZATIRVbiGp5Y-PNTcsT6t6urgmZAqoADm-49_GkikpIHTknI06WMZweHc5ng/s576/Linda%20with%20new%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="576" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6G70B7Mrdl1l_B8GKEalr7-NxJ1IS7QQJb4e4lWURtuaKYV7Zo7ojcpq9xqkrpUs4Wh8ppHmgOGnHl9UEOag9SZOPePZ053jQVzyGpYCM_j3JaHNjcW4-gZATIRVbiGp5Y-PNTcsT6t6urgmZAqoADm-49_GkikpIHTknI06WMZweHc5ng/s320/Linda%20with%20new%20book.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><br /><p>Had a special meet up with an old friend, Linda, so that we could compare spindles and spinning skills. And Linda of course had pre-ordered her copy of the new book so we were able to hand it over, duly signed by both of us.</p><p>The crowds at Wonderwool Wales were frightening, but everybody was so happy and enthusiastic and willing to share ideas and notes that it was all very relaxed. Except for the endless queues for coffee. It has to be admitted that the modern trend for 'slow' specially prepared brews is admirable, but it does make for a long waiting time. In the end we did without.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNe5DNZmCOzAFoivr8k7ER79REuBCu42FiJNMuptZescMTgG61zWfQrxKUPfDvYfLee-SVG6JILnQV7RUFswvlsIckHJTQxhFlNFkUm0tmwbpkVMMbNktii9tewPza2Sv7E_gf46uNQwU27DwSWYgix5p7Fch3PTX9oGjfQn86OAryWjCtkQ/s576/Happy%20spinner%20going%20home.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNe5DNZmCOzAFoivr8k7ER79REuBCu42FiJNMuptZescMTgG61zWfQrxKUPfDvYfLee-SVG6JILnQV7RUFswvlsIckHJTQxhFlNFkUm0tmwbpkVMMbNktii9tewPza2Sv7E_gf46uNQwU27DwSWYgix5p7Fch3PTX9oGjfQn86OAryWjCtkQ/s320/Happy%20spinner%20going%20home.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I think this picture says it all about the long and happy weekend - one tired but contented spinner heading for home. </p><p>As did we, breaking our journey in Carmarthen on the way back. Where we saw a dog taking his ease and enjoying the street scene.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsgReZ-Os6WrACMi0nnMgxF9EOn2UmUPnJx2Oi8g6aSan71nF5fGE1Fz8JLZ4WioN_V9FeVAYaTNYeZJQbsRjG_T8BGfu9iZwdeY1B106uWTffLWb0Ko8kLV-cwhWNaH2rYWyXXqLYGoI_6kM6kQxTeopDzQ0q0SD0MCiIqWfpc51Z8Kg26Q/s576/Dog%20at%20window,%20Carmarthen.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsgReZ-Os6WrACMi0nnMgxF9EOn2UmUPnJx2Oi8g6aSan71nF5fGE1Fz8JLZ4WioN_V9FeVAYaTNYeZJQbsRjG_T8BGfu9iZwdeY1B106uWTffLWb0Ko8kLV-cwhWNaH2rYWyXXqLYGoI_6kM6kQxTeopDzQ0q0SD0MCiIqWfpc51Z8Kg26Q/s320/Dog%20at%20window,%20Carmarthen.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>You might be wondering how our own new little monster has been getting on since last time. Well, she has grown a bit, is happy, healthy, very loving and quite biddable - until she gets on to a beach,. Then you can say goodbye to Tasha for the rest of the day. Or until she tires out, which so far appears to be never.</p><p>There was a traumatic experience on the beach at Ballycotton a month or so back. Tasha exploded down the sands, saw gulls in the distance, and hared way out along a wave-washed sandback to catch them. They of course flew off, cackling with laughter, and she paused briefly to reconsider her options. Seeing me strolling along the beach some distance on, with the older dog, she decided to cut across to intercept us. What she didn't realise was that a rather large section of wave-tossed sea lay between.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1jwmuWsslpI-k6AdMeZyBsPSNdz_2kUVggozpTah_bD5fM-hErQ4qLji2fFgltDcOMV7aMQvcmznff8idxUXU8udvvNJGh-MnTcKKTggJpdl1BObIkEZlabL_I1q4s3Aeww-nzF_nLgZhYJBLDVK8MawXsgJxjdCV9hdRNmivlww7SxcqA/s648/Tasha%20at%20sea%20at%20Ballycotton-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1jwmuWsslpI-k6AdMeZyBsPSNdz_2kUVggozpTah_bD5fM-hErQ4qLji2fFgltDcOMV7aMQvcmznff8idxUXU8udvvNJGh-MnTcKKTggJpdl1BObIkEZlabL_I1q4s3Aeww-nzF_nLgZhYJBLDVK8MawXsgJxjdCV9hdRNmivlww7SxcqA/s320/Tasha%20at%20sea%20at%20Ballycotton-11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>That small black head is scarcely visible here, so Richard has kindly circled it in red. I was frantically watching through binoculars and so could see the brief moment of shock as she found herself well out of her depth, and then the almosts visible shrug of canine shoulders as she coped with a completely new exercise - swimming. She had not, up to this, come across deep water. Or anything other than shallow pools, come to that.</p><p>The wind was strong, and blowing offshore, towards her. I could see her trying to make headway and achieving very little. I cupped my hands and shouted encouragement. Then she seemed to set her teeth and try harder. Slowly, slowly she started to move against the wind, towards the shore.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtmIGefxz8kb8ndlV5oFKiqMX9BKfuVfrBH7F-R_sSHsf4U0VLMaQ-LUNrOer8ZiRDiu_ZRt6y-RlBRcn8omjBIHCswKa2sZq5fXXNH-Rg0iLHeXFjTCtSy7h_VSaRaYjErklcTG9K8NQhqIk96msif-XPqVRZif1xo40-B1eXA9ZLGg5hA/s648/Tasha%20at%20sea%20at%20Ballycotton-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtmIGefxz8kb8ndlV5oFKiqMX9BKfuVfrBH7F-R_sSHsf4U0VLMaQ-LUNrOer8ZiRDiu_ZRt6y-RlBRcn8omjBIHCswKa2sZq5fXXNH-Rg0iLHeXFjTCtSy7h_VSaRaYjErklcTG9K8NQhqIk96msif-XPqVRZif1xo40-B1eXA9ZLGg5hA/s320/Tasha%20at%20sea%20at%20Ballycotton-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Here she is, gradually nearing the shore, but still in quite deep rough water. On the right of the picture there you can see Troushka anxiously paddling out as far as she dares, to guide her in.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjulsruJezSYMEKEjLY8GIekGWQhCX8tzSRaXCHic6NNtDAFmBorPyThMNG2ZLNYZrsybHeHGH8B1xGzreLQoNbk46_Tij98Ir1fdan7nQsZtv7O_1l58tkwHA2dNrXzRy2Kw2iGFqlAMLHptdb5ew2q_inOxEgjVwUXE2r3N39O_8OLu1w/s648/Tasha%20at%20sea%20at%20Ballycotton-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="648" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjulsruJezSYMEKEjLY8GIekGWQhCX8tzSRaXCHic6NNtDAFmBorPyThMNG2ZLNYZrsybHeHGH8B1xGzreLQoNbk46_Tij98Ir1fdan7nQsZtv7O_1l58tkwHA2dNrXzRy2Kw2iGFqlAMLHptdb5ew2q_inOxEgjVwUXE2r3N39O_8OLu1w/s320/Tasha%20at%20sea%20at%20Ballycotton-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>And she was out, on dry sandy land at last, soaked through, panting a little, but rather pleased with herself. She lay down and rolled in dry sand vigorously and then chased off to see what other adventures she could find.</p><p>I should perhaps explain that Richard was some distance away on a sand dune with a long lens, looking for rare gulls. He was thus able to capture the frightening event, albeit at long range.</p><p>I know, I know, you will say any puppy can swim automatically, it's no big thing. But Tasha had never been in for anything but a paddle before, and though she looks quite big in that final picture, she is still a fairly small little spaniel. And the offshore wind and the waves were pretty strong that day. Well, at least now I know she can swim the Channel! But my heart was beating fast at the time, I can tell you.</p><p>Now it is time to enjoy the start of summer. Wherever you are, mark this day - one trusts that you did go out at dawn to wash your face in the dew, but if you didn't, there is still time, up to midnight. Bealtaine, Beltane, one of the two great Celtic festivals from the beginning of time (the other of course being Samhain, which leads into winter). </p><p>Later came divisions like Imbolc in February, Midsummer, Lunasa in August, and Midwinter, but these two were the principal festivals in ancient times separating the two halves of the year, and were marked by celebrations, feasting, and ritual, including the magic fire, kindled by the senior druid from nine special woods. All other fires had to be extinguished before this, and then rekindled from the sacred flame. </p><p>Remember that back then, fire was essential for survival, and most households kept the blaze going from one end of the year to the other. Extinguishing it for these two festivals was a serious matter (no, they didn't have safety matches, nor yet gas lighters.) Once all house hearths had been rekindled, and the sacred fire had burned down, the ashes were spread on the fields to encourage fertility. Parents would mark young children's clothes with an ashy cross to stop the fairies stealing them away.</p><p>Maybe you should light a fire tonight too? Throw on a few herbs if you do. It's a good way of keeping in touch with the old beliefs.</p>Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-86063078348763367922023-01-19T12:34:00.001+00:002023-01-19T12:34:31.529+00:00And About Time Too!<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Well it certainly wasn't meant to be a more-than-two-year gap since the last post, but life kind of got in the way. There was a book to get published (Stories from the Sea), and some travelling to do (once we were allowed so to do) but here we are at the beginning of 2023 and it's high time we got back on track.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Stories from the Sea did very well, since it brought in tales of smuggling and piracy as well as ancient travellers, pilgrim routes, and of course the Vikings.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjix5MahLqcggoPWFx210XdNdlZC1F-apRE4NTDcpaq9ZstQYtXjyo3giTddphmcUjrR63_APSeKJYgHxGqMqo3F9fq6ezM4tTp5HnD7DXEgBpYZ48sbDQwVp-fM5j5gO65SvPq37GtnyeQvUw07N09yAJtgordyWP3LyFYlM1sBx2PMN9BYw/s202/Stories%20from%20the%20Sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="123" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjix5MahLqcggoPWFx210XdNdlZC1F-apRE4NTDcpaq9ZstQYtXjyo3giTddphmcUjrR63_APSeKJYgHxGqMqo3F9fq6ezM4tTp5HnD7DXEgBpYZ48sbDQwVp-fM5j5gO65SvPq37GtnyeQvUw07N09yAJtgordyWP3LyFYlM1sBx2PMN9BYw/s1600/Stories%20from%20the%20Sea.jpg" width="123" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Even had to go up to Dublin to be interviewed as part of the Book Festival, which was challenging but fairly rewarding too. DH hates talking in public, so I did most of that, while he sat at the back and observed.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the most exciting things we discovered when researching Stories from the Sea was that the old legends are often genuine records, not the product of fanciful imagination. In this case, we were looking for an island off the west coast which has a fair claim to being the haunt of that terrifying monster of folklore, Balor of the Evil Eye. Clearly a relative of Medusa, the Gorgon, he could kill a whole army just by revealing that one eye in the middle of his forehead. Anyway, he was challenged in battle by the Nemedians on one occasion (they were, quite understandably, irate at his habit of descending on the mainland whenever he felt like seizing crops or cattle or children) and the invading army crossed at low tide to his island stronghold. Unfortunately, in the midst of battle, the tide came in, and many of both sides were drowned. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, Richard and I were determined to find this very island and we did! Derinish, off the Sligo shore. And as we sat in the car overlooking the bay and the island, the tide fell, and lo and behold - a long line of cattle came peacefully meandering down from the mainland and crossed by the now visible sandbank to the lush pastures on Derinish. Proof positive that the crossing can be made at low tide! We made a point of coming back later, when the tide was rising again, and sure enough, the cattle were wending their way back to the Sligo shore. They still know the way that the Nemedians did in ancient times. Fortunately, being more interested in safety than battle, they keep an eye on the tide tables!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Since then we have been working on De Next Book, which will be known as All The Way By The Grand Canal, and is coming out in May. (You can find it on <a href="http://obrien.ie">The O'Brien Press website</a>, along with all our other books.) This has meant covering the less-well-known part of Ireland, the secret inland landscapes which lie between Dublin on the east coast and the mighty river Shannon on the west. The Grand Canal was built in the late 18th century and was, for its time, the mighty autoroute that surpassed all previous methods of travel. Smooth, safe, continuous, it changed life for everyone, from farmers and businesses transporting produce and goods, to travellers able to cross the country perhaps for the first time. Lords and ladies found it far more comfortable than taking their carriages along muddy tracks for days on end; emigrants used it as the best and quickest way to get to Limerick or Dublin from where the big ships sailed; and even those who couldn't afford the fares used the towpath to get to their destination without fear of losing the way. Just think of all the work it put in the way of everyone along the waterway too, from stable hands to ticket sellers, warehouse packers to hoteliers, servants to messenger boys - it was a game changer for everyone. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxWCwN3Ayw42z0UZualU87j20ZQCLgDx4yVSCI47X5nYcZ1mXLzOk8W8BzoKNOUr9wXXCRIeWY4zoxUiCgTpMjamIz1DwRgVUvZ9-54TParGTMCKoGRNJqDdtPYj7pmEAMowg4mseT72whs539iWFiURifHXQKvct2AwxPK8NXT7nQBqp4SQ/s648/Sailing%20along%20the%20the%20Grand%20Canal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxWCwN3Ayw42z0UZualU87j20ZQCLgDx4yVSCI47X5nYcZ1mXLzOk8W8BzoKNOUr9wXXCRIeWY4zoxUiCgTpMjamIz1DwRgVUvZ9-54TParGTMCKoGRNJqDdtPYj7pmEAMowg4mseT72whs539iWFiURifHXQKvct2AwxPK8NXT7nQBqp4SQ/s320/Sailing%20along%20the%20the%20Grand%20Canal.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Today this is a very popular long-distance walking or cycling route, and you have only to step on to the grassy towpath to see why. It's a world apart from noisy motorways and endless traffic. Instead of rattles, roars, exhaust fumes, you have the breeze blowing over glimmering water and birdsong on every bush. Utter peace. The most excitement you will find is a canal boat puttering along one of the navigable stretches, the captain waving cheerfully as he passes.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There is history too, every step of the way and that was what we enjoyed the most - teasing out the stories to be found in old deserted warehouses, peaceful lock gates and lock-keepers' cottages, small villages where once the daily arrival of the barge from Dublin or Shannon Harbour brought the residents running from every cottage door. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjyh7PZYicL50hFnNIitPB92VmEZoI0GSYGR8MNDNqlMFL0dEZPPaoueBlmOAorRMSXWjyL5ZniqLqdIIhE6RHK2TuMpnI9AG1zX6CergSkyGGcFP_IpGnWrhZmQ2sI43rhgD_u7bOmoagCd9eUdaV2R4Zw62fOXSrVoA59CzTf3_k_KBPg/s648/Canal%20boats%20at%20Sallins-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjyh7PZYicL50hFnNIitPB92VmEZoI0GSYGR8MNDNqlMFL0dEZPPaoueBlmOAorRMSXWjyL5ZniqLqdIIhE6RHK2TuMpnI9AG1zX6CergSkyGGcFP_IpGnWrhZmQ2sI43rhgD_u7bOmoagCd9eUdaV2R4Zw62fOXSrVoA59CzTf3_k_KBPg/s320/Canal%20boats%20at%20Sallins-1.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">We had a wonderful time researching the entire length of the canal and came home full of ideas and notions to incorporate into the book so that not only keen walkers and cyclists, but armchair travellers too, perhaps living far away but longing to be there, could indeed transport themselves to the canal bank through the pages and Richard's wonderfully evocative pictures.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The amount of mileage we put in was frightening - or would have been if we had let ourselves think about it, but that's not the reason you do it. It's the urge to go that bit further, see what is round the next corner, find out what the story is behind that ivy-covered ruin over there...</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">On one of our trips, we included another journey further north, to pick up a very special package in Longford.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-RaRhq1rV5soXe5O5DhOBif4yULGSnNNXFgBgcjUeZ3DkYgYSQvrwafJqMI2zpECT3e0f-4HbcbjR6R22qa3LemWR12MKZugMvOFMdYzZUTb37nPSB-R6GdMNFa9GxSNhYwOzT0Autc0VT9g-pvEkxvLskQduGzlUM3TDeRhj3F28eTbVQ/s648/Tasha%20puppy-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="648" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-RaRhq1rV5soXe5O5DhOBif4yULGSnNNXFgBgcjUeZ3DkYgYSQvrwafJqMI2zpECT3e0f-4HbcbjR6R22qa3LemWR12MKZugMvOFMdYzZUTb37nPSB-R6GdMNFa9GxSNhYwOzT0Autc0VT9g-pvEkxvLskQduGzlUM3TDeRhj3F28eTbVQ/s320/Tasha%20puppy-4.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Our oldest dog, Tamzin, had reached the end of her life and was now sleeping peacefully in the orchard at the end of our garden. This left Troushka a little lonely and bemused, so of course we bethought us of a replacement. Here came Jo's bright idea - gosh, I have always always wanted a black cocker spaniel! And so the hunt was on. Finally we picked her up, on one of the hottest July days ever, and brought her back to West Cork to her new home.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Which she proceeded to wreck with joyful abandon. I thought I was well used to puppies, but Tasha - Natasha de St Petersburg III, to give her her full title, into which she has certainly not yet grown - proved to be a whole new ball game. Wildly enthusiastic and ready to tear anything she found to bits, she made the first few weeks more of a survival exercise for us than anything else. What am I talking about, she is <i>still</i> making life a survival exercise for us!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">At least there was no problem with Troushka, although the older dog does find her a little over-energetic at times.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVh0dMC-3gEddCksv0BXBOidRyhMA0Trn6E3ppuq2APAQaXRW3bJ1XsIx1wTvpcj-clRDm0uD4BF4wxRbH_zy96PdM7to22vLHoZIKC13mDImS-x8uVmuaVQAD_CnJ24kbwVPPmKMT_PJDb56TcKNVB9Tt9HPWQtuqwhIyOyZldlSczmuJug/s648/Tasha%20puppy-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="648" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVh0dMC-3gEddCksv0BXBOidRyhMA0Trn6E3ppuq2APAQaXRW3bJ1XsIx1wTvpcj-clRDm0uD4BF4wxRbH_zy96PdM7to22vLHoZIKC13mDImS-x8uVmuaVQAD_CnJ24kbwVPPmKMT_PJDb56TcKNVB9Tt9HPWQtuqwhIyOyZldlSczmuJug/s320/Tasha%20puppy-5.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">They have now worked out some sort of modus vivendi whereby Tasha leaps and bounds all round the older dog, using up some of her energy, and Troushka occasionally breaks into a gallop and does a bit of mock fighting before slowing down to her usual amble.<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It's not only in the house that she wreaks her depredations, but in the garden too. How do you manage to overturn a very large earthenware flowerpot, pull out the plants therein, and scatter the earth everywhere? Or dig a deep hole at the base of a perfectly friendly tree, when I as a gardener have a job finding anywhere I can get down three inches before hitting rock? (West Cork is like that).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The only place this little monster is truly happy is on a beach. A wide long beach, preferably with gulls to chase.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lMUEZ8Rzg_Sx5LJJQLaY_lqZ5mVUnXa71pbk-5jpky2sDxhYkompbJ5UI-1peCx-o_eDIuw2YSph65ECKlRpdaxX6rIML35PGIU8PP1zlSSTXidgJPcZ99accjtxzpWksJLDri-pxJZhqw0ffhNKaP_ssf9n-W9DPK5R6Dj0b2teE9CRaA/s648/Tasha%20at%20the%20Warren-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="648" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lMUEZ8Rzg_Sx5LJJQLaY_lqZ5mVUnXa71pbk-5jpky2sDxhYkompbJ5UI-1peCx-o_eDIuw2YSph65ECKlRpdaxX6rIML35PGIU8PP1zlSSTXidgJPcZ99accjtxzpWksJLDri-pxJZhqw0ffhNKaP_ssf9n-W9DPK5R6Dj0b2teE9CRaA/s320/Tasha%20at%20the%20Warren-1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There she can leap and gallop at incredible speeds for as long as she likes. If the waves get in her way, she just crashes through them, seeming not to notice that she is up to her ears in salty water until suddenly she executes upward leaps that would challenge Nureyev, and thunders back to shore. "I'll get that gull, I will I will, he'll tire before I do, wonder if I flap my ears enough I'll be able to fly like him?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A cocker spaniel can leap to surprising heights, I discovered, and that made our hitherto secure fencing around the garden suddenly less adequate. We did our best. We raised the height of the mesh. Not good enough. We raised it more. When she had got out three times, we decided it was time for sterner measures and got an electric wire system and a collar for her which gives a warning when she gets too close. Putting that wire all round the garden, though bushes and brambles, behind trees and across gateways, was quite a job.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Did it work? Does it work? Well - sort of. Most times she stops when she hears the beep from her collar warning her not to go closer. But put a human being on the other side of the fence or the gate, or indeed a passing dog or cat, and she seems to write off the slight shock caused by leaping over the invisible barrier as part of the game, and just goes for it. What do we do next, one asks?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And what about the other residents chez Celtic Memory, you enquire worriedly? How did they take to this Creature from the Black Lagoon invading their hitherto peaceful world?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, you will be glad to know that the youngest cat, Brogeen, struck up a firm friendship. Well, a firm something anyway:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtrpLPIewUdXSgM2LJm-Vn3H5uaXEBzvLSBL8NxtxRKE8IunPPwLpQvObrDBG2g3ULVzcvBiregEzYnmcvfG0gz-VnBV1YH5lcRa1KpYMILUQLh1JbyGXxz_tbFkyb6O9e5fpUwyOmDblgDlXHYlUV7E0tv0BPPUp0pJGwAGXnF1AIl1ho_g/s2700/Puppy%20play.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1909" data-original-width="2700" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtrpLPIewUdXSgM2LJm-Vn3H5uaXEBzvLSBL8NxtxRKE8IunPPwLpQvObrDBG2g3ULVzcvBiregEzYnmcvfG0gz-VnBV1YH5lcRa1KpYMILUQLh1JbyGXxz_tbFkyb6O9e5fpUwyOmDblgDlXHYlUV7E0tv0BPPUp0pJGwAGXnF1AIl1ho_g/s320/Puppy%20play.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">When they were much of a size, we weren't too worried, but did wonder what would happen when the puppy grew bigger.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But we needn't have worried. Even now, when she is almost twice Brogeen's size, Tasha just doesn't have the flexibilty or the sheathed weapons that the cat can bring into play. Weight yes, claws no. The battle chases around the house, though, are somethng to behold. More than once we have been almost swept off our feet as the furry exploding cavalcade crashes by.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The older cats, Pawtucket and Marigold, largely kept aloof, preferring to ignore this new vulgarian and making sure that they checked carefully before leaving positions of safety, in case she was lurking and waiting to pounce.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGc5JB2mfXeut528zxCK1dry_JPCriYYHC9qwX1Z1G1F6vuERZ23qzaFoq3bbeED3UvzBkxAPo-MNET4Nqhhfhe72xyTUZoxliH84zTpjHTk94dNhJRjgpyPR7xmg6ViFgEUo_ykcVdugy8z3XMsSckQQUNXRpJmnpzFwMXkZY-B4Mk31vg/s648/Scut%20on%20bird%20batcvh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGc5JB2mfXeut528zxCK1dry_JPCriYYHC9qwX1Z1G1F6vuERZ23qzaFoq3bbeED3UvzBkxAPo-MNET4Nqhhfhe72xyTUZoxliH84zTpjHTk94dNhJRjgpyPR7xmg6ViFgEUo_ykcVdugy8z3XMsSckQQUNXRpJmnpzFwMXkZY-B4Mk31vg/s320/Scut%20on%20bird%20batcvh.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is Pawtucket, refusing to leave the comparative security of the sundial until she sees That Troublemaker safely engaged in some other devilment at the far end of the garden.<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The onset of cold weather did make a difference though. Both felines and canines began gradually to realise that there might be some benefit to close proximity in the darker hours.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjsQ3iiWfHbsou_fxJWEf9L7h0IhIADcxLmMlfCReYBaWGLSlp6HA2mxApnfo0pRs8IAic8yW8v_gTpKGNmu4Uoy1Jl6EZanbs3kUs9lFMSjD6g4lIQD_or0_jFWILIUws8ABgMIAmcLq5d9eWKt5lWAyMC-MT7mP3yKCgv93TeFsi8nqBHA/s648/Tasha%20asleep%20with%20cats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="648" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjsQ3iiWfHbsou_fxJWEf9L7h0IhIADcxLmMlfCReYBaWGLSlp6HA2mxApnfo0pRs8IAic8yW8v_gTpKGNmu4Uoy1Jl6EZanbs3kUs9lFMSjD6g4lIQD_or0_jFWILIUws8ABgMIAmcLq5d9eWKt5lWAyMC-MT7mP3yKCgv93TeFsi8nqBHA/s320/Tasha%20asleep%20with%20cats.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is one such typical group. At other times one or other of the cats will go over and pile herself on top of Troushka instead. It only happens late in the evening though. If you try to put them together earlier in the day they give you exasperated glances and flounce off in the opposite direction. "Really, doesn't she <i>know</i> there's a time and place for everything?"</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Me, I have a job finding somewhere to sit and relax with my knitting at night. "Go away, this place is taken!"<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">What do you know, we have had some snow here in West Cork over the past few days, quite an unusual thing so far south. The puppy loved it, the older cats were mystified by it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLomSk3SZ4U8BEPQOqsCcv7X3WzIxN_kWrFvALNg0Ih0VkxEYeJi-b8mEMWzCGNtp5O16c5Is8Iqqh-g3MwW9DidC8cxNaBnoUUw8F1ybIke9a06XFFkTTnRDFoYxnRgAneL0A6t8NnMdeHXwUCRNCSo19oqognJiNtQYQIil4cKKjMJQ_xg/s648/Marigold%20in%20snow-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="648" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLomSk3SZ4U8BEPQOqsCcv7X3WzIxN_kWrFvALNg0Ih0VkxEYeJi-b8mEMWzCGNtp5O16c5Is8Iqqh-g3MwW9DidC8cxNaBnoUUw8F1ybIke9a06XFFkTTnRDFoYxnRgAneL0A6t8NnMdeHXwUCRNCSo19oqognJiNtQYQIil4cKKjMJQ_xg/s320/Marigold%20in%20snow-2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Marigold: "I don't know, I don't know. How am I supposed to spot a rabbit in this stuff?"<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But the hills of West Cork look beautiful in their light dusting of white, and down in the Gearagh, where we have had some bird rarities coming south during the past months, the whole scene is magical. Yet, in our garden, the first primrose showed itself in a sheltered place by the back door only yesterday, and the daffodil stems are already thrusting through the frozen earth. Take your time, daffodils, take your time. Don't risk a chill!</span></div></div></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is a view of the Gearagh in its snowy splendour, offering gentle peace and harmony in an otherwise apparently crazy world. A great place to walk and just listen to nature.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6uzdHCeiHDPnKlDrR3a2JHjo-n0gjd1wv7mSJfyI0LfAEoo_a2EFXAhPCFPNgBIHQM4pvTRXuRTXXBIzlF6Oke6L3lNmWXxHv3k5ZleJML1Sili2XCjnWvqhprU6VMW-BL6MzgClPZQCGCd_wcm1gpVz_0TPl7wjp2MMVBkuLmV1dzcfMw/s648/Snow%20at%20the%20Gearagh-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6uzdHCeiHDPnKlDrR3a2JHjo-n0gjd1wv7mSJfyI0LfAEoo_a2EFXAhPCFPNgBIHQM4pvTRXuRTXXBIzlF6Oke6L3lNmWXxHv3k5ZleJML1Sili2XCjnWvqhprU6VMW-BL6MzgClPZQCGCd_wcm1gpVz_0TPl7wjp2MMVBkuLmV1dzcfMw/s320/Snow%20at%20the%20Gearagh-1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><br /></div>Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-26569745206055223382020-12-22T16:47:00.002+00:002020-12-22T20:49:29.958+00:00Midwinter! We Have Reached The Solstice!<p> Well, what a strange year it has been for everybody, in all corners of the world. The last time I spoke to you, it was coming into high summer and everywhere was beautiful. The advantage of lockdown was that you could really see the season changing, day by day.</p><p>When the restrictions eased enough to let us travel within our own county, we took advantage of it right away. The fact that Cork is the largest county in Ireland did help - you can go a hundred miles and still be within the regulations. Which we did. Right down to the Beara Peninsula.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qbdLhd4MHhI/X-IWdGQ8hYI/AAAAAAAADUY/XCzavtd5hNImb40iwPOIfxles_CTr65JQCLcBGAsYHQ/s504/Bantry%2BBay%2Bfrom%2BDurrus-2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="504" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qbdLhd4MHhI/X-IWdGQ8hYI/AAAAAAAADUY/XCzavtd5hNImb40iwPOIfxles_CTr65JQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Bantry%2BBay%2Bfrom%2BDurrus-2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Bantry Bay was a heart relaxing sight after so much time spent at home.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wQMYY3mio4M/X-IY98WdiHI/AAAAAAAADWM/kCYtT1Iasf85U4NyAkHMS-KpmmaSIKrogCLcBGAsYHQ/s504/Bere%2BIsland%2Bferry-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="504" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wQMYY3mio4M/X-IY98WdiHI/AAAAAAAADWM/kCYtT1Iasf85U4NyAkHMS-KpmmaSIKrogCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Bere%2BIsland%2Bferry-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>And taking the tiny ferry across to Bere Island was just what was needed - a brisk short sea voyage.</p><p>The bog cotton was blowing across the grasslands in great swathes. Always wished you could spin this, but the fibres are far too short, alas.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cB8WdqmNDpE/X-IZezHnc0I/AAAAAAAADWU/2e9MMLDfSoo2sRIABUuIaJf2ZYSV5sHjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s504/Bog%2Bcotton-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="504" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cB8WdqmNDpE/X-IZezHnc0I/AAAAAAAADWU/2e9MMLDfSoo2sRIABUuIaJf2ZYSV5sHjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Bog%2Bcotton-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>And look at these glorious old hand-built stone steps, leading up to the loft above an old homestead. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-is21n5GCbbw/X-IZiqCYBGI/AAAAAAAADWY/Y4zzDyx4eA8hUoAgJ90wrLQTXz-wcfOBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s504/Gortnakilly%2Bruins-3.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-is21n5GCbbw/X-IZiqCYBGI/AAAAAAAADWY/Y4zzDyx4eA8hUoAgJ90wrLQTXz-wcfOBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Gortnakilly%2Bruins-3.JPG" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>All the crops, the hay, the potatoes and turnips, would have been carried up there and stored carefully against the winter.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S9ds91gi19g/X-IZpWRbwgI/AAAAAAAADWc/7HePKJCRsYgDq0xHw3bNhKZYPMlgP5q3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s504/Jo%2Babove%2BAhakista-2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S9ds91gi19g/X-IZpWRbwgI/AAAAAAAADWc/7HePKJCRsYgDq0xHw3bNhKZYPMlgP5q3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jo%2Babove%2BAhakista-2.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The advantage of this remote region is that you have no problem with social distancing.</div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OfMTsMAZPz4/X-IZ0EUigaI/AAAAAAAADWo/auUt_nmn1e4-Eo0nq9QVtx6BpNmHz9PFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s576/Pheasant%2Band%2Bbuttercups.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="518" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OfMTsMAZPz4/X-IZ0EUigaI/AAAAAAAADWo/auUt_nmn1e4-Eo0nq9QVtx6BpNmHz9PFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Pheasant%2Band%2Bbuttercups.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Unless of course it's a female pheasant casually crossing the road on her way to the shops. Yes, of course they have shops. 'A bag of nice blackberries please, and some hazelnuts if you have them. Oh, and some new socks for the children. The way they wear those out, running round..."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">To keep myself and every other likeminded knitter busy during the long quiet summer, thought it would be a good idea to start a Great Summer Gansey Knitalong on Ravelry, the online knitting club. Well, it took off amazingly! Hundreds came in on it, and we all had great fun comparing patterns and showing off our progress.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KngG2C01vg0/X-IdpFJbDBI/AAAAAAAADYQ/OJUJ40QnDS4u85gASeYHvhrvW9m8WywjACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KngG2C01vg0/X-IdpFJbDBI/AAAAAAAADYQ/OJUJ40QnDS4u85gASeYHvhrvW9m8WywjACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="270" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>This is my Great Gansey Adventure, worked in three strands of a Shetland yarn which had been dozing in the stash for years. Those trees and diamonds and things really stop you getting bored when you're beavering away on the back or the front. We had so much fun indeed, that the KAL continued in autumn and is now going full blast for winter. Because the seasons have swung round, and we are at the turning once more. From now, the days will start drawing out. And surely things will slowly get better.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPoAcUFEVq4/X-IZ6JFgaOI/AAAAAAAADWw/bMoBFBFmaA8Hs-MaaVcSU1-B67RBNC4kgCLcBGAsYHQ/s504/Springwatch%2Bcatwatch-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="504" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPoAcUFEVq4/X-IZ6JFgaOI/AAAAAAAADWw/bMoBFBFmaA8Hs-MaaVcSU1-B67RBNC4kgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Springwatch%2Bcatwatch-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>You know it's winter when the zoo starts spending more time indoors. Well actually, all the time they can possibly get away with indoors. Brogeen (who has grown into a splendid young man) enjoyed watching Autumnwatch on TV, occasionally trying to pat a bird by way of being friendly.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xiszmrb3JzI/X-IaE1m01cI/AAAAAAAADW4/wf32V7Z0LPkre_0_5djv8D3oxrC8Hmm3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s648/Happiness%2Bis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xiszmrb3JzI/X-IaE1m01cI/AAAAAAAADW4/wf32V7Z0LPkre_0_5djv8D3oxrC8Hmm3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Happiness%2Bis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>When it's a cold night, cats and dogs pile up together in a warm heap. You wouldn't think you could get two dogs in that box, let alone a cat, but Marigold is pretty determined, and can usually find a corner of opportunity.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BbjqYseGdfc/X-IaNEuD9lI/AAAAAAAADXA/Q79VmVXTnFUqPRXEHPMCFH8m6f_q7Z2JQCLcBGAsYHQ/s648/Cats%2Band%2Bdogs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="648" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BbjqYseGdfc/X-IaNEuD9lI/AAAAAAAADXA/Q79VmVXTnFUqPRXEHPMCFH8m6f_q7Z2JQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Cats%2Band%2Bdogs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>'Oh surely there's a place up there for me, too? Oh go on, move up a bit, will you?'</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning it wasn't actually raining (although that was forecast for the afternoon) so we headed down to neighbouring Kerry before new restrictions stopped us going over the county bounds</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XZmsp--CNVk/X-Iax53QxHI/AAAAAAAADXs/X8hQY9Rc2XoPg-8KlN4LlSViw4W37AhKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s648/Muckross%2BHouse-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XZmsp--CNVk/X-Iax53QxHI/AAAAAAAADXs/X8hQY9Rc2XoPg-8KlN4LlSViw4W37AhKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Muckross%2BHouse-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Muckross House in Killarney was looking splendidly Gothic in the drifting clouds,</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pJYlc8uS2eo/X-IareEkMPI/AAAAAAAADXU/mOGxEdnHkeIXeZeXL2bXYfZQkIAgAEW9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s648/Castlelough%2BBay%252C%2BLower%2BLake%252C%2BKillarney.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pJYlc8uS2eo/X-IareEkMPI/AAAAAAAADXU/mOGxEdnHkeIXeZeXL2bXYfZQkIAgAEW9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Castlelough%2BBay%252C%2BLower%2BLake%252C%2BKillarney.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div>and the legendary lakes were as still and beautiful as they have always been.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlnAg0n2-Xo/X-IaTp6PcrI/AAAAAAAADXE/iFq9T4fJ8b4nb9EDv6klioPTTSgpD_O-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s648/Christmas%2Bscene%2Bat%2BMuckross.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlnAg0n2-Xo/X-IaTp6PcrI/AAAAAAAADXE/iFq9T4fJ8b4nb9EDv6klioPTTSgpD_O-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Christmas%2Bscene%2Bat%2BMuckross.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Even the cafe was open! I know, I know, social distancing and all that, but we were well masked up, and the place was empty, so we risked it. Isn't this miniature display lovely? It greets you as you go in. The scones and coffee were delicious too, especially when such little treats have been almost non-existent since the start of the pandemic. You never know how much you take for granted until you don't have it any more.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the best was kept for last! We decided to drop in to that weaving shed in the woods (in a deadly secret location) to wish a good friend the compliments of the season. And once there, well, how could you not look along those shelves of coned yarns, drool over colours, almost reach out until you remembered not to touch? But our friend was in happy mood, and hauled out a box of leftovers, cones too small to be of use, inviting me to dig in. And then, when coaxed,he allowed the purchase of a few at the top of the range too. What a haul to bring home! The dogs raised their collective eyebrows at the big box with which they had to share the back seat of the car, but DH agreed that it could be his Christmas present to me.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pMZ899nl4Qk/X-Iaw_XB14I/AAAAAAAADXo/JcDc2o1D9kklV9hJugsV6evdT1Dpjx9CwCLcBGAsYHQ/s648/Jo%2527s%2Bstash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="648" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pMZ899nl4Qk/X-Iaw_XB14I/AAAAAAAADXo/JcDc2o1D9kklV9hJugsV6evdT1Dpjx9CwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jo%2527s%2Bstash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Here they are, being unpacked at home. Nearly all pure alpaca, except for some rather jolly Donegal tweed in an unusual chunky gauge. Oh will there be some fun with these over the festive season!</div><div><br /></div><div>Joys of the solstice to you! Keep your woodstoves well stoked, see to the bird feeders, and if you hear the horns of the Wild Hunt sounding out in the woods between now and Women's Christmas, then clutch a branch of apple or rowan, and wish them well. They are searching out the bad things, and are no danger to you.<br /><br /><p><br /></p></div></div>Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-52537752197479999742020-05-10T18:01:00.003+01:002020-05-10T18:09:54.369+01:00It's Maytime, and Summer Is Icumen In!Yes, at last May is here, and the start of the Celtic summer. Way back, we only had two seasons in this corner of the world, winter starting on November 1, and summer beginning May 1. Of course Pope Gregory threw things out a bit when he arbitrarily decided to lop ten days from the calendar, in the 16th century, thereby putting Mayday back around the 20th of April. But then whoever decided back in Roman times that there should be 365 days in the year plus an extra one every four years - oh forget it. Main thing is, if your may blossom or hawthorn isn't out on the current accepted May 1, then don't worry. It will be out by old Mayday which is tomorrow. And by the same token, if by any chance you forgot to wash your face in the dew on Mayday, then you can still do it before tomorrow night. Very important to observe that ritual. Celticmemory has done it since she was old enough to toddle out by herself.<br />
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And to show you just how long Celts have been celebrating May or Bealtaine, here is a special picture.<br />
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This is Beltany stone circle, up in Donegal. You can't get more proof of the ancient rituals of summer than a special stone circle where druids kindled the first fire of summer, using the nine sacred woods. Just imagine if those stones could talk? What have they seen, what could they tell us?<br />
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Everything is bursting into bloom here right now, and about time too. We had a cold spring and everything was late, but the good side of that was that they all came out together.<br />
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The clematis that I thought had died hadn't done so at all. And to show its health, it clambered way up from the trellis, right into the branches of a birch tree. It was simply lovely to see the veil of pink swaying gently in the breeze.<br />
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The apple trees have been blooming too, from the tiny crabapple through the old Irish species like Ardcairn Russet and Kerry Pippin, to the splendid old cooking apple that was espaliered against a back wall of the garage by Richard's father a long time ago.<br />
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We have tended to let it grow as it wants to these days, rather than tying it firmly down and lopping off extra growth, but it still produces baskets of fruit each autumn.<br />
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There is something else there too, underneath that apple tree, something very precious.<br />
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Lily of valley, or <i>muguet de bois</i>, must have the most heavenly scent going. I have no luck with this aristocrat - have got roots, tried to raise them, many times, but they simply refuse to cooperate. So how are we fortunate enough to have a little bed of them here in this dry patch under the apple tree? They were brought there from France by Richard's mother a long time ago, and they have stayed ever since. When I see the first spear-like leaves appearing, I know it's time to go out and tackle the bramble stems and twitch grass to give them a good chance. Lovely little things.<br />
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The zoo is adapting fairly well to this quiet isolating life, although Troushka still yearns for a gallop on a long deserted beach. Not just yet, Troush, not just yet. The cats are putting all their energy into attacking each other - sort of cabin fever, one would imagine, although they do have the extensive fields behind the house.<br />
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Isn't this a perfectly lovely picture of Marigold practising her high diving skills? Actually she is pursuing Paudge Mogeely, who had been peacefully enjoying a rabbit dinner until she came along and ruined the picnic. I must say she really shows her fluffy Turkish bloomers to best advantage in this shot. Good one, DH!<br />
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And Brogeen is so much at home that you would imagine he had always been here.<br />
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Here he is dreaming on the small pond in the rose garden. It's an old pig feeding trough with a central knob or boss, just big enough for a kitten to sit atop, albeit with his tail trailing in the water. After a happy day exploring though, he is content to come home and take a nap. Especially if he can find a nice soft ball of wool to use as a pillow.<br />
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Well of course there has been knitting! When have you ever known me <i>not </i>to be knitting? That gansey got finished at last:<br />
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and there was a huge frogging session when WIPs that had been hanging round for months if not years were determinedly ripped, the yarn balled up, the needles returned to their racks. Couldn't believe how many circular needles I actually possessed! Of course that meant I was now free to cast on another project - or two - or three... Working on a sort of smock tunic that I will call Viking Traveller, because it's just the kind of thing a warrior might wear under his chainmail to keep comfortable, and thinking of starting yet another Aran sweater. That is one good thing about the lockdown - you do get time to knit and even finish a couple of projects.<br />
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But we get out too, if not very far from home. Fortunately the Gearagh is very close, and at this time of year it is looking stunning. Early the other morning, when we went down to admire the hawthorn in full scented bloom,<br />
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we suddenly glimpsed a heron, beautifully reflected in the still water.<br />
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We tiptoed past, so as not to disturb his quiet morning meditation.<br />
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Further on, we saw a mallard with her ducklings, all in a row.<br />
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When Mother Duck saw us, she got a bit worried and hastened off into shelter, with all the little ones frantically trying to keep up.<br />
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Can you see that second one almost running on top of the water?<br />
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Here he is, determined not to be left behind. We waited to make sure the full complement had got into shelter before we turned for home. The last look is always for Shehy, the fairy mountain, which is sometimes pointed and sometimes appearing flat topped. That's when the Good People put up a mist so humans can't see them preparing for a hosting or a journey to another fairy fort.<br />
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Can see the top quite clearly there, so obviously Themseleves are at home, feasting and singing and playing harp music.<br />
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Gosh, forgot to tell you about the new book, and the fun we had researching it. Brehon laws might sound boring but they were fascinating to find out about. Wasn't all that easy - sources tend to be very academic and hard going - but underneath all the strict and severe words, a magical world lies hidden for those with eyes to see.<br />
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Gradually we got a picture of a bright ancient time where women had as many rights as men, if not more so, great care was taken of bees and birds, animals and trees, where offenders weren't imprisoned but put to work for the good of the community, and the starving, the mentally afflicted, the wanderers, were looked after. What I found best of all was the detail on women's crafts like spinning, dyeing, weaving. An embroideress's needle was worth more than a queen's jewels, because she could earn so much with it. If your hens got into my garden and scratched up the woad plants I was going to use to dye my wool a lovely bright blue, then you had to pay me at least two full spindles of spun yarn, and furthermore put boots of rags on the hens in case they ever got out again! And woe betide the person who stole a lady's pet dog. Not only did he have to replace the pet, but was hit with a very heavy fine too.<br />
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Cats weren't forgotten either. A moggie that could purr and also catch mice was worth more than one which only purred, and although if your cat stole some food from my house, you were liable for a fine, if it could be proved that I had carelessly left the lid off a jar or a door open, then no blame attached to you or your cat! See what I mean about research revealing a magical world? How practical and humane they were. Wish we still had those laws.<br />
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Thought the lockdown would put paid to anyone even seeing the new book, but in fact it's going great guns in online orders, which is very nice. In fact anyone ordering any books anywhere, whether for themselves or for loved ones, is doing a good thing. I know I'm doing much more reading lately. Oh, don't forget - if you are ordering Brehon Laws from O'Brien Press and want a personally inscribed copy, do tell them on the order, and for safety email me as well. Wouldn't want you not to get it if you had asked for it.<br />
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I hope you are all making good use of this quiet time we are all sharing. At times I wonder if it will be all that welcome to return to hurry and bustle, the noise of traffic, crowds everywhere? It's so peaceful now. Let's make the most of the quietness.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-44401295163102419092020-04-10T11:33:00.001+01:002020-04-10T11:33:16.080+01:00A Quieter, More Peaceful Time ReturnsMost of us can remember a time when life seemed much more peaceful. Childhood, generally, when the worries of the world escaped us, and endless afternoons could be spent perched in the branches of a tree or tucked up on a window seat, reading and dreaming. Indoors, there was time to experiment in baking, under mother's watchful eye, attempt dress designing for our dolls, explore the excitements of crochet and knitting. Meanwhile, your brothers experimented with Meccano or tried to make model planes, applying glue liberally wherever it wasn't meant to go. Outdoors, every hedge, every stream, every new flower appearing in spring was a cause for excitement and celebration. Gardening, first wildly, digging up new seeds to see if they had sprouted yet, later more carefully, tending each little miracle as it pushed timidly out of the ground. And at the end of a busy happy day, you tumbled into bed and slept soundly until the risen sun beckoned you to new adventures.<br />
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Life got in the way of course over the years. It usually does. And new cares and responsibilities, as well as new inventions, new technologies, all moved us away from those quieter times. Suddenly it seemed as if there was never any time to do anything. Funny, when you consider all the labour-saving devices, from dishwashers to ready meals, that were now on hand, but there it was. We were all far far too busy just keeping up with life. Who has time for gardening, craftwork, reading for heaven's sake? Indeed, one of the most frequent comments heard when one was knitting a sock in a cafe was 'Wish I had time to do something like that...', usually followed by a sigh as the speaker looked at her nails or checked her mobile phone for new Facebook postings.<br />
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Well, to paraphrase Yeats, all is changed, changed utterly. And yes, in the midst of all the panic and fear, a calm beauty is re-emerging. Somehow, there now is time for all those old pleasures and practices. Time to really admire those beautiful little violets coming up everywhere, a true sign that spring is at last here.<br />
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Time to sit silently and share the delight of a little dunnock or hedge sparrow taking a refreshing bath.<br />
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And time for baking too. Old recipe books, tucked away in the library for years, were hauled out and dusted off. Favourites were re-made, sampled, pronounced excellent. Fudge was made, but didn't last long. Who needs shop-bought, factory-processed sweets?<br />
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Finally, there really was time to tackle those WIPs or Works In Progress in the knitting bin, of which far too many had piled up. Sock Madness began in March, as it has done for fourteen years now (and I can well remember that very first one back in 2007, when I was in San Diego for some reason, and worked wildly on my pair all through La Jolla and Julian and Borrego Springs, finally to finish and photograph them triumphantly at that strange vestige of a long-ago flood, the inland Salton Sea. <br />
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This year's first pattern was called Wohin? after the lovely Schubert lieder which asks where a stream is wandering to. Because of that nice link, I asked DH to find me an inspiring picture of a stream. Which he duly did.<br />
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From that inspiration, came these:<br />
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<img src="https://images4-g.ravelrycache.com/uploads/celticmemory/687232079/DSC_0010_medium.JPG" /><br />
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Who? Oh that's Brogeen. Now you won't have met him before, he is New. Arrived very late one night on the doorstep, purred, accepted a handful of food, and then trotted into the hall, asking politely where his bed was to be. Checked online, with the local vet, and finally got a call from a farmer up the road who roared cheerfully down the phone, 'I hear ye've got a lodger!' One of a large litter, apparently, small Brogeen was bullied by older cats, and was always straying. 'See how ye get on with him,' suggested the farmer. 'But he'll need neutering soon enough, he's getting to that age.'<br />
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Well, that's one of the responsibilities everyone should observe - find a stray, take steps to avoid future trouble. He romped through the simple op, and was back stealing the other cats' food in no time.<br />
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Ah yes, the other cats. Trouble loomed blackly on the horizon.<br />
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Paudge Mogeely, most senior of the tribe, hated him on sight, and didn't restrain his language.<br />
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Marigold and Pawtucket (aka The Scut, and you'd know why if you met her) retreated to a safe location to discuss the matter. Then emerged into the fray, to teach this upstart a thing or two. Didn't matter, Brogeen (he's named for a famous Irish leprechaun, incidentally) sailed happily on his confident little way, eating everything that was laid before him and quite a lot that wasn't. Life was good, and every moment to be enjoyed.<br />
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It was intended that he should be planted on my brother, who lost a very similar cat some years ago, but the current social conditions/lockdown have made that option not possible for the moment. Whether he ever gets there or not is something to be discussed later. Much later. In the meantime, the little lad is happy to lend a hand with anything:<br />
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Like this blue gansey in progress, which had been laid out on the lawn to show a difficult saddle shoulder join, of which I was quite proud. '<i>Ah sure, let me sort that thing out for you</i>!' cried Brogeen. Fortunately Donegal Tweed yarn is quite tough and capable of surviving kitten attacks.<br />
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Generally the household zoo is very good about following the lockdown rules. Marigold and The Scut do their daily boxing exercises indoors:<br />
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while 'Troushka does her bit with delivering the groceries safely:<br />
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and Paudge is very careful about not going further than the back field for his hunting:<br />
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The garden is getting plenty of attention too. It had been rather neglected in the last couple of years with books to be got out to the publishers (gosh, forgot to tell you about the new one, revealing the shocking secrets of ancient Ireland, will do that in the next post, remind me if I forget), but now was the time to tackle the wilderness. In Ireland (as in most mild wet climates, one would imagine) leave a neat garden for ten minutes and it's The Wild Wood before you know it. Ivy creeping down from trees re-roots at intervals and ends up with a length and thickness that Tarzan could use. Brambles (yes, they're nice when they produce blackberries in autumn but an unpleasant neighbour the rest of the year) are also great tip rooters. But the monbretia! Now I love monbretia as a wild flower, and it's one of the sights of West Cork lanes in summer:<br />
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When it gets into your garden, though, it multiplies like - well, have you ever seen a nest of mice? Millions of the little things, with the escapade repeated over and over again nonstop? Well that's what the monbretia does too. It not only multiplies and crowds out everything else, it eventually stops flowering because there are just too many corms underground. They spread, attach themselves to bush roots, attach themselves to each other, grow and multiply until you could dig up a square foot of them at least six inches thick, like - like nut cracknel!<br />
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See that wheelbarrow full? That much was taken from the tiny square of dark earth you can see behind them in the flowerbed. And there are still more in there! <br />
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But there is great joy in having time to sit at the upstairs window with a coffee and watch the birds in their spring preparations.<br />
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The wren letting everybody know that he is building his little cock nests, and ladies are courteously invited to inspect and approve.<br />
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The song thrush meditating on whether to take a bath now, or wait until the sun gets higher.<br />
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And even a starling, showing that while his voice may not be the most melodious, he always gives it everything he's got!<br />
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So although at first it was a little disconcerting to be ordered to stay home, to realise that many shops were shut, that events and entertainments to which we had become accustomed were cancelled, slowly it became more and more relaxing. Time to return to simpler days.<br />
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<i>Stands the clock at ten to three?</i></div>
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<i>And is there honey still for tea?</i></div>
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Yes, actually there is.</div>
Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-28201276009394709822019-08-09T16:01:00.000+01:002019-08-09T16:07:02.613+01:00A Day in The Remote Valleys'Twas my birthday the other day, and of course we had to head out into the wild blue yonder to make the most of the August weather (sunshine now and again, showers equally likely, but then, that's Ireland for you). So the dogs were tucked into the car, the cats were warned to stay in the garden and not on any account to chase birds, and we set off westward for Killarney.<br />
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Because birthdays are times for Doing Nice Things, and the first of those had to be a stop at a certain weaving mill in the woods not far from the lakes which make Killarney such a magnet for visitors. You wouldn't know this mill was there,except if you thought to enquire where its lovely products on sale in the shops at Muckross House came from, because it really is tucked far away from there in a place which shall be nameless (not giving away my best secrets, am I?)<br />
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And here is a triumphant re-emergence from said mill, with not just one but TWO treats - a scrumptious cone of brushed suri alpaca (stop drooling!) and another of dark blue boucle. Oh the fun of deciding what to make with those! The brushed suri in particular is so incredibly soft that you can't stop stroking it. Would make beautiful scarves and cowls for ultra-sensitive skins.<br />
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Not far away, the native red deer of Killarney were moving around peacefully.<br />
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These young stags were all lying down, but once they caught sight of us, they rose as one and moved quietly off. Can't imagine why their antlers don't get tangled up, but they seem to manage them just fine.<br />
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And here is a fawn, anxiously checking to see where his mother has gone.<br />
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Next we headed for Moll's Gap, which, as its name suggests, is a gap between the mountains where since time immemorial travellers have journeyed between Killarney and Kenmare. The Avoca cafe here serves the most delicious cakes - sorry that DH didn't take a picture of them for you, but he was too busy sampling the merchandise. And yes, some scraps got brought out to the car for the dogs too.<br />
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As you head on from Moll's Gap, there is a steep and winding tiny road leading off the main thoroughfare, down, down, down into a long glacial valley. This is known as the Black Valley, and it's a remote place now, although in earlier centuries it would have had a good population scraping some sort of living there. You can still see traces of the old ridge and furrow fields where potatoes were planted - some of them so high up the mountainsides that you realise just how desperate their planters must have been, seizing any sort of ground that might yield enough food to live on.<br />
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Can you see the tiny ruined cottage down there, with its old stone walled fields still visible?<br />
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Here it is, a little closer, with that wonderful green track leading to it.<br />
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The blackberries were ripening -<br />
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the bees were busy -<br />
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and a grayling showed his preference for heather honey.<br />
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It was beautiful out there. The acid soil of the mountains, which is ideal for heather, has a very distinct and lovely scent of its own, and it was wafted on the breeze across the valley until you felt like sitting there for the entire day, just drinking it down into your lungs, and committing the whole scene to memory, so that you could think about it lying in bed at night.<br />
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Look! Here are holly berries BEFORE they get that December red glow! They aren't really noticeable at this time of year, but it looks as though it is going to be a splendid crop this winter. The birds will be pleased.<br />
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Tamzin, the little Shi-Tzu, has always had a problem with her built-in GPS or homing device. She could, quite simply, get lost in a straight corridor or a paper bag, and this trip was no exception. I took both dogs out of the car and straight up a little goat path into the hills, to pick some bog myrtle (good for keeping flies away). After a while I noticed that Tamzin wasn't with us, but didn't worry because the car was parked right at the foot of the track.... Foolish! Came back down, no sign of Taz. A woman came along in a car and said the dog was about half a mile down the road. Rushed off, found her trotting happily along, wondering where we were. Never again!<br />
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This has happened too many times. The last was a few weeks ago in an acre of sand dunes down by Mizen Head, and it took hours to find her - at the <i>other side of a river </i>which she had somehow crossed all by her tiny self (and managed to struggle back over too, when she joyfully saw us). From now on she stays on a lead or she stays home.<br />
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Can you just see Petroushka there, peeping out of the car at that rather friendly piebald pony? 'Well hello, and how's everythin' with you?' enquired the pony. 'Tis nice to have a stranger passing by.'<br />
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This young robin (only just getting his chest colouring) kept following us, wondering what we might be up to next.<br />
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But the real delight came with the fleece-dyeing sheep who have evidently been trying new colour combinations to see what works best in the damp climate of the Black Valley.<br />
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Red perhaps? So handy for espying your friends and relations across the hillside.<br />
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But maybe some blue would look good with it? Colour blocking, you know, it's all the rage.<br />
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Had I knitting with me? Of course I did. The current project is a quite complex one, The Oban Cardigan, by Baby Cocktails. It's worked all in one piece up to the armholes, which makes for a very heavy project to drag along in the car.<br />
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Here is just a section, with the buttons I am going to use. Got those from the lovely Button Store on Cork's quayside.<br />
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And it may not have escaped your notice that the Tour de France was on during July, and that always signals the Tour de Fleece among committed spinners. You are supposed to spin each day of the Tour, and challenge yourself on the days that the poor cyclists have to struggle up steep mountainsides.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UMfBOj082Kw/XU2I1uEn-FI/AAAAAAAAC1M/S6kmtfTquSQKCpCgCtBqGg5vDghRncgEACLcBGAs/s1600/Beaded%2Byarn%2BTdF%2B2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="504" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UMfBOj082Kw/XU2I1uEn-FI/AAAAAAAAC1M/S6kmtfTquSQKCpCgCtBqGg5vDghRncgEACLcBGAs/s320/Beaded%2Byarn%2BTdF%2B2019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Celtic Memory's challenge was to create beaded yarn on a drop spindle. Which succeeded. A bit finicky, but it is entirely possible.<br />
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And here was the entire plan for TdF, piled on to the spinning wheel (Orkney) and spinning chair (Welsh) - spin this, ply that, try to do something with those... Of coure it didn't all get done. But it was a lot of fun, and it is always good to keep your hand in at an ancient craft. Go and refresh your own memories of working with your hands. NOW!<br />
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<br />Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-41123876201168410632018-04-30T10:35:00.002+01:002018-04-30T13:51:02.138+01:00It's May Eve: and The Old Road is revealed!<span style="font-size: large;">It is a long-held belief in Ireland that on May Eve the old roads make themselves visible, winding far away across the boglands, and that at midnight you may see the folk of ancient times travelling them as they did so many thousands of years ago. Celtic Memory will certainly be out at the witching hour, to see who may pass by.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And what better time for Follow The Old Road to come out! Yes, the new book is now in the shops and online, and it is my fervent hope that every single person who reads it will go out and explore these old roads too, rediscover how our ancestors travelled from earliest times up to the last century.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2mc41pyIoDo/WubVw4PCAJI/AAAAAAAABxI/nDthyIiYU1gNeX6GO7xX5gwol3bkvXK5ACLcBGAs/s1600/Overall%2Bbook%2Bcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="829" height="237" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2mc41pyIoDo/WubVw4PCAJI/AAAAAAAABxI/nDthyIiYU1gNeX6GO7xX5gwol3bkvXK5ACLcBGAs/s320/Overall%2Bbook%2Bcover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Several of you have asked how you can have your copy signed, and I have arranged this with O'Brien Press. <a href="https://www.obrien.ie/follow-the-old-road">You do have to order from them</a> rather than from Amazon, and make sure to put in the Comments box that you want a signed copy. Then email me, so I can make sure your name is on there. You'll find my contact address on the side of this page.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was hard work researching this book but we did have such a wonderful time doing it, discovering such amazing things and such fascinating scraps of history. I think one of my absolute favourite pictures perfectly captured by DH was that of the deep grooves cut into the stonework under an old canal bridge. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_LCgjjljYSw/WubjxxpNJZI/AAAAAAAABzs/FBEQREYRub8XSCB0lPb4GiIgsCOy_fOEACLcBGAs/s1600/Canal%2Bbridge%2Brope%2Bgrooves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="381" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_LCgjjljYSw/WubjxxpNJZI/AAAAAAAABzs/FBEQREYRub8XSCB0lPb4GiIgsCOy_fOEACLcBGAs/s320/Canal%2Bbridge%2Brope%2Bgrooves.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Generations of horses pulling boats along the towpath did that. It was an old man up in the Midlands who told us to go down the bank to the old bridge and we would see them. I never cease to thank him. Ever after, we always went in search of them. And always found them. Truly tracks of time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, on May Eve, spring seems to be here at last, although it is still unseasonably cold at nights. The flowers are cautiously emerging, the baby rabbits are playing in the fields, and even The Waif is getting frisky. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You remember The Waif? She came to us three-quarters starved and in a very bad way, a few months back. She still wouldn't win any Beautiful Cat contests, but she is a happier little animal, no doubt about that. One day we watched her creeping cautiously out into the rockery to enjoy the sun. Having sniffed all around, she put out a tentative paw and patted a leaf. DH grabbed the camera. Next she positively smacked the leaf. Then, in one glorious moment:</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OQgzCl4ptEY/Wuba1v1Ix3I/AAAAAAAABxc/nXCYS8cVgd4J4aKTZgeD4BqF-fsVNYycwCLcBGAs/s1600/Waif%2Bjumping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="504" height="278" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OQgzCl4ptEY/Wuba1v1Ix3I/AAAAAAAABxc/nXCYS8cVgd4J4aKTZgeD4BqF-fsVNYycwCLcBGAs/s320/Waif%2Bjumping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">An explosion of happy exuberance! A leap in the air to celebrate the joys of spring. I had tears in my eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A day or two later, we were surprised to see The Waif slipping through the hedge and making her way down the field behind the house. Going back to her gipsy ways? We hoped not. Right down to the edge of the woods she toddled, to where dozens of rabbits were watching with suspicion. She sat there for ages, just calmly observing them. And then she pounced!</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k567vvxP_Wg/WubbzH2y2oI/AAAAAAAABxo/ua5DbH5P8d0yOM2iAb3I8sGOXFpdWC36ACLcBGAs/s1600/Waif%2Band%2Bbaby%2Bbunny-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="504" height="241" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k567vvxP_Wg/WubbzH2y2oI/AAAAAAAABxo/ua5DbH5P8d0yOM2iAb3I8sGOXFpdWC36ACLcBGAs/s320/Waif%2Band%2Bbaby%2Bbunny-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A very young baby rabbit. Far too new to the world to know what was going on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which actually wasn't much. Relax, no baby rabbits were hurt in the taking of these pictures. Remember The Waif's personal circumstances? No teeth, apart from one lone canine sticking out at the corner of her mouth? She held the baby in her mouth for a minute or two, considered her position, and dropped it, deciding to go for a stroll instead.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C_4vK9Rlncg/Wubb1lXLvPI/AAAAAAAABxs/ksnsPqfyZF8A2lyb33_6vQdIaouGp2XngCLcBGAs/s1600/Waif%2Band%2Bbaby%2Bbunny-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="564" height="222" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C_4vK9Rlncg/Wubb1lXLvPI/AAAAAAAABxs/ksnsPqfyZF8A2lyb33_6vQdIaouGp2XngCLcBGAs/s320/Waif%2Band%2Bbaby%2Bbunny-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the baby didn't want to lose sight of her! 'Are you my mummy?' it enquired plaintively, following her along the edge of the wood. Obviously it had imprinted on her, albeit briefly, since its genuine mother now emerged furiously from concealment to rush it back into hiding. And The Waif came peacefully home by the long route. She had showed them that she was still there, that was the main thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">New calves have arrived too. Here Mum is attending to one of the twins while a jackdaw seizes the opportunity to get some nice soft hair from the other, to line his nest.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tU0vjmnK6wc/Wubb8OYgu0I/AAAAAAAABx0/Y4STT7PS29gdSHxKO4SCqx2DsWVWOzl5QCLcBGAs/s1600/Beech%2Btree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="504" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tU0vjmnK6wc/Wubb8OYgu0I/AAAAAAAABx0/Y4STT7PS29gdSHxKO4SCqx2DsWVWOzl5QCLcBGAs/s320/Beech%2Btree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Every year we wait for this beautiful beech tree to come into leaf. It was ahead of most of the pack this season, shaking a diaphanous see-through gown of green in the morning sun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The dogs needed clipping, and that meant a bonus for the smaller birds who wouldn't dare to pluck from the back of even a very little calf. </span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gixqapOo5EA/WubcBRZrvmI/AAAAAAAABx8/4tTCEsPiBMAg_mTt_86lFuH6SMH-5V8jACLcBGAs/s1600/Dunnock%2Bnest%2Bbuilding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="560" height="226" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gixqapOo5EA/WubcBRZrvmI/AAAAAAAABx8/4tTCEsPiBMAg_mTt_86lFuH6SMH-5V8jACLcBGAs/s320/Dunnock%2Bnest%2Bbuilding.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Others preferred the tried and tested nice green moss to line their nests.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The primroses are coming out in the orchard,</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BxS_VR8UQUw/WubcKNom-qI/AAAAAAAAByQ/CfcU0YflyGIiMxjX0gLxN-IZ3hnrOxH5wCLcBGAs/s1600/Scut%2Bin%2Bpond-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="357" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BxS_VR8UQUw/WubcKNom-qI/AAAAAAAAByQ/CfcU0YflyGIiMxjX0gLxN-IZ3hnrOxH5wCLcBGAs/s320/Scut%2Bin%2Bpond-2.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">and Scheherazade is exploring new territory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>De time is wrong on dis sundial!</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VWoZbTXl3jI/WubchcWduwI/AAAAAAAAByw/AAo2qcrV8zkO-wFe2ZFA4eImUIinsIE4ACLcBGAs/s1600/Secret%2BPaths%2Bshawl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="504" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VWoZbTXl3jI/WubchcWduwI/AAAAAAAAByw/AAo2qcrV8zkO-wFe2ZFA4eImUIinsIE4ACLcBGAs/s320/Secret%2BPaths%2Bshawl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, of course craftwork is continuing. When does it not? This is a shawl in progress called, appropriately enough, Secret Paths.</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yBf9J94THe8/WubcqqcRJlI/AAAAAAAABy0/YiJ2IMgSBFE7C9d9By3kYXVp5DZf6DxZQCLcBGAs/s1600/Safe%2BHarbor%2Bsock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="284" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yBf9J94THe8/WubcqqcRJlI/AAAAAAAABy0/YiJ2IMgSBFE7C9d9By3kYXVp5DZf6DxZQCLcBGAs/s320/Safe%2BHarbor%2Bsock.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And here is the current sock in progress from Sock Madness. Safe Harbor is its name, designed by the gifted Amy Rapp. It has a most ingenous way of dropping rows of stitches and then gathering them up to make a bee or butterfly. Lovely. Out of the competition by this time (the Scandinavians, as usual, are showing Grand Prix speed) but enjoying knitting along nonetheless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q65Nsa4GXCw/Wubgvg8_CxI/AAAAAAAABzE/SraM8iMnPY0Iy2B1--_FLJMhPgiAvmg1wCLcBGAs/s1600/Jo%2Bon%2BBrow%2BHead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q65Nsa4GXCw/Wubgvg8_CxI/AAAAAAAABzE/SraM8iMnPY0Iy2B1--_FLJMhPgiAvmg1wCLcBGAs/s320/Jo%2Bon%2BBrow%2BHead.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We have been down to Brow Head on the Crookhaven peninsula in West Cork. They filmed some scenes for the newest Star Wars out on the end of Brow Head, and it was off limits for a while (with all the locals being sworn to secrecy) which was very annoying if it is one of your go-to places for serenity and recovery of resilience) but they are all gone now and it is back to its wild natural state.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVZehxI6Wsg/WubhSnbNXNI/AAAAAAAABzM/jngnJZIXS2AdPoswt3hX2w_R89RWTj0bQCLcBGAs/s1600/Waves%2Bat%2BGalley%2BCove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="504" height="208" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVZehxI6Wsg/WubhSnbNXNI/AAAAAAAABzM/jngnJZIXS2AdPoswt3hX2w_R89RWTj0bQCLcBGAs/s320/Waves%2Bat%2BGalley%2BCove.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The waves were crashing on the rocks at Galley Cove,</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DpXVE2H9egA/WubhdA7JuGI/AAAAAAAABzQ/NZQh_76nk7kKdhM4Z9FSPLh5ChK9h6LywCLcBGAs/s1600/Taz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="504" height="286" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DpXVE2H9egA/WubhdA7JuGI/AAAAAAAABzQ/NZQh_76nk7kKdhM4Z9FSPLh5ChK9h6LywCLcBGAs/s320/Taz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">but the dogs had a wonderful time.</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5n1PIMI8Wnc/Wubhe3HCp4I/AAAAAAAABzU/qkgM03zen5QwtbM_Eno5-rI_sv2OHNusACEwYBhgL/s1600/Petroushka%2Bshaking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="556" height="284" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5n1PIMI8Wnc/Wubhe3HCp4I/AAAAAAAABzU/qkgM03zen5QwtbM_Eno5-rI_sv2OHNusACEwYBhgL/s320/Petroushka%2Bshaking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The state of the car afterwards was another matter. 'My cameras!' shrieked DH in despair. I keep telling him to use a big rucksack to protect them from sand and seaweed but he likes to have them ready to hand to snatch up when a moment offers itself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And so, it is May Eve. Make sure you go outside tonight, even if not to the woods to gather great boughs of mayblossom as your ancestors did. Look to the skies and the stars, and, if you are near open land, to the ground to see if the old roads are becoming slowly, glimmeringly, visible. It's up to you if you follow them or not: just be prepared to accept what happens.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And tomorrow is May Day! Up on the Kerry border they will be bringing their farm animals to the ancient fort to drink at the well, as they have done for millennia. Back at your own home, don't forget to wash your face in the dew, say good morning to the first bird you hear singing, and celebrate Beltane, the coming of summer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-13991968726792627512018-02-18T12:04:00.003+00:002018-02-18T12:47:01.255+00:00In Which The Spring Takes Its Time But Another Desperate Paw Reaches OutIt seems to have been grey and wet since November, and no end in sight. Oh the daffodils are pushing up bravely all right, and some of them are even showing faint traces of yellow, but they would be better off staying below ground for a while yet.<br />
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Christmas was a frantic rush as usual, with gifts to be finished and posted off. A very young gentleman was to receive a warm new jacket, with cosy pockets -<br />
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<img src="https://images4-b.ravelrycache.com/uploads/celticmemory/489627067/Rowan_s_binjum_small_best_fit.jpg" /><br />
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but at the last moment it was felt that this wasn't much of a joy-giver to unwrap under the tree, so Barnabas the Bat was created and went off in the same package.<br />
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He was great fun to make from a clever design by Shauna Jared. The construction of the wings was particularly nifty. Thanks Shauna! One gathers that Barnabas now sleeps with his young owner, along with an assortment of other animals.<br />
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Ah yes, animals. You will recall that a beautiful little kitten came to stay recently, having been brought back from almost-dead by a cat-whisperer friend. She is blooming and full of energy, causing mayhem everywhere. The two old tom cats have virtually left home until she reaches the age of reason (whenever that may be) and the dogs avoid her as much as possible. Only Marigold, being nearer in age, administers clouts to the furry head from time to time, 'to put manners on her' as she expresses it.<br />
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But, but, BUT: there is no other explanation for it, there must be a ten foot sign outside our gate, visible only to the travelling feline. I was called urgently down to the living room a couple of weeks ago where DH had just seen double. Our black tom, Polliwog struck motionless on one side of the deck outside, and on the other, what looked like his doppelganger. On closer scrutiny however, it became obvious that this was a female, and one moreover in very bad shape.<br />
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Door was opened. Expected strange cat to flee, but it staggered to my feet and tried to rub its head against me. Raised huge round eyes in a little round face and pleaded. Food was supplied instantly, and bolted down. Clean water was provided and drunk gratefully.<br />
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What next? Let it sit there for a while. Check it on security cameras every few minutes. After a while it wandered off. Oh well, another recipient for the Maeldun Bequest (you will have to check back a few years on the blog, but when a much-loved stray whom we christened Maeldun died, he left strict instructions that there must always be food and a warm blanket in the porch for any stray that might happen by. An instruction we have followed faithfully.)<br />
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But of course I worried about that little female. She looked elderly. What had happened to a once obviously loved cat? Had her owner died, that she was now wandering and starving? When she reappeared later that afternoon, I coaxed her into the little lean-to greenhouse at the back of the house, where she could at least be warm and dry. Blankets, water, litter tray, food. She ate ravenously again. And I checked on her constantly.<br />
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But next morning it was obvious she couldn't hold the food down. Her teeth were in a very bad shape too, as were her claws, torn and blunted from heaven knows what food-seeking stratagems. Gave in, took her to the vet, had her put on a drip and given as much deworming and medication as her little body could take.<br />
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She was there a week. We brought her home, and she is slowly, slowly, coming back to life. She is clean, infection-free, and her coat will recover in time. She likes more than anything to sit on a lap for hours, and asks no more.<br />
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The Waif</div>
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Look, it's easy to fall madly in love with a cute kitten, isn't it? But what chance does an elderly cat who has definitely seen better days have? Every time I stroke her little head, try to coax a rusty purr, I think of how she must have been loved and cared for until something happened and she was thrown out into a harsh world to cope as best she could. Poor little Waif.<br />
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Yes, OK, I know we have too many beasties as it is. Far too many. We do NOT need another cat.<br />
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But what can you do? For heaven's sake, what would <i>you </i>do?<br />
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Now I mentioned that the weather has been gloomy and dark and wet, and although the days are getting gradually longer, you wouldn't know it with all the clouds massing above. Over in Pyeongchang, they are having far worse conditions with sub-zero temperatures and rather more snow than was strictly required. But what do you know, Ireland decided to get in on the act last week, and actually produced a light dusting of the white stuff itself!<br />
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The animals had mixed feelings about this new phenomenon. It happens so rarely here in West Cork that they don't get much experience.<br />
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Marigold wondering why her paws are cold.</div>
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Polliwog boasting that he is a warrior, at home in any conditions.</div>
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Paudge Mogeely decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and curled up with the dogs to keep warm. <i> 'Snow's all very well for them as likes it, but me I'm better in the snug so I am.'</i></div>
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And here, against a suitably wintry backdrop, is the start of my own Olympic bid, or to put it more accurately, my entry for this year's Ravellenics. This, as you may know, is the event staged by the online knitting group Ravelry every time the Olympics take place. You cast on during the opening ceremonies and then push yourself to the limit to get the project done by the closing ceremonies. Going to take a bit of work, this one, and the hands are already aching. It's the Chimney Fire jacket which has a complicated cabled border and acres of moss stitch. Fortunately, the Continental or picking technique was adopted several years ago chez Celtic Memory in place of the old throwing or English style, and that has made moss stitch or any form of changing from knit to purl far quicker and easier. Next Sun, Feb 25, it's the closing ceremonies. Better get a move on.<br />
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We did get one semi-bright day and made immediate use of it. As we drove past the Gearagh, a morning bar of mist was just rising, and we could see the old road, which was there before the valley was flooded, revealed as the waters were exceptionally low.<br />
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See the line running across the middle of the picture, just below the line of white mist? That's the old road.<br />
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Oh gosh, can't believe that I forgot to tell you! It will be out on April 16! <a href="http://www.obrien.ie/follow-the-old-road">Follow The Old Road,</a> I mean! De Next Book! There was a delay while they found a really good cartographer to create the dreamlike and imaginative map which was essential to give the book its final touch, but that's all now sorted, and it will be on the shelves mid-April!!!!!<br />
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So excited. It seems to have taken us forever, what with travelling all over the country to discover the ancient tracks and the forgotten canals and the lost railways and the winding rivers and the invisible sea routes which connected one tiny fishing village with another and with the wider world. Crumbling railway halts covered with ivy, tiny piers on river banks, ruined abbeys, mysterious lakes, stories of emigration, stories of trade, echoes, echoes, echoes of the past everywhere. A major job, but what a world it opened up!<br />
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But back to the day out. Took Petroushka down to Inchydoney strand where a couple of exercising horses made a beautiful picture at the edge of the waves.<br />
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Troushka absolutely adores a huge empty beach. She yearns for it, dreams of it in her furry sleep, wails for it on those dark wet days when it really isn't a pleasant idea to go out. So she was in her element, feeling all her dog days had come at once.<br />
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It is the good thing about West Cork on a chilly February day: apart from the occasional horse and rider, you have the place mostly to yourself.<br />
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Further west, near Clonakilty, we found that the Great Northern divers (known and loved as loons in the New World) were making the most of our gentler climate for the winter months.<br />
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They won't get their brighter breeding plumage until they head north in the spring and you will hear their eerily wonderful calls over the lakes of colder climates.<br />
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And here was a last bonus as the clouds gathered once more and the rain was threatening.<br />
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Just in front of this stand of trees, where the last rays of the sun were giving some warmth in a particularly sheltered spot, we spotted a tiny dot of russet. You can hardly see it there in the centre of the picture, so here is a close up, courtesy of DH's magical long lens:<br />
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A fox enjoying a quiet snooze. I like to think it was a female, getting some peace and quiet before the new litter arrives and robs her of such luxuries as me-time for the summer. It was a gift to us on the way home, and perhaps a reminder that spring really is on the way.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-78149007041274835822017-11-01T18:06:00.002+00:002017-11-04T18:57:56.848+00:00Horrible hurricanes to rampant red deer, beautiful ballet to a Brand New Kitten. It's the Celtic New Year!The first experience of a hurricane in Ireland in my lifetime, and Celtic Memory profoundly hopes it will be the last. Folklore records The Night of the Big Wind (<i>oiche na gaoithe mora</i>) back in 1839, but that was more of a European windstorm, and since then the occasional gale is all we have had to worry about.<br />
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Until a couple of weeks ago, that is. We had heard of the dreadful damage done further to the west, of course, and were concerned for friends up and down the Americas, but such things don't happen here. When they told us that Ophelia was headed straight for Ireland, we couldn't quite believe it. Surely it would swerve off and lose itself out at sea somewhere? How could it aim directly at this tiny island on the western edge of Europe? But it could, and it did.<br />
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Almost the worst bit was lying awake on the Sunday night, in absolutely still, muggy weather, knowing that this monster was tearing up across the ocean towards us, and would be here by morning. It reminded me of that terrifying Dore engraving of a plague advancing on England - do you know it? Must go look it up. Got up at one point and looked out the window. Nothing moving. Clouds lay quiet and dark across the sky. The garden lay silent and calm.<br />
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It was, oddly enough, a kind of relief when the wind began to get up towards morning. The actuality is always a bit better than the waiting. At least you're in it, and getting on with it.<br />
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By 9am, things were getting a bit rough, but we still had power, light, wifi. By 11, the sky was as dark as evening, and the cattle in the field below our home were bunching into a well sheltered corner (facing south west, in the direction of Ophelia, strangely enough, since normally they place their backs to the wind, but they did choose a strong corner with a bank and hedge in front of them as solid protection). We know and love these cattle. Eamonn is a big and gentle bull who looks after his cows and is even kind to the skittish young wans. He knew what to do to protect his flock, and lay quietly down with them as the winds strengthened to a screaming roar.<br />
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(Needless to say, this picture was taken in quieter times. During the storm you wouldn't dare to do anything like opening a window.)<br />
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First thing to go was the power, and with it of course the wifi. Then, quite suddenly, no mobile phone connection. Those masts must have been damaged too. We sat and listened to the roaring winds, watched the trees bending in half, and shrank as we heard rattles and bangs from the roof overhead.<br />
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Dogs and cats crowded in together for comfort and company. If they kept their heads down, they reasoned, maybe it would all go away.<br />
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As eventually, thankfully, it did. After a couple of hours, we looked at each other. Was there the very slightest lessening in the sound of the wind? Was there the teeniest hint of light in the sky? Glanced out of the window, and there was Eamonn calmly and stolidly leading his harem back out into grazing territory. Never mind that the rain was still slashing down, that the wind was still whipping the treetops. His instinct (still there in animals, although we have lost most of it) told him that the worst was over. Which it was.<br />
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Of course that was just Ophelia having passed on up the country to give others a taste of her temper. The clearing up was to take a long long time. Over a week in fact, before we had water, power, light, wifi, mobile phone service all up and running again. The woodstove was kept busy, as was the camping gas equipment, buckets were constantly being refilled from the rainwater butts, and we became experts in creating meals that needed as little power as possible. But it can be fun dining by candlelight, and you do appreciate the coming of daylight each morning so you can actually see to read or knit or do anything more complicated than going outside for another load of firewood.<br />
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One more thing about Ophelia. That night, after the winds had died down, and all was calm, the sky was ablaze with stars, more than we had ever seen before. Not only stars, but the delicate sickle of a new moon. What a perfectly lovely sign to give reassurance. It took me some time to realise that the reason we could see so many stars was because there was absolutely no lighting from anywhere at ground level. We live in the countryside, but even so, the lights of Cork and Macroom some distance away are always visible as a glow. For a brief while, we didn't have that, and were in as good a position as anyone up in the Arctic Circle hoping to see the Northern Lights. Was happy enough with the new moon and the stars though.<br />
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It wasn't possible to knit on anything complicated by candlelight, as others have doubtless discovered before me, but the neglected bright yellow socks certainly came back into favour.<br />
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I've been working on these (or rather NOT working) for longer than I care to remember. My own hand-dyed, a nice merino with a hint of sparkle, in a fairly easy mock-cable and lace pattern that I made up as I went along. I was knitting these when I met up with my good friend Linda at Wonderwool Wales last April, it shames me to recall. Really must get them done.<br />
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And the bright weather that followed the storm meant things could be washed and hung out in the welcome fresh air. This is another long-term project which finally got finished, a Shaelyn shawl in hand-dyed mohair and mousse. Beaded the edges to give the points more emphasis.<br />
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Even a couple of quilts got laundered (carefully) and hung out.</div>
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And now that there is light to be had at all hours (have you ever thought about how difficult it must have been to read, to study, back before we had electric light on tap, so to speak? I can tell you it occurred to me more than once during the Emergency), I could at last get on with a second version of the Faro Sideways Pullover.<br />
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This time a stash dive revealed two good cones of a fine Scottish lambswool/cashmere blend in dark navy. Wound 4 threads of that with a single thread of a rather glamorous and equally fine cashmere/sparkle cone, also in navy, which I had discovered at the back of a shelf in Fairfield Yarns outside Manchester a while ago. You have to keep on the ball with five separate threads, no matter how carefully you try to twist them together, and every now and then there is a loop of one or another to be caught in with a crochet hook, but the overall effect is devastatingly gorgeous. Another couple of weeks on that one. It's at the second stage of having so many stitches on the needle that you despair of ever getting a row done. (One of these purgatories as you work the section between sleeve and centre front at each side.) At this stage the longest possible cord and interchangeable tips are being used.<br />
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Some work had to continue while we were powerless, and you wouldn't believe the jigs and reels that were necessary to (a) get a weekly column typed up and (b) somehow transmit it to the relevant editor. It involved driving many miles until we found a part of the city that had power, then discovering somewhere with a good mobile phone signal, and finally using the mobile phone (charged during the driving) as a hotspot to email the text. My editor on De Nextest Book was trying to get through by email constantly, to demand amendments, adjustments, rewrites, but couldn't make contact. She was in London, and apparently hadn't heard of Hurricane Ophelia. Meant a lot of work when we got back to normal. I swear I will never take modern conveniences for granted EVER again!<br />
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Some things wait for no man, however, and the other day we had to dash down to Killarney to catch the wild red deer at their vocal best, during the rutting season.<br />
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This fine stag was letting every eligible female within miles know that he was AVAILABLE and READY. Can you see that susceptible young doe looking up at him admiringly?<br />
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When a bulllish male like this decides to trot across the road in front of you while rounding up his willing women, you tend to stand back respectfully and let him pass!<br />
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And in complete contrast, had to attend a rehearsal for a new production of The Sleeping Beauty, coming up at Cork Opera House shortly.<br />
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These young dancers from all over the world had only just arrived in the city, but went straight into a very demanding assessment class and then on to the first rehearsal, with hardly a break for a coffee and a (small) biscuit.<br />
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Don't you just love this picture of a dancer taking a relaxed (!) break while texting her family to tell them she had arrived safely?<br />
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And so to the most important event of recent days. The arrival of -<br />
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A New Kitten!!</div>
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This is Pawtucket Princess Pocahontas. Or maybe Minoushka. Or should we make that Termagant Toffee Apple? Suggestions welcomed.<br />
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No, it wasn't intended. Really it wasn't. Three cats were quite enough. But my friend Eileen, who manages the local veterinary clinic, had this pathetic little mite dropped on her doorstep. Suffering from meningitis, only able to stagger in circles before falling over, she was in a dreadfully bad way. The vet and Eileen between them pulled her round, but it was a near thing. And once I had held that little paw and listened to that brave little resounding purr, I was done for. DH rolled his eyes, but admitted that she was a lovely little creature. And so she came to her forever home.<br />
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Of course ructions were expected. Not from Tamzin: she's a loving little dog and was clearly anxious from the first moment of introduction to make her feel at home.<br />
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Troushka is always inclined to be a little bully if she thinks she can get away with it, but even she was impressed by Minoushka's (Pawtucket's?) climbing skills.<br />
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<i>I is Number One, I is!</i></div>
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Polliwog touched noses gently, and left for the evening. Paudge Mogeely raised his beautiful green eyes to heaven and hastily departed to follow Polliwog. And Marigold, hitherto the queen bee, baby spoiled brat, and Most Important Person, smacked Minou across the face and retired to the bedroom in a major fit of the sulks. So all proceeding as normal.<br />
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It's been quite a month. With knobs on. But now we are on the first day of the Celtic New Year. Time to get all your bulbs and seeds planted in the soil, so that they can sleep and gain strength before uncoiling and starting to grow with the spring. And there is a full moon tonight outside my study window as I write. A Happy New Year to you all!Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-80726799971073821072017-10-08T19:12:00.000+01:002017-10-09T10:19:20.003+01:00Concerning Far Off French Forests, Traditional Farmhouses, and Fabulous Wine Festivals We went wandering across France a couple of weeks back, eschewing the well-trodden routes and heading for the less known regions. Forests, woodlands, lots and lots of tall green trees were required. When De Next Book is finally on its way to the printers (hopefully not long now) Celtic Memory has it in mind to create one which explores the peace of mind and soothing of the soul to be discovered in the heart of great woods: places where ferns overhang little streams and little holes among the roots of trees might lead to elven dwellings; where hazel nuts and crab apples tempt you to fill baskets, and the silence wraps you in an awareness of another world.<br />
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The Ardennes are quite a way from the western ports of France: it took the best part of two days to get there, but it was worth it to explore this region. Don't know if you're familiar with that area, but France sort of pushes up a little promontory into Belgium, with Luxembourg close by on the east. I had certainly heard of the Battle of the Bulge but until we got here, I hadn't really realised how the geography dictated history. The mountains rise high between France and Belgium, with this one narrow gap through which the Meuse flows, the railway line runs, and a narrow road twists along between the two. And throughout history, if anybody felt like invading either north or south, this was the way they came.<br />
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History takes other forms, though, than war, thankfully, and the scenery up along the Meuse was pure delight.<br />
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Just look at this peaceful barge purring its way along with not a worry other than the next lock to be negotiated. Quite a few sections of the river were canalised, where narrow stretches or shallow sections would have interfered with smooth travel.<br />
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This is Hierges, a tiny and perfectly preserved old-world village. The square with its fountain is still cobblestoned, and high up there on the hill you see the ancient castle. Back behind the original tower, later developments were built on, finishing with a rather elegant 18th century chateau, but all still within the original castle walls. Clearly the lord of the manor had no intention of leaving his domain or the village which lay under his sway. It was evening when we tiptoed in to look at it, and silently peaceful, but one imagines it gets a fair few visitors by day. It was easy to feel the atmosphere of past centuries though as the church bell chimed the evening hour softly and pigeons fluttered up from the fountain to a steep tiled roof.<br />
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This ancient abbey was breathtaking when it suddenly appeared amid the trees. It's Hambye, and even its ruins are enormous. It must have been a hive of industry in the Middle Ages, with chiming bells and singing monks and a busy settlement all around supplying the needs of the monastery.</div>
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Stopping at a bend in the steep mountain road, we looked over to the valley below and spied this incredible knot garden which belonged to a semi-ruined chateau. Clearly somebody was taking very good care of the box hedges at least, whatever about the building.<br />
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And eventually you slip into Belgium without really realising it, and discover the exquisite little town of Dinant which spreads out alongside the river. Had coffee in a cheerful beer house here, and noticed that the atmosphere was already becoming more Austrian or German in style since we had come further east.<br />
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This is Le St Hubert hotel and restaurant in the village of Haybes, about halfway up the little French promontory (can't bear to call it The Bulge). And if you are ever fortunate enough to find yourself in the Ardennes, make sure you stay here, and only here. Forget bigger towns, swankier inns: this is the real thing, the France for which you search and so often don't find. It's small, it's old fashioned, the staff are delightful, and the food is to dream about. The hostelry has really been there since the 18th century, but unfortunately, due to its somewhat obvious location, has been rebuilt several times, the last around 1947. War tends to do that, and everywhere we went, we heard or saw evidence of wholesale destruction and rebuilding. It does bring home to you just what life must have been like for the locals.<br />
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But sitting in the cosy <i>stube </i>(well it was a <i>stube</i> by then rather than a French cafe, having a distinctly more German feel to it) drinking local beer and ordering the <i>plat du jour</i>, not bothering to ask what it was since it would undoubtedly be delicious, remains one of my happiest memories, to be taken out and fondled on cold winter nights back in Ireland. One night the special dish was a simple omelette with girolles - those little yellow forest mushrooms which the chef's wife had picked in the woods only that afternoon. Pure poetry!<br />
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As I said, everything gradually changed as we moved further east (because of course, having enjoyed the Ardennes so much, it seemed only sensible to move right over to the Vosges on the German border). Houses were different:<br />
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Look at this old relic in a village through which we passed. Original wattle and daub! I wanted to buy it on the spot and look after it forever!<br />
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And this incredible old - what is it - barn, workspace, storage shed? Did you ever see anything so huge built entirely in wood? How it has survived one can only imagine.<br />
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Isn't this cart wonderful? Far more sophisticated than the leiter waggons of Transylvania (and the wheels certainly look as though they would give a more comfortable ride), but still a relic of older, simpler times.<br />
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This man had worked out his own way of bringing his goods to market, and wouldn't thank you for offering him a large noisy lorry instead. I remember meeting a stallholder at a French market years ago, when a national strike had immobilised lorries and trucks countrywide. He had simply loaded all his freshly-picked produce on to a trailer like this and cycled it to the village. 'We had to do it during the war,' he said simply, 'and we have not lost the habit.'<br />
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DH was quick on the trigger to catch this picture of two small dogs enjoying their morning fresh air in a special little carriage towed by their loving owners. It's a great idea if you possess a dog that is less nimble than it used to be, isn't it?<br />
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The Vosges were breathtaking, tier after tier of mountains rising to the horizon, all wrapped up in dark green furry blankets of trees. And here life seems almost unchanging.<br />
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The very traditional farmhouse of Alsace/Lorraine keeps everything under one roof. Very convenient in the winter months when the snow piles up all around. No need to struggle through a farmyard: just go through from the main living room into the warm snugness of the barn to do the milking and feed the sheep and poultry. We saw ancient renderings of this type of building everywhere as well as very new ones, showing that the old ways are still considered the best. Sometimes, when one sees over-grandiose mansions built in the countryside here, where cottages formerly stood, one wishes that we had the same belief in the good sense of older styles. Yes, certainly indoor plumbing is a good idea, but pillars, flashy electric gates, seventeen bedrooms? It always looks like a deliberate refusal to admit that our parents were content with simpler ways.<br />
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The farmhouse is uber-practical, but in some of the towns, it was like a big book of fairytales come to life.<br />
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Just look at this tiny triangular turquoise pet, built exactly to fit the point in a lane where the ways divided. Isn't it just made for a hobbit?<br />
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And this old inn, apparently one of the oldest in the world, at Bergheim? It's called Chez Norbert. No, I didn't check if it had indoor plumbing or not.<br />
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DH was going mad with his camera, finding one image after another to capture. See these tiny windows, high up on one of those old houses, each with its own heart-decorated shutter?<br />
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And these Pied Piper of Hamelin houses, leaning confidentially towards each other over narrow laneways? I wanted every single one of them.<br />
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As the day was ending, we found the loveliest surprise of all. A great celebration of the new wine in the village of St Hippolyte - a true fete du vin, where everybody for miles around had come to sit at long tables, sample the dangerously-easy-to-drink new vintage,consume sausages and sauerkraut/ choucroute, and generally have a good time.<br />
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Best of all, there were traditional dancers! Absolutely the one thing I would have chosen to make the day utterly perfect!<br />
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Celtic Memory has a weakness for folk dances. Well does she remember trying to copy the local gypsies somewhere in Transylvania one hot summer night long long ago. And, indeed, dancing the czardas in a production of Coppelia, complete with soft suede kneelength red boots. After these dancers had finished circling and swinging and swaying to the very jolly music, they came down to mingle in the throng and take a rest. I saw one lady who was beautifully dressed and begged her to let me take a closer look. Which she most willingly did.<br />
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The big floppy velvet bow-hat had belonged to her grandmother, she told me, as had the laced top and the very detailed embroidered velvet stomacher which went inside the lacing. She was so proud of it.<br />
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She even showed me the correct pantalettes which went under the bright red skirt. I was delighted! Note to self: make an Irish traditional long red skirt immediately, complete with petticoats, and wear on all possible occasions!<br />
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Having got as far as Alsace/Lorraine, it would have been disgraceful not to get a sight of the mighty Rhine, so onward we went, and crossed that great river next to a gigantic lock system which was feeding five huge barges through at a time. This pic might give you some idea of the vastness of the lock: those boats are but BIG!<br />
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A couple of the barges had little dogs on board: the genuine little schipperke which has been the breed most associated with these canal boats since time immemorial. It was nice to see the tradition being continued in today's vaster world. Can you just see that little chap at the top of the ladder there? I was worried in case he fell in, but his impudent confidence showed that he was well used to a life on the water. As, quite probably, his father, his grandfather and his great grandfather had been.<br />
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Of course we crossed the Rhine. Who wouldn't? And found a wonderful little riverside cafe where ripe chestnuts split their prickly skins and bounced down on to the table as we sat and enjoyed the view.<br />
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Germany spoken this side of the Rhine, French the other. Great fun.<br />
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It was a wonderful trip. Journeying back all the full width of France was a bit of an undertaking, but we got home safely. And the memories will remain. Oh gosh, will they remain!Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-49460311301446816042017-02-01T12:49:00.000+00:002017-02-01T12:56:58.025+00:00Brigit's Day, and the natural world rejoices!<br />
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At last we've reached Feb 1, Imbolc, Brigit's Day, Candlemas, call it what you will. And here in West Cork the animals and birds, not to mention growing green things, seemed to sense it a few days in advance.<br />
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We hadn't seen a single rabbit for months, during all the cold dark wet days from November to January, but two days ago, when we looked out at the field behind the house, little heads were popping up all over the place.<br />
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And there were some wild chases across the grass. Doesn't that look like spring is in the air?<br />
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The first lambs are here too. We usually have them fairly early in the mild climate of West Cork, and I tend to worry if we have cold wet spells. Those little things can't take too much of the chilly damp. Their mothers take good care of them, though, and tucked into that shaggy fleece at night, they must be fairly snug, wouldn't you think?<br />
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The catkins are shaking their delicate cascades of greeny-yellow everywhere,<br />
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and the rushes are springing strong and green for the traditional Brigit's Cross. This is the goddess Bright's day. Imbolc, the beginning of spring, the time that ewes come into milk because their lambs have arrived, hens start laying, crops start growing, and we can all draw breath and look forward to plenty of good healthy food again. Or our ancestors did anyway. We tend to rely on the supermarket year round, but it might not be a bad idea to practise a bit more self-sufficiency now and again, and reflect the different seasons in the food we eat. At Midwinter we follow the tradition of breaking out the supplies to have a small festive celebration of the turning of the year; then it's a lean diet again until spring brings back growth.<br />
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The wild creatures aren't the only ones to be feeling the call of spring. Marigold has taken to leaping wildly up the curtains and hanging there, uttering little cries of delight at the improved view she can get of the garden outside.<br />
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She has also perfected the difficult circus trick of somehow letting go while simultaneously twisting her body so that she can leap to the chair in safety. I just do not know how she manages to shift her weight around like that. Cirque du Soleil, are you looking for a new performer?<br />
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Yes, the knitting continues. Although that Fireside Sweater in the bright blue yarn that I mentioned last time had, alas, to be frogged at an early stage. The combination of thin needles, thick yarn, and exceptionally twisty cables, brought on a painful attack of carpal tunnel syndrome. No help for it but a week away from the needles. (Mind you, it is more than likely that over-use of the mouse at the computer did even more to exacerbate the situation, but typing can't be stopped, unfortunately. It's how I make my living.) Hopefully all will be well before the start of Sock Madness next month. Right now the thought of miniscule needles and fine yarn makes my wrist leap in protest.<br />
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Still, this splendid sideways sweater got done before The Revenge of the Wrist:<br />
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It's the Faro Pullover by Amy Christoffers and I used four strands of a fine Shetland wool. Great fun to make, as you start at one sleeve and work right across (frightening number of stitches when you're doing sleeves, back and front all at the same time, but that stage doesn't last too long, thank heaven). It's a sturdy warm gansey for spring and feels very happy in wearing. I've called mine Hebridean Memories because that seems more appropriate than Faro.<br />
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(Which reminds me: if you fly into Faro, Portugal, do be aware that they have the daftest possible system for motorway payments. You are clocked every time you use a motorway, BUT you can't pay it for several days afterwards because their system doesn't upload it immediately. So if you're heading back to the airport with your rental car, ready to fly home (and it's virtually impossible to avoid the motorway for that) you leave knowing that you haven't paid! The hire car company gets on to you a month or so later, by which time the bill is considerably higher than it should have been. Intelligent, yes? It was a couple of years back that we experienced this, and it was enough to stop us returning. Maybe they have sorted it by now, but it's the kind of thing nobody knows about until it's too late. Portugal, are you reading this?)<br />
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Work on De Next Book proceeds apace. Well, not quite apace. It's not always encouraging weather for exploring ancient roads and tracks in the countryside, but when the day looks like it just might be dry for a few hours, off we head. It isn't simply the wonderful old track that you follow, it's trying to work out why it was there in the first place, where it came from, where it went to, who might have followed it, and what spirits and ghosts of the past might still be there, watching us walk past.<br />
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When the weather really doesn't permit, the time is spent working through old documents, maps, books, searching for clues and hints. Came across those lovely Bee Judgements or <i>Bechbretha</i> from the ancient Brehon Laws last night. I'd almost forgotten them. <br />
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Bees were so important in old Ireland, for the honey they produced/. Sugar, whether from cane or from beet, didn't make an appearance until much later, so honey was prized and every decent householder kept a hive of bees. Do you remember that old custom of Telling The Bees? You had to go out and knock politely on the hive at dusk and tell them of births, deaths, marriages, or other major events. If you didn't, they might just leave, and you would be the poorer.<br />
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The Bee Judgements dealt with every possible situation, from your swarm deciding to move to a neighbour's land, to finding a stray swarm in your own trees. Even the fact that your busy little creatures clearly gathered their nectar from further afield than your garden was taken into account, and neighbours were entitled to a small share each year. As was the local ruler. Apparently milk and honey blended into a warm drink was considered a very pleasant treat indeed. Must try it.<br />
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The old Irish word for a beehive was <i>corcog.</i> Here is a rather decorative little holding skep at the back left, with that twisted wreath on top. You could use that to capture a swarm which you happened upon by the roadside, and then bring it home in triumph. That dear little straw house on the right is for a broody hen to sit on her eggs in peace and quiet. I wanted that henhouse when I first saw it, and I still do. They're made of twisted straw or <i>sugan</i> rope. Must go and hunt up the chap who makes them. And isn't it time one learned how to make baskets properly? Check out courses.<br />
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We are also hunting down old standing stones and especially those with ogham writing on them. Ogham is the oldest form of writing we have, but it isn't the kind you would choose for writing a passionate love poem. It's more for chiselling the bare facts on an extremely hard surface. <i> Cuchulainn Wuz 'Ere</i>, rather than, <i>I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree....</i><br />
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Some of the most magnificent ogham stones are sheltered within the wonderful Stone Corridor at Cor University. I loved that corridor when I was an undergraduate, I still do now. The behaviour of those who removed these stones from their original settings and brought them here might be questioned; but their motives were surely worthy. They wanted to make sure that they were protected for future generations, not knocked down by developers or utilised as gateposts.<br />
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If you ever find yourself in Cork, go and admire these. Or, rather, stand quietly among them at dusk (it's always dusk in there, on the sunniest day anyway). They speak to you.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-67758687071912348872016-12-31T20:15:00.000+00:002016-12-31T20:26:32.929+00:00In Which The Year Turns, Troushka Tidies Up (Again) and Tamzin Takes a Dip<br />
It seems no time at all since we were enjoying the autumn in all its lovely manifestations:<br />
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but one morning you wake up to hear the throaty echoing calls of the wild geese, and you know that winter is here.<br />
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The greylags have arrived from northern climes and will stay near us for the winter. It's nice to hear them flying over in the early morning on their way to grazing grounds. Soon they will be joined by the wild swans. To birds that spent the summer in the far north, Ireland must seem like Florida at this season!<br />
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Everywhere the birds and animals are checking out supplies for the dark months. This fox was busy exploring a log pile and some discarded household items near a local garage. He is clearly well used to taking chances (although not <i>that </i>much of a chance - this picture required quite a long lens).<br />
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With the coming of the colder days, the cats show different tastes. Paudge Mogeely likes to be out of doors even on a frosty morning,</div>
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while Polliwog prefers to pose elegantly indoors.<br />
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Marigold enjoys watching a bit of television. Here she is predicting which stag will win the face-off.<br />
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Otherwise she takes it very easy indeed. Here's a test for you. In the midst of all this festive preparation, can you spot a small marmalade kitten-cat?<br />
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No, neither could I, when DH showed me the picture. Here is a close-up.<br />
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Is that comfortable or what? She likes the sheepskin. Nearly as much as the dinner gong.<br />
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Troushka is an energetic little dog and grabs life with all four paws. This, it has to be admitted, can make her less than presentable at times. Think wet muddy pathways, tempting streams, unspeakable bones buried and retrieved several times... eventually, we had to yield to the inevitable and place her in the hands of the professionals. Again. You will remember that she had a nice trim and brush-up only a few months ago. Look at what faced the groomer this time!<br />
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<i>Har har! I enjoy life, I do! Whaddya bring me here for, by the way? A bone, hopefully.</i></div>
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<i>Oh for Pete's sake! Who put this danged perfume on me?</i></div>
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Those of you of a tender heart, be assured that she recovered her sense of humour quite quickly. And no, we made sure she didn't feel cold for the few days it took her to adjust. She won't stay long like this, more's the pity!</div>
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Here is the usual morning view from the house. 'Red sky at morning, the shepherd's warning'; is the old saying, but occasionally it brings us a clear sunny day. When it does, we grab boots and coats and head for the hills.<br />
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Never get tired of the Upper Lake above Killarney. In summer the boatmen row their customers up here and on to Lord Brandon's Cottage, but in winter it's deserted. Except for us. That's Eagle Rock just across the water there.<br />
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Even in winter, this view down over the lakes is breathtaking. If you just visited Killarney town you would have no idea of all this beauty waiting outside in the hills. In there, it's all souvenirs and knick-knacks and tourist shops. Out here you realise what has been bringing visitors for centuries.<br />
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Tamzin managed to fall into the lake. She can be a bit daft like that. But a good shake cheered her up and we ran her along the sandy little beach until she was warm and happy.<br />
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Of course there has been a great deal of knitting and other frantic preparation for the festive season. <br />
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This little fisherman's gansey (also known, rather delightfully, as the Peedie Orcadian, the term 'peedie' meaning small), was for my little grand-nephew, now all of two years old. I made it a little larger than required, to allow for the inevitable growth over the next few months. At that age you turn your back and they're six inches higher!<br />
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And this was a fine cobweb stole in tuck-stitch, using a silky grey yarn with touches of gold and silver. Worked that on the good old Brother KH230 knitting machine and though it took a bit of time, it was done far quicker than if I'd essayed it by hand.<br />
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Now hear this. Celtic Memory IS NOT GOING TO MAKE ONE MORE SHAWL. NOT A SINGLE ONE. I mean, how many shawls can you wear, for heaven's sake? A new design turns up on Ravelry, utterly irresistible, I rush for the needles, choose a yarn from the hefty stash, and start off. And then, after a few rows, I catch sight of the innumerable shawls, scarves, stoles, draped all over the place, and wonder what the heck I'm doing.<br />
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Of course if a friend wants a shawl specially, then it will be made with all possible speed, but for myself, no. Only something I actually need and will wear constantly. Right?<br />
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Er.... I think, anyway.<br />
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It's New Year's Eve. Heaven alone knows what 2017 will bring, but chez Celtic Memory we are making lively preparations to ensure that it is busy and happy. (Now what makes you think that means a shiny new knitting project? Why on earth should you think that? 'Cause we know you too well,' comes the triumphant chorus...)<br />
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OK, I'll admit it. The ending of an old year and the beginning of a new one just sort of did seem the right time to start something fresh. Well, doesn't it to you? But not just a single new project. Oh no.<br />
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Here is the plan. Look at it carefully.<br />
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Let's take the top layer first. On the left, a cone of beautiful purple/blue wool, sourced from Texere Yarns in Bradford years ago. I love the yarn, I love the colour, I started several projects with it at different times, but always frogged them in the end. Nothing was quite right. <br />
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On the right, a big fat cone of stunning bright blue lambswool (colourway Matisse) grabbed as a one-off from Fairfield Yarns in Rochdale, UK. Wonderful. <br />
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Now either of these is a little thin for my liking at this time of year when what is desired is a quick fun project. But put them together... and you get that nice fat yarn ball in the centre. Combines all the qualities of both and makes for a subtly new colour.<br />
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Planning to make the <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/chimney-fire">Chimney Fire </a>cabled jacket - if you're on Ravelry, you can look it up. If you aren't on Ravelry, why not? Maybe New Year's Eve is <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/">the time to join?</a><br />
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Now to the bottom layer. A rather battered and heavy box, in two sections. I'm showing it to you now, in this less than attractive state, because the next time you see it, it will be very different. This is the beginning of a sort of doll's house with a difference. A few years back, my dear friend Lene (she of <a href="https://lenealve.blogspot.ie/">Dances With Wool</a>) and I were sitting in her house up in the Arctic Circle and, over our festive hot chocolate, she confided her secret desire to create a lovely doll's house in which she made every single thing - tiny rugs, cushions, curtains, furniture, everything. Immediately I wanted to do the same - but my idea is to make one of those old-fashioned farms where the people live at one side, and the cattle next door. One side will have an inglenook fireplace and perhaps an upstairs half-floor with truckle beds. The other will have stalls for cattle, an upstairs loft for storing the hay, and all kinds of farming things. Imagine making tiny forks and rakes and buckets? Miniature afghans for the settle (that's a wooden high-backed bench that can convert into a bed at night)? This is going to be so much fun.<br />
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(Incidentally, I took a look online last night in bed, when I couldn't sleep for wondering how you made a miniature inglenook, and discovered that I'm not exactly the first person to get enthusiastic about making these little homes. Thousands of passionate aficionados out there already! But I bet they won't have miniscule socks hanging over the fireplace...)<br />
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Speaking of fireplaces, and indeed socks,, here are two happy little Pippi Longstockings who have come to live with us. I saw them in a shop, when there with a friend, and couldn't resist one. Went back the next day to buy the other, after agonising all night because I thought they would be lonely when separated. Alas, sister had gone. Sad.<br />
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BUT - on the Solstice, Dec 21, what was tucked into my mailbox? Yes, the twin sister. My friend Eileen, who knows me better than I know myself, had gone straight back and got the other, so that they wouldn't be separated/. What a girl.<br />
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May 2017 bring all the good things that you hope for, and fewer of those that you might fear. I do believe that if we all work hard at doing happy, useful projects, whatever they be, we can keep a warm and firm girdle of safety around the world. Join me!Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-16880521435383839272016-10-31T18:57:00.001+00:002016-10-31T18:57:42.596+00:00At The Turning of the Celtic YearWould you believe it's Samhain already and more than high time we caught up on things here. Can't believe it's June since the last posting, but things have been fairly busy chez Celtic Memory with the whole summer given over to chasing locations and pictures for De Nextest Book.<br />
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What the publishers needed urgently was a more or less complete chapter complete with images, so that they could start designing an overall look. As you will perhaps know already, the theme of the new book is Finding The Old Road - that is, rediscovering the ways and means our ancestors used when they travelled. Anything but the modern road in fact - from rivers to trackways, canals to railways, bog roads to butter roads, and how you can still find the traces of these old ways in the countryside if you take the trouble to go searching.<br />
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Canals were the chosen topic for the sample chapter and it took more than one trip up and around the country before DH was satisfied that he had nearly enough pictures (he'll never be completely satisfied, and I'd be worried if he were!)<br />
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Here is a peaceful moment on the Leinster Aqueduct where it crosses the River Liffey near Sallins. Petroushka and Tamzin are exchanging pleasantries with another rambling dog. <br />
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And here are some tranquil barges not far away. Doesn't it look like a wonderfully slow and relaxing way to travel? We've got so used to the jet age that it would probably take quite an effort to slow our pulses down to the stage where we would actually enjoy being able to look at blades of grass while we journeyed along!<br />
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Now this is somewhere for which we'd been searching - Lock 13 on the Royal Canal. It's not always a simple matter to find a particular lock because our road system has expanded somewhat since the late 18th century and what was once the watery main thoroughfare is now a backwater indeed. But we got there - probably not as quickly as that cyclist who had come the sensible way, along the towpath.<br />
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Wanted to find the 13th lock because it is reputed to be haunted, and this being Samhain, one should mention it, don't you think? A long long time ago, there was a dreadful accident here and many people were drowned. To this day (or night, to be accurate) it is said that you can still hear the cries and groans of those who were lost, and boatmen will never willingly tie up near here during the darker hours.<br />
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This is the lock itself, and, as luck would have it, a train was passing at just the right moment. When the railway came to Ireland, the Great Western decided it would make a lot of sense to buy up the entire Royal Canal route and thus save itself a lot of trouble by using the already laid-down towpath for its tracks. And so train and canal run side by side from Dublin all the way to Mullingar. What's that? Is the railway haunted too? Well, it has been whispered that a ghost train can be heard along this stretch by the 13th lock at certain times of the year. Now I don't know if that's true or not, since I haven't heard it - the only one of which I know is the Loo Bridge ghost train which definitely can be heard whistling along the lonely valley to Kenmare on a track which fell into disuse some sixty years ago. Maybe one of you should watch by this lock one night soon?<br />
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<i>'Don't you do no such a thing!'</i> shrieked this little kitten who suddenly and unexpectedly appeared by the side of the lock. He must have come from one of the old tumbledown and heavily overgrown lockside buildings but did it very silently if that was the case. He pattered up and down, being most civil but keeping a careful distance, and you could definitely hear the warning in his voice.<br />
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<i>'Don't go next or nigh that lock, nor yet that railway line! Strange things do happen here at night now that the year is changing. I do tuck myself into my snug nest and put my paws over my ears I do when I hear the clanging of that bell and the whistle of that train where no train should be at midnight! Steam and puffing and the like, it's no place for a sensible cat to be!'</i><br />
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Yes, of course I went rushing to the nearest house to enquire if the kitten had a good home. 'I don't know exactly who owns him,' said the friendly woman, 'but he's well fed, that I do know.' And with that I had to be reassured. (In the interests of strict truth, it should be added that DH was much relieved.) That's the trouble of being a cat lover, though. You can't bear to think of one left out in the cold, can you?<br />
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No risk of that with Polliwog and Marigold. They commandeer the most comfortable chair by the fire even before the curtains are drawn these darker evenings.<br />
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And Paudge Mogeely (seen here in summer mood) always curls up with his best friend Tamzin at night.<br />
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Speaking of Tamzin and indeed Petroushka, they have had some good gallops on deserted beaches during our roamings.<br />
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They circle and chase and generally run about three times the distance that I walk when we're down on the shore, and then collapse in the car to catch their breath before the next stop.<br />
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<i>Troushka wuz 'ere!</i></div>
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Tamzin got so hot and tired on one run that she simply collapsed into a nice shallow pool and lay there cooling down pleasantly.<br />
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So woolly and untidy had 'Troushka become, though, during the summer that a Visit to the Groomer was indicated. I was rather worried about her, but needn't have been. She enjoyed herself thoroughly.<br />
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Will you look at that smug little smoothie, accepting cuddles from her groomer as if we didn't exist!<br />
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Oh and here is something we discovered only today on the outskirts of Bandon. <br />
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Well it's been there some time - since the early 19th century in fact - but its history is what is fascinating. Just behind that bridge is the back gate or tradesmen's entrance to the old estate of Castle Bernard, erstwhile home of the Earls of Bandon. Horses and carts, servants in search of a place, delivery men, anybody who wasn't anybody important, went in by the back gate. When the railway came to Bandon, it emerged from the town on its way to Clonakilty Junction just across the road from this bridge - behind where DH stood to take the picture. Now any lord of the manor traditionally had the right to request the train to stop at his estate if he so required, and the Earls of Bandon exercised this right, whether for themselves, their friends, or even their horses. And so the elegant upper classes would be driven down to the back gate (you would hardly expect them to walk!) and board the train here, a servant having been sent to the main station in advance to advise of this request stop. Isn't that fun?<br />
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Enough. It's Samhain. A pot of spiced apple butter is simmering on the woodstove. The apples this year were plentiful indeed - so much so that I began to wish they weren't quite so productive!<br />
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Every morning, we got into the habit of taking a basket down to the orchard to gather the windfalls. Too many, but you can't just leave them there, can you?<br />
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I celebrated the colours of autumn by making a rather nice tuck-stitch scarf for a friend on the knitting machine. <br />
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It's Zauberball as I recall - perfect fall shades.<br />
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The blackbirds have been busy on the rowans which protect our boundaries along with the apple trees.<br />
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And the Samhain wreath is on the front door, complete with crab apples and berries, and Julian, my pet bat, named for the little town up in the California mountains where I bought him years ago.<br />
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Close the old Celtic year with a glass of something spiced and warming, and make your plans for the year ahead. Blessings of the season be with you all.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-82750842564326714612016-06-05T13:17:00.000+01:002016-06-05T13:49:35.152+01:00The Way We Used To Travel<span style="font-size: large;">It's not usually this way round. Normally in early June, Europe is basking in summer sunshine while we in Ireland keep the raincoats and Aran sweaters handy. This year, however, we have been blessed with the most wonderful weather - wall to wall sunshine, clear blue skies, and everything that was held back by the long grey winter and long grey spring now bursting into life. And in stark contrast, Europe is having appalling climatic conditions, with floods everywhere, even Paris.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The good weather won't last here, of course. Can't do. But the rule is, if it's there, grab the opportunity. And that is exactly what we have been doing over this last few days. Confided the zoo to the tender hands of best friend's kennels, and set off early one morning for points north west. The aim was to gather images for De Nextest Book. Yes, happy news. The publishers loved the idea and after a hectic couple of months doing a full draft chapter for their consideration, we got the go-ahead. The working title is Follow The Old Road - that is, don't stay on the nice fast motorway or main thoroughfare, but take that tempting turning, wend your way along old laneways and see what you discover. More, take another look at harbours, rivers, old disused railway lines, canals, tracks winding over hilltops. Find out how our ancestors travelled and catch an echo of their history.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We visited sleepy hamlets like Shannon Harbour where once the Grand Canal ended its journey from far-flung Dublin. Now it's a tiny place, peaceful and quiet, but once it was thronged with travellers going to and from the capital city, bustling with trade, and with stage coaches arriving and departing several times a day. Further upriver is Shannon Bridge with its magnificent arches and a whacking great fort built in the early 19thc when invasion of England by Napoleon via Ireland was a very real threat to the Crown.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PeuAG9lbho8/V1QCvblUMaI/AAAAAAAABKk/o-42ch3xYMEd3WtopO_xSMUENIVY2aHHgCLcB/s1600/Shannonbridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PeuAG9lbho8/V1QCvblUMaI/AAAAAAAABKk/o-42ch3xYMEd3WtopO_xSMUENIVY2aHHgCLcB/s320/Shannonbridge.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You can see the fort across the river there. It's a renowned restaurant now - Parker's, I think. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Shannon Bridge has long been a major crossing point, because it is here that one of the old roads of Ireland, the Esker Riada or Sli Mor, intersects with the great river. No accident that Clonmacnoise was established here when Christianity came to Ireland. It's very likely that somewhere as powerful as a crossroads of big river and big road would have been important from time immemorial. Where the old places of strength remained, Christianity was swift to take over. Part of the Esker Riada - an esker, as I am sure you know, is a natural raised ridge of gravel left behind after the Ice Age - is now known as the Pilgrim Road to Clonamacnoise, but it's been in use a lot longer than that.</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iVQkQrPKDSM/V1QC4Z7qE7I/AAAAAAAABNI/u-0-TGuC-RcvphzGgl6CMfg5YrQLPMUYgCKgB/s1600/Clonmacnoise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iVQkQrPKDSM/V1QC4Z7qE7I/AAAAAAAABNI/u-0-TGuC-RcvphzGgl6CMfg5YrQLPMUYgCKgB/s320/Clonmacnoise.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's only when you really think about these places along the Shannon, that you realise what an important part they played in everyday life. Here is the shortest or shallowest crossing place. Here is where the canal joined the river and barges from the Midlands or Dublin could travel down to Limerick or further up the main river itself. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vu1h2kOQln4/V1QDKjUmksI/AAAAAAAABNM/ETLGU7zCyj4RyRflk35buOXUZeS4t5J9wCKgB/s1600/Termonbarry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vu1h2kOQln4/V1QDKjUmksI/AAAAAAAABNM/ETLGU7zCyj4RyRflk35buOXUZeS4t5J9wCKgB/s320/Termonbarry.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is Termonbarry, where the Royal Canal runs into the Shannon (yes, two opposing companies built the Grand and the Royal, both from Dublin to the Shannon, both aiming to corner the market). If you go down to the canal pathway underneath the little humpbacked bridges, where once horses pulled the barges through, you can see the grooves of their pulling ropes worn into the stonework over years. The ducks still paddle on the quiet waters, the flowers still grow on the banks, but the horses have gone. Leisure boats now enjoy the canals where once major industry flourished, wealthy people travelled to visit friends, and emigrants took the first steps towards a new life across the sea..</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rAixghcv5Og/V1QC930wkVI/AAAAAAAABLo/6hXnWhqVnmMd2hrlzhmSvyWdBhnjhJgaACKgB/s1600/Jo%2Band%2BOliver%2BG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rAixghcv5Og/V1QC930wkVI/AAAAAAAABLo/6hXnWhqVnmMd2hrlzhmSvyWdBhnjhJgaACKgB/s320/Jo%2Band%2BOliver%2BG.jpg" width="226" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Met up with an old favourite of mine in Ballymahon. Oliver Goldsmith's Deserted Village was one of the earliest poems I learned by heart (must have been about four). He left his native land to seek fame and fortune in London and create classics like She Stoops to Conquer and The Vicar of Wakefield. Myself, I think The Deserted Village is based half on the landscapes he knew as a child, and half on English hamlets that he saw later on in life. There is much of both cultures in the poem.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iv_huehFQJY/V1QDMzSHcHI/AAAAAAAABNM/mwr2-fByvpck2iu06UT8kIC-0yWJe6lRwCKgB/s1600/Turf%2Bstooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iv_huehFQJY/V1QDMzSHcHI/AAAAAAAABNM/mwr2-fByvpck2iu06UT8kIC-0yWJe6lRwCKgB/s320/Turf%2Bstooks.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The fine weather had brought country families out to stack - or 'stook' - their turf so that the warm wind could blow through it and dry it thoroughly before they brought it home to build a rick in the yard against the winter wet and cold. It was interesting to see that up here in the midlands they stacked them two or three at a time crossways, and upwards. In West Cork they tend to lean four or five together with their tops touching.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bogs and bogland were very much on the agenda for us because I was fulfilling a long-held ambition to visit one of the most exciting places possible - somewhere you could actually reach out and touch the far distant past.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i6Lirds92m0/V1QC5sDjdAI/AAAAAAAABNI/1bXMix8JkRcXfhHBHIvrgYoARpTJbPltQCKgB/s1600/Corlea%2Bbog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i6Lirds92m0/V1QC5sDjdAI/AAAAAAAABNI/1bXMix8JkRcXfhHBHIvrgYoARpTJbPltQCKgB/s320/Corlea%2Bbog.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is a stretch of genuine Irish bogland which has been part-cleared by the Irish Turf Board (Bord na Mona). It's very close to where we were headed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And this is what I had waited a long time to see. It's indoors, it's kept in the dark most of the time, access is controlled. But that's only fitting for a building project that dates from 146 BC. Yes, 146 BC. That's when somebody with considerable clout directed that a massive trackway should be built right across Corlea Bog, a place already well known to people of the time as a dangerous and difficult terrain. Not only that, but this powerful leader dictated that the trackway should be wide enough for wheeled traffic, and should be built not of just any wood, but the very best oak. That meant felling one heck of a lot of trees protected by the Irish laws of the time. We always treasured our trees, and the old Brehon Laws lay down the fines and punishments for damaging any of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the Corlea Trackway was built, very speedily, over one winter. Dendrochronology has established that fairly firmly. Now what could have been the purpose, the need, the overall guiding impulse? The site is very close to one of the narrowest crossing points of the Shannon, and directly in line between Rathcroghan, palace of Queen Maeve, and the Hill of Uisneach, the ancient ceremonial centre of Ireland. Was it required for a particular state occasion? For a war? We just don't know. Not yet anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is more of the Corlea ancient road to be discovered. Fortunately the OPW (Office of Public Works) was able to buy some more privately-owned bogland beyond this, and that is being preserved until funding can be secured to do some more archaeological work. Because getting this stretch of it to the state you can see above was extremely expensive. Thanks be we had a visionary government at the time, back in the 1980s, which realised the stupendous importance of the chance find during turf cutting. Dating it back as far as the Iron Age meant it was far earlier than anyone could have imagined. Old bog roads or 'toghers', made of wood and brush, are common enough around the country, as you'd expect with so much soggy land, but usually they were made for local purposes, to enable farmers to reach their fields, or the occasional traveller to continue his journey without a major detour. Something of the size and quality of Corlea, though, was previously unknown here. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What is really exciting too is a reference in the ancient Irish tale, The Wooing of Etain, where Midir is set what seems to be an impossible task of bridging just such a slough,, for which he calls upon Otherworld help:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>No one had ever trodden that bog before... Into the bottom of the causeway they kept putting a forest with its trunks and roots, Midir standing and urging on the host on every side. One would think that below him all the men of the world were raising a tumult. After that, clay and gravel and stones were placed upon the bog. Thereafter the steward came to Eochaid and brought tidings of the vast work he had witnessed, and he said there was not on the ridge of the world a magic power that surpassed it.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is little doubt that it is the Corlea trackway enshrined here in the legend, carried down from generation to generation through folk memory. I can tell you, we went away from there full of excitement and energy. What was it built for? Why, as seems apparent, was it not used for very long? What were the actual circumstances? Oh to go back to that time, just for an hour or two...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">[Lookit, I don't know why the text has changed size, ok? I've tried to edit it over and over, but it's in a sulk since I quoted that ancient legend. Maybe it's trying to tell me something...?]</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But we were travelling on, upwards and westwards towards the route of an old railway which once linked remote Achill Island to the rest of Ireland. Disused for over 75 years, the track has now been given a new lease of life as the Great Western Greenway, a wonderful walking and cycling route across stunning scenery all the way from bustling Westport to beautiful Achill Sound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the background you can see the lovely old arches of Burrishoole Bridge.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--imx0JwNYV4/V1QDAnCH5jI/AAAAAAAABNM/cEFshDdPbI4wJkQO8aOkqEQxTqITHrA9ACKgB/s1600/Jo%2Bfeeding%2Bhorses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--imx0JwNYV4/V1QDAnCH5jI/AAAAAAAABNM/cEFshDdPbI4wJkQO8aOkqEQxTqITHrA9ACKgB/s320/Jo%2Bfeeding%2Bhorses.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Horses lean over the fence to pass the time of day, a constant temptation to cyclists to take a rest and enjoy the view.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jsQcRyorNaE/V1QDBw42D1I/AAAAAAAABNM/51Sc3bXaGGo2-6Vy-c-8Zd5g64yAlu4XwCKgB/s1600/Mulranny%2Brailway%2Bstation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jsQcRyorNaE/V1QDBw42D1I/AAAAAAAABNM/51Sc3bXaGGo2-6Vy-c-8Zd5g64yAlu4XwCKgB/s320/Mulranny%2Brailway%2Bstation.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is the old railway station at Mulrany. The Great Western Hotel here was the most luxurious place to stay for those who could afford it back in the late 19th and early 20th century. The hotel is still there, still luxurious, but its clientele now arrives by car.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ua1lxCNXnY0/V1QC2n3krcI/AAAAAAAABNI/ewYBCn9U6Zkvgr9dzzoFlZ3aLiVbuxxpwCKgB/s1600/Achill%2BAtlantic%2Bdrive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ua1lxCNXnY0/V1QC2n3krcI/AAAAAAAABNI/ewYBCn9U6Zkvgr9dzzoFlZ3aLiVbuxxpwCKgB/s320/Achill%2BAtlantic%2Bdrive.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Achill Island is one of those spectacularly beautiful places that turns your heart upside down. Hard enough for those trying to wrest a living from the poor soil back in the 19th century, but an oasis for visitors today.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uUDI8t8ElmQ/V1QDNAgyjVI/AAAAAAAABNM/0TFBbgz1I_UM_3JwG53ugBx5up3Kipc8QCKgB/s1600/Wheatear%2Bfeeding%2Byoung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uUDI8t8ElmQ/V1QDNAgyjVI/AAAAAAAABNM/0TFBbgz1I_UM_3JwG53ugBx5up3Kipc8QCKgB/s320/Wheatear%2Bfeeding%2Byoung.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And also the ideal place to bring up your family if you happen to be a wheatear with hungry mouths to feed during the long summer days.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4SZXN4HJe7M/V1QC7OoHWCI/AAAAAAAABNI/OTmO2km_TbYybxAeSzzIJ63I8Pc1R9ikwCKgB/s1600/Grainne%2527s%2Bcastle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4SZXN4HJe7M/V1QC7OoHWCI/AAAAAAAABNI/OTmO2km_TbYybxAeSzzIJ63I8Pc1R9ikwCKgB/s320/Grainne%2527s%2Bcastle.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Know who used to live here? Granuaile, or Grace O'Malley, the pirate queen of the West. Not so much a pirate really, our Grace, more of a highly practical local chieftain who didn't see why strange ships loaded with good things should be allowed to pass through her territory without paying allegiance and a small fee. Granuaile is the one who, when the English tried to take her lands away, travelled all the way to London and bearded Queen Elizabeth I in her state chambers to argue her case. (She got her way of course - even the tough Elizabeth hadn't met anyone quite like Grania before.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The terminus of the Great Western was here, at Achill Sound, where travellers disembarked to cross to the island and met with poor emigrants headed in the opposite direction. It's a hostel now, and you'd have to listen with the ear of faith to hear to long-gone sound of train whistles and long-ago voices. Where the tracks used to run is at this time of year a mass of orchids, blooming happily in a sheltered spot below the level of the sea winds.</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9NJTvf-Xpk/V1QDKqciOcI/AAAAAAAABNM/DUGiG7UKMAYxaIlvIGOQ5FJNoq6GFeEfQCKgB/s1600/Sox%2Bspot%2Bburnet%2Bmoths%2Bon%2Bmarsh%2Borchid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9NJTvf-Xpk/V1QDKqciOcI/AAAAAAAABNM/DUGiG7UKMAYxaIlvIGOQ5FJNoq6GFeEfQCKgB/s320/Sox%2Bspot%2Bburnet%2Bmoths%2Bon%2Bmarsh%2Borchid.jpg" width="203" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">See the six-spot burnet moths on this orchid? One way of life gives place to another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was a wonderful few days, with so many things that fired the mind and got the creative urge working overtime. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, of course the knitting came too. This is Killaloe/Ballina (one town each side of the Shannon) down nearer to Limerick on the way home. My maternal grandfather was born near here so it was nice to sit on the wall in the sunshine and relax. I'm working on an exceptionally complex pair of twisted-stitch socks by <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/designers/caoua-coffee">Caoua Coffee</a> for Sock Madness on Ravelry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here they are in closeup. The cuffs weren't too difficult, but one suspects that the main chart (which looks like a plan for a moon landing1) will require constant and unremitting attention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, speaking of knitting, there was some more fun recently, when the Fruity Knitting Podcast asked for a short video on my work and where I lived. I was honoured and DH was willing to do the technical stuff, so we chose a nice location overlooking the sea in West Cork. After that, Andrea and Andrew did miracles with the clip, even sorting out the sound of the sea breeze, which was surprisingly loud!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You can see the podcast on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cM_LYrExx6A">Fruity Knitting</a>. It's a fairly lengthy episode (the work those two put into it is amazing!) but I come in at around 19.5 mins into the piece.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is one picture you won't see on the podcast. 'Troushka ran off along the beach in pursuit of another dog and flatly refused to return to the car. In the end, the only way to restrain her was to take off my exquisitely handcrafted Boo Knits lace shawl and use it as a temporary leash! I have to say the silk (and the lacework) survived the ordeal very well. As did 'Troushka, who never holds grudges, bless her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Plenty of work to be done in the months ahead. O'Brien Press are hoping to see a (fairly) completed manuscript by the early autumn and we all know how quickly the weeks and months slip by. Back to the grindstone!</span></div>
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Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-29618945162647455212015-12-31T19:24:00.003+00:002015-12-31T19:29:18.960+00:00Of Savage Shreddings, Seasonal Storms, and Secret Searchings<span style="font-size: large;">At this time of year, there is always a great deal of crafting and planning and packaging and general kerfuffle as we create gifts that we hope the recipients will love. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tAnOI-T6YkU/VoV4EEnwOsI/AAAAAAAABHU/SJrW86KuKCw/s1600/Donkey%2Bwith%2Bcats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tAnOI-T6YkU/VoV4EEnwOsI/AAAAAAAABHU/SJrW86KuKCw/s320/Donkey%2Bwith%2Bcats.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This donkey took a surprisingly long time to make and swallowed so much stuffing you wouldn't believe it. I didn't want to make him too hard and solid, because he was intended for a very small little boy, but he was still greedy for more and more filling, no matter how much I crammed in. Polliwog and Paudge Mogeely reserved their opinion on him, and positively encouraged me to get to the post office with the bulky package at the earliest possible convenience.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EoXt0CwTn00/VoV4JjSHnLI/AAAAAAAABHc/pLy8jcO8b_Q/s1600/Scarlet%2Bshawl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EoXt0CwTn00/VoV4JjSHnLI/AAAAAAAABHc/pLy8jcO8b_Q/s320/Scarlet%2Bshawl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once Mr Donkey had headed off, it was time to complete this scarlet shawl (it's Shaelyn, if you're looking for the pattern) in a fine mohair blend. I was beginning to worry that I wouldn't have enough yarn to finish the bind off, and just look at the few inches surplus, down there on the left hand side! That was finished on a wing and a prayer. It was sent off to a dear friend on whom it will look spectacular. She has promised to send me a picture of herself wearing it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then, it being December, there was the very pleasant annual ritual of the Advent Scarf. Every year a large number of us around the globe get together to knit this scarf which is different every year. A new clue is sent out each morning. The idea is that you spend a little time </span><span style="font-size: large;">in a peaceful way, knitting on that day's section and relaxing before real life butts in. It's designed and run by patient and hardworking moderator Zemy, who is always understanding of panics and problems and there to help.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But she couldn't help with this one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is my scarf, after Day 2 was completed.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WKnd0vuks9c/VoV3l4VW3YI/AAAAAAAABHA/nU0WS_r8aJo/s1600/Advent%2Bscarf%2B2015%2Bday%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WKnd0vuks9c/VoV3l4VW3YI/AAAAAAAABHA/nU0WS_r8aJo/s320/Advent%2Bscarf%2B2015%2Bday%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">You can see Estonian lace patterns on either side, and a cable shaping up in the middle. It's beginning to look really beautiful, isn't it? I had done a provisional cast-on, so that I could join both ends of the finished piece neatly, and have a looped infinity scarf to show off at Christmas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I reckoned without this devilish little fiend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, angelic little Marigold Rusalka. I should have anticipated what was coming when I saw her sitting on the banister above the daily calendar, clearly waiting for the knitalong to start. But I was busy. Too much to think about, too much to do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Each morning, after I had finished, I rolled the knitting up in its bag and then, for safety, put the bag under some books. Should be safe there, I thought.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I came down from my study that second evening to find a ghastly sight spread across the floor of the living room. No, I don't have photographs. It was too awful a situation. The yarn, I should perhaps mention, was a very rare and beautiful cashmere/silk blend in softest cream. I had a big squishy ball of it, carefully wound. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Or rather I had had. Now it was a wild and widespread tangle of loops and knots and exuberant weaving experiments, around the legs of chairs and tables, in and out, round and about. And dearest little Marigold lay contentedly on top.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some of us become stronger through challenges like this. I didn't. I lifted the kitten off and put her elsewhere. Then I gathered up the untidy chewed heap and put it back in the bag (somehow it took a lot more room than before. The wooden circular needle showed quite a few needle teeth marks too). Put it upstairs and shoved all thoughts of Advent knitalongs firmly from my mind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But you can't leave a yarn like that betrayed and forlorn and forgotten. So I had to face it again, take it from the bag and spread it out (yes, in another room, far from Marigold, indeed from any of the zoo). It took three full days to unwind and untangle that yarn (miraculously there was only one actual chewed break - the silk must have been stronger than I thought.) It was carefully rewound into a skein and given a very gentle bath, then hung in a quiet place to dry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the heart of the project was gone, the joy, the anticipation. Just couldn't face starting all over again. And by now, everybody else was weeks ahead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But then, one morning (it happened to be my parents' wedding anniversary which I always remember because they got married in December and went skiing in Switzerland for their honeymoon, which was quite daring at the time), I saw that the newest knit clue had dropped into my mailbox and half-heartedly I clicked on it, thinking that I really should explain to the others why I hadn't been around on the chat site lately.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And it so happened that that day's pattern incorporated a delicate little lace design known as Lingonberry. Now I adore lingonberries. Some of my happiest memories are of sitting in a cosy restaurant in Finland enjoying reindeer stew with lingonberries. And I wondered if, after all, it might be possible to get back into the knitalong and pay homage to lingonberries at the same time. So that's what I did. The new scarf is far simpler, being just the graceful lingonberry design rather than the spectacular sampler, but I was at least knitting along with everybody else, which was what mattered.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LwIKeUaqTms/VoV37qRJMfI/AAAAAAAABHQ/VAbEzuMFJCE/s1600/Kitten%2Bon%2Bshawl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LwIKeUaqTms/VoV37qRJMfI/AAAAAAAABHQ/VAbEzuMFJCE/s320/Kitten%2Bon%2Bshawl.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here it is so far, with SuperBrat being told to promise faithfully never to meddle with it again, and looking at me with those insolent golden eyes that say 'Is it kidding me, you are?'</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You might not be aware of it, but we have had the stormiest, windiest, wettest December on record in Ireland. Every night we have gone to bed to the sound of shrieking winds, and every morning woken to rain lashing at the windows. Fortunately Celtic Memory's home is on a hill, so flooding has not been a problem, but so many people around the country have been suffering that it breaks your heart. Imagine getting ready for Christmas and then having floodwater rush through your home, sweeping away all your preparations? Imagine having to leave your precious home and all the security it once promised, to huddle in a community hall? And we have so many farmers who have been desperately trying to save their cattle and sheep and horses and somehow find shelter and feed for them. As of tonight, the forecasters can't see any end in sight. All they can say is that it's likely to continue for another two or three weeks. Ireland is well used to acting as a sponge for rain, but no land can take this much. There are parts of the world, clearly, which are not getting this water, and who need it just as badly as we want it to stop. Wish I could organise it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But yesterday was a brief, wonderful break, with strong cold winds but a clear blue sky. And we rushed out to get some air, some exercise, and give the youngest dog, Petroushka, a reminder that yes, there were beaches and gallops and fun to be had in the world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Only a few miles from home we were warned to stop in our tracks by this friendly man in gum boots. Try a side road, he suggested. Straight ahead of you, it's a lake for miles. So we did, and managed to struggle through that particular inundation in a foot or two of water.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Down by Crookhaven, the sea was dashing on the rocks and roaring among the bays. Definitely not a day for paddling, but it was wonderful to breathe salty fresh air again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And 'Troushka loved every minute of it, scrabbling over stones, leaping rock pools, sampling the seawater and remembering belatedly that it wasn't a good idea, and generally being a happy dog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The high winds had brought in some rare birds to our shores too. Last month we saw an American bittern near Castlefreke, and yesterday we had the privilege of close contact with some splendid glossy ibises who must have been blown across from Florida.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GX9wLzpGQ8A/VoV3juQILJI/AAAAAAAABG4/KGUue6SjIqI/s1600/Glossy%2Bibis-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GX9wLzpGQ8A/VoV3juQILJI/AAAAAAAABG4/KGUue6SjIqI/s320/Glossy%2Bibis-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I hope this bird and his companions have a happy time here, feeding up and relaxing. And that, perhaps, they stay awhile. If there are enough of them, maybe they'll decide to settle in West Cork?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is the Fastnet Lighthouse, barely visible through the seaspray, with the waves dashing against its rocks. It's automatic now, but what must it have been like in the days when three or four men handled that great light, to ensure no ships went aground in storms like this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now we're back to storms and rain, but there are some advantages to being kept indoors. It meant that a good deal of time could be spent working on ideas for De Nextest Book, which is now, at last, taking dim shape. I can tell you that it's going to be about the old roads, the old trackways, the ancient routes which linked different parts of Ireland, and what you can discover even today when you step off the tarmac and the speedway and follow the path less trodden. Who could joy in getting to a destination in ten seconds less than yesterday when by turning quietly off into a side lane, you enter a world where waving bushes almost meet across your windscreen, where grass grows in the centre of the path, and history is all around you?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A very happy New Year to you all. May 2016 bring all that you wish for (but don't forget to swim out to meet your ship of dreams halfway, instead of waiting for it to come to you!)</span></div>
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Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-49134027134967312912015-09-27T18:51:00.000+01:002015-09-27T18:51:00.830+01:00In Which A Boggy Mountainside Is Survived and A Glorious Old World Orchard Is VisitedI was having the divil's own luck with that Druid's Stocking I mentioned last time. The infinitesimally tiny needles and the fine yarn, though undeniably a beautiful green, made for a dreadfully harsh fabric, not to mention the havoc they were playing with my fingers and thumb joints. Eventually I got sense and went up a few sizes in needle and called upon the aid of a lovely warm soft pale grey yarn that I'd used before. Instant happiness!<br />
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Here are the new and the old, which I fitted round a pair of boots by the crabapple tree. You probably can't see the lovely patterning on the pale grey but it's there, believe me. This is just the cuff so far, and then that gets turned down and you start on the leg of the stocking. Which has its own delightfully complex cabling. <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/designers/meagheen-ryan">Meggie</a> really is a brilliant knit designer.<br />
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And, the birthday of a very small young friend coming up soon, I whipped up this little bag last night.<br />
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It's the Toy Tote Bag by Sherry Etheridge and is just big enough to take some tiny gifts and sweets. Then it can be used later on for special treasures and slung over a small shoulder. A really speedy crochet project for suddenly-needed gifts - you could put anything inside it from pretty soaps and flannels to indulgent chocolate treats.<br />
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We decided the other day that it really was high time to go and get good pictures of a particular stone circle down at Kealkil on the back road to Bantry. Getting there wasn't too much of a problem (as long as you can cope with climbing steep sinuous boreens about the width of a loaf of bread and never knowing if you'll meet a tractor or hay wagon coming the other way at full speed, and, having lived here a fairly long time, we can) but actually reaching the monument itself posed more of a challenge. There was a stiff iron gate standing stern amid a positive sea of mud and manure. As if that were not enough, somebody had spilled black sticky oil all around the opening side. Which meant the dog had to be carried, as I wasn't prepared to deal with black sticky oily paws for the rest of the day and night. We crossed one field, and then had to tackle the next obstacle - a steep ladder, again emerging from the depths of a quagmire, up to a bramble-bedecked bank, and another ladder down the other side. Dog had to be lifted again. This was Petroushka, by the way, who, though still a puppy, weighs twice as much as the other two and then some.<br />
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And then, having gained the final stretch, the entire field itself turned out to be a bog, with quaking tussocks of grass standing up in deep pools of inky water. How you can get a bogland on top of a hill, where you would think every drop would have drained off, beats me, but there is one here, take my word for it. Crossing it was no fun at all. You would probably have come down to solid rock after you'd sunk to your ankles, but it still wasn't the kind of afternoon stroll you would have chosen.<br />
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Eventually, though, we got to the stone circle and it was worth it. The circle itself is small, but there are two superb tall standing stones outside it, as well as a ruined cairn.<br />
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You can get an idea of the height of the tallest stone in this picture - I'm about 5'7" so I would say it was twice that. Bantry Bay is in the background, and the Kerry mountains beyond that.<br />
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Most of our clothes required special cleaning when we got home (to say nothing of Petroushka) but it was worth it. Beautiful monument. If only one hadn't got the distinct feeling that somebody didn't want us there and had taken steps to discourage visitors.<br />
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Now it's the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness as you all know (unless of course you live in the southern hemisphere, in which case you're starting to enjoy spring) and here that means apples. Our own crabapples (seen above with the Druids Stockings) aren't ready to pick yet, but we knew of a wonderful orchard on the east side of Cork and made our way there when we judged the time to be right.<br />
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This is 16thc Barryscourt Castle where Heritage Ireland is doing a tremendous job of restoring not only the structure but the surrounding gardens too. To this end, they planted an orchard with as many of the old Irish apple trees as they could find. Isn't that a lovely thing to do?<br />
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How could you resist apples with beautiful names like Offaly Lady's Fingers or Irish Peach? Kerry Pippin or Crofton Scarlet? <br />
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I just had to get a closer look at this Ardcairn Russet...<br />
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And they very very kindly let us take away some of the windfalls. I have evolved a great method of making apple butter, using the slow-cooker (crockpot to you New Worlders), and have already got the first couple of pots filled and labelled.<br />
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May your own autumn be full of fine foraging and happy preparations for filling the pantry shelves before winter.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-83728623551223703002015-09-17T10:26:00.003+01:002015-09-17T10:45:03.856+01:00Of Amiable Relationships and Autumn WanderingsThe amiable relationships are those which commonly obtain 'twixt the felines and the canines chez Celtic Memory. Paudge Mogeely, as you may recall, is the most placid of good chaps, very fond of a cozy corner in which to sleep, be it out in the garden just where the sun is striking brightest, or by the fireside in the evening. Off the ground of course, that's always a given for cats, and if there is a warm dog in situ beforehand, to take the chill off the cushions, that's even better.<br />
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Here is Paudge curled up peacefully with Tamzin. Those two love each other; Tamzin's rolling eye is caused by the proximity of DH's camera. She doesn't like these new-fangled things, especially with a flash. 'Just go away and let us BE, will you?' Paudge couldn't be bothered. Paparazzi, shaparazzi, no worries.<br />
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He will curl up with Petroushka too, although 'Troushka, still being young and enthusiastic, is inclined to give it a maximum five minutes and then start a game. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bEi2vDbar2A/VfqA0XZu73I/AAAAAAAABAc/Uc07dyct43M/s1600/Petroshka%2Blicking%2BPodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bEi2vDbar2A/VfqA0XZu73I/AAAAAAAABAc/Uc07dyct43M/s320/Petroshka%2Blicking%2BPodge.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Or a washing session. 'C'mon, you know you like your face licked, Paudge. You <i>know</i> you do!'<br />
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Polliwog,on the other hand, though extremely friendly to all the dogs, always willing to rub up against them and administer head butts, draws the line at face washing. Here she is ready to strike, while 'Troushka, abandoning her original plan, hastily jumps back, ears flying with the haste of her retreat.</div>
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But 'Troushka knows how to get her revenge. Wait until Polliwog is peacefully curled up somewhere else, and then...</div>
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...gently pull the rug from under her. </div>
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'That'll soften her cough!' said 'Troushka triumphantly, bearing the rug out to the garden where she proceeded to demolish it beyond repair. Ah well, back to the fabric cupboard and the sewing machine.<br />
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And speaking of sewing, and thereby knitting, there has been some activity on that front. The <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/rainshine">Rainshine Shawl</a> was finally finished, although the last couple of rows, with all the beading, took several days just by themselves. It's a superb pattern though, and well worth the trouble. I made it in a silk yarn which I'd hand-dyed, and it looks great thrown around your neck casually or opened fully and draped deeply for an exceptionally dramatic entrance on a grand occasion.<br />
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And guess what happened as a perfectly lovely offshoot from <a href="http://www.obrien.ie/old-ways-old-secrets">De New Book</a>? Darling <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/designers/meagheen-ryan,">Meagheen</a>, inspired by my descriptions of the druids in ancient Ireland, designed a special Druid's Stocking! A tall kneesock (or kilt hose might be a more apposite term, as they have lovely turn-down cuffs) with swirling twisting cables, just right for a keeper of wisdom to wear as he tramped through the forest or conducted rituals at a stone circle on a high hill. Of course I'm going to knit them! Who wouldn't, with a compliment like that?<br />
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Here is the yarn, the very best Wollmeise in a rich Druidical green, and fine needles, all ready to start. I'll keep you posted on how they go. Knowing Meagheen, they will be deliciously complex yet supremely satisfying to work. And who knows who - or what- you might meet when you wear them walking in a forest glade?<br />
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And speaking of forests, we went down to the West Cork woods the other day, wandering over little mossy bridges past rushing rivers, looking for berries and nuts and mushrooms.</div>
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Look at this lovely quiet pool, overhung with bending trees which concealed it from the pathway unless you bent down low and pushed your way through (getting sprinkled with dewdrops on the way, some of which always manage to get down your neck. The Little People playing games...).<br />
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We discovered that the little stony beach by the pool was covered with hazelnuts, not quite ripe yet, but fallen thickly on the ground. This could have been a double for the legendary pool where the magic hazel trees of knowledge overhang the water and drop their nuts to the waiting salmon who then becomes the Salmon of Knowledge. We cast a cluster of nuts each into the flowing stream that comes out of the pool, and watched them float away underneath the sheltering trees. A gift to Themselves, and hopefully received as such. You never know when you might need their assistance.<br />
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And then there were blackberries to pick, along by a deserted fishing village near the shore below Glandore. People lived in those ivy-covered cottages once, called to each other up and down the lane. Children ran down to the beach to see their fathers coming back from the fishing, scrambling to be first to see what they had caught. The memory of the past was all around as we picked the blackberries.<br />
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Right in the centre of this picture, on that promontory in the bay, you can see Kilcoe Castle, owned by actor Jeremy Irons. He is much to be lauded for restoring the old ruin in the traditional way, making it look just as it would have done in medieval times. It's a common mistake to think that old buildings have always looked grey and forbidding; in the Middle Ages they would have been painted in bright colours, visible from a great distance. And today, you can see that tradition carried on in rural villages of West Cork where the houses are all shades of a pastel rainbow.<br />
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Evening on the beach at Toormore, with the monbretia blooming vividly in its autumn colours. End of a perfect day. Even Petroushka crashed out and slept all the way home!Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-60470012163840254942015-06-15T10:19:00.001+01:002015-06-15T10:22:20.616+01:00The Strange Case of the Disappearing Altar StoneTruth is stranger than fiction. In De New Book (and don't forget, lovely people who've been ordering it from O'Brien Press and requesting personally signed copies, let me know too, so I can match up the personal inscription with the order form, which isn't always easy because I might know you as Meg or Sunshine and the official order will have quite a different name, you can let me know by my email link on this page) ANYWAY where was I? Oh yes, in De New Book the beautiful ancient site of Gougane Barra gets a good look in, both for its history and for its traditions which continue to this day. <br />
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Now in Gougane, on the tiny island in the lake -<br />
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<i>There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra</i><br />
<i>Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow</i><br />
<i>In green-valley'd Desmond a thousand wild fountains</i><br />
<i>Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains...</i><br />
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there is not only the tiny 19thc church which is enormously popular for weddings (and who could blame any couple for wanting to plight their troth in a place like this?) but the ruins of a much earlier chapel which lie, moss-grown and peaceful, to the back of the island. Within these ruins, laid on a rock, is the venerable slab known for centuries as The Altar Stone.<br />
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For generations, those doing 'the rounds' at Gougane at St John's Eve and in late September pause at this stone and make crosses in its surface with a sharp pebble. Over the years the grooves have been worn deeper and deeper as the faithful perpetuate a tradition that is likely to have started a long long time before Christianity ever reached this land. Since time immemorial it has been customary to make sunwise circles around a sacred site and mark stones at specific points to ensure good harvests, good fortunes, fertility, cures. And the Altar Stone is part of that tradition.<br />
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Or it was until a little while ago. Breda Lucey, whose family run the wonderful old-world hotel at Gougane, went over one evening and discovered to her shocked surprise that the stone was gone. Nowhere to be seen. It had vanished utterly.<br />
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Outside, in the greater world, theft and criminal acts are, sadly, accepted as part of daily life. But Gougane is a place apart, a sheltered haven where those seeking help and guidance have been comforted and supported by the very strength and spirit of the place. Who could commit such an act?<br />
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The reverberations of Gougane's loss echoed well beyond the valley. The police, the clergy, the newspapers, TV and radio all joined in the questioning and the searching.<br />
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The assistance of a diving club from Cork was requested. When they heard what was missing and from where, they declined any payment for probing the depths of the lake - known in ancient times as Irce, after a goddess who protected its waters and its sacred island. 'Sure wasn't I married on that island myself,' said their group leader.<br />
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They searched the water for hours, hoping that perhaps some thoughtless teenagers had hefted its not inconsiderable weight as far as the shore just for a joke and slid it into the depths. But nothing was found. Members of the Lucey family donned waders and trudged right around the edges of the island in the shallower water, hoping to find the stone lying there. But it was not.<br />
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One would feel tempted to say that no luck will come to those who have taken the Gougane Barra stone. It's hard to think otherwise. If someone desired it for a garden ornament, an amusing souvenir, or, worse still, stole it as a commercial undertaking on request, then one would not be in their shoes in the future. The Altar Stone is part of Gougane, and should remain where it belongs. Everyone hopes that it might quite suddenly be discovered one day soon, perhaps by the side of the little road that leads into the valley, returned quietly in the middle of the night. If so, the matter would rest there.<br />
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In the meantime, the faithful will continue to observe the tradition of St John's Eve when they make the rounds, If the stone is not there, they will touch the tree under which it lay. The custom will continue, as the Midsummer bonfires blaze on the hills around.<br />
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Those same Midsummer bonfires are another fascinating echo of the past (yes, they're given full coverage in De New Book). Today's little rapscallions rushing around with branches and anything else they can lay their hands on to feed the bonfire (in city streets I've seen old furniture being pulled out of houses and thrown on the blaze) have no idea that they are continuing to observe a tradition whose origins go back far into the mists of prehistory. In ancient times druids would kindle the sacred bonfire, made of nine special woods, and from that fire all household hearths would be re-ignited, having been put out beforehand. Cattle were driven through the smoke, and young couples joined hands and jumped over the flames.<br />
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Once I had the good fortune to be flying back into Cork on St John's Eve. Looking out of the plane you could see the grey smoke of a hundred bonfires curling and wreathing up to the clouds, right across the countryside and the city. (Yes, the fire service does regard this night with apprehension, do you need to ask?) It was a strange scene, and one which confirmed the strength of the old ways, even when today's fire-makers have no idea why they are doing it, just that it's something they must do.<br />
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Had a spell of tidying up not long ago. Having opened a cupboard in search of a knitting project, and then retiring hastily as dozens of project bags fell out and tumbled all over the floor, I decided enough was enough. The sight of so many UFOs (UnFinished Objects) was intensely depressing, and the only way to deal with that is to SORT IT OUT.<br />
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Here is the sorry heap of horror. Half-finished, hardly-started, rejected, mixed up, totally forgotten about. Time to show a little discipline chez Celtic Memory. Several days of determined unpicking, rewinding, even (in a couple of rare cases) rescuing and laying on one side to finish after all, led to this:<br />
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Neatly-wound balls of yarn, ready to be returned to their respective boxes. One dog mat for the car, which was so close to being finished that it hardly took ten minutes. And lots and lots of lovely circular knitting needles of every gauge, crochet hooks, and stitch holders. Oh I did feel virtuous. Currently am trying very hard to restrain the overwhelming urge to cast on for seventy-two shiny new projects before finishing those lying patiently in wait.<br />
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Speaking of dog mats, Petroushka, being still somewhat of a puppy, demanded a good day out recently. 'I'm entitled,' she explained, sitting up earnestly and studying our faces at the breakfast table. 'Every dog has her day, and mine is NOW!' So we took her to West Cork's lovely coastline, and let her run wild on Toormore beach (she's out there somewhere, a tiny speck in the distance) which was deserted, despite it being a lovely summer weekend. We still don't get crowds here, thanks be.<br />
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Then we went up to the hill above Lissagriffin and wandered around the old graveyard which holds many victims of the Famine in huge unmarked plots. It's hard to imagine such sorrow and grief in a place like this, but echoes of the past are everywhere. <br />
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Came back through the Pass of Keimaneigh and discovered this lovely green woodland by a stream.<br />
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It was ridiculously Tolkien-ish and you kept expecting to see elven folk flitting among the trees and perhaps a green elvenstone lying by the water.<br />
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And finally, as evening was drawing in, we walked across the old clapper bridge at Ballingeary. The hollowed slabs showed how many had walked that way before us over the centuries. A lovely end to a perfect day.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-81149078637319518302015-06-01T20:25:00.001+01:002015-06-01T20:25:22.631+01:00Fair Set The Wind For France - And For De New Book!I'd been feeling a bit under the weather a while back, so DH decided what I needed was a relaxing trip to France by car. After so much air travel, going by ferry is an utterly blissful experience. You just load up with everything you think you might need, from spanners and battery charges (DH) to knitting projects and books (me). Then you simply pootle down to the ferry port, drive on board what must be the most delightful ship ever (Brittany Ferries' Pont Aven) and, barely pausing to drop your overnight bag in the cabin, head straight up to the patisserie for afternoon coffee. Followed by an indulgent dinner and a good sleep to a gentle rocking. When you wake up, you're in France! No queues, no baggage weigh-in, no sitting rammed into a tight space for several hours, absolutely no hassle. I can quite see what our grandparents enjoyed about going to New York by liner. I'd do it myself if the QE2 were more obliging with timetables.<br />
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DH wanted to visit Noirmoutier in the Vendee to look for bluethroats. This is the causeway which links the long island to the mainland. At high tide it's submerged, but at low tide, just look what happens!<br />
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The whole world, his wife, and his grandmother too, head out to dig for <i>palourdes</i> (cockles in the Old World, mini-clams in the New). It was fascinating to watch them carrying on this age-old harvesting.<br />
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The medieval city of Guerande where we stayed had this marvellous gargoyle (among hundreds of others, they're not short on gargoyles in France as a general rule).<br />
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Do you think it's a nun or a cat? Or a blend of both? Strange, I thought.<br />
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One of the most unusual experiences was stopping at a petrol station on the way down the autoroute. These <i>aires</i> or rest stops are pretty busy, crowded places, the last location for anything charming or gentle or indeed unexpected. But what would you call this?<br />
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A whole meadow of sweet peas, right between the petrol pumps and the exit road. No, really. I couldn't believe the incredible scent and just had to get down and lie among them. For heaven's sake, I didn't know sweet peas could hold their own out there in the real world! Where I live they have to be cosseted and coaxed into blossom and then revered and sheltered. Here they were fighting cheerfully and giving tough remarks to the few invading poppies. Must be the sunshine which was growing stronger the further south we headed.<br />
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Nipped past the medieval city of Carcassonne, famed in many a blockbuster novel. We know its traffic jams of old, so contented ourselves with taking a quick view or two as we kept going.<br />
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Because I couldn't wait to get to the Pyrenees. I'd been thinking of them for months, dreaming of the wonderful moment when you stare at the clouds floating far ahead on the horizon and then slowly realise that they're not clouds, they're the snow-capped peaks of that great barrier between France and Spain. Once you're past the congested city of Lourdes, the road gets quieter (not surprisingly, since it also gets extremely narrow and exceptionally twisting). But it's balm to the soul and to the heart to be back there among the wild ravines and crags. You breathe easier in that amazing mountain air.<br />
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This of course is the awe-inspiring Cirque de Gavarnie, a sheer cliff face rising into the sky as the most formidable barrier imaginable. (One generally avoids the over-used term 'awe-inspiring', but this is one example of where it is justified.) Can you imagine a weary pilgrim on the way to Santiago de Compostela from Paris or London or anywhere else in northern Europe, taking a wrong path at the last minute and ending up facing that? Because of course there are narrow and dangerous paths some way on either side of the impassable Cirque which will take you over the peaks into Spain. And a road for cars too, nearer to Biarritz. But I still like to think of those who sought safety and refuge by crossing the mountains from one country to another in harsher, more uncertain times. The same thought occurred when flying across America some years ago, and looking down on the appalling tumbled mass of rocks and peaks that faced the early pioneers heading for California. What did the women feel when they looked at the way they would have to go, and then looked at their children, their own aching, weary feet, their remaining baggage? By that time of course to return would have been impossible, so going on was the only option.<br />
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Oh I have to show you this one. If you're thinking of trading up on your house, wait until you've explored this opportunity. I'm being fairly generous sharing it with you, because I saw it first and I want it, I want it, I WANT IT!<br />
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This desirable residence is way up in the Pyrenees, in the Vallee d'Ossue, not far from Gavarnie. No, I actually didn't notice any electricity cables or indeed water pumps, but I'm sure it has all the conveniences the true romantic would need. Wouldn't you agree? And of course happy wildlife all around to keep you from being lonely.<br />
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I loved the way Mama Marmot was placidly gazing at the view here while her children murdered each other in the background. It's the same in every family, isn't it?<br />
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What was more unexpected in the wildlife line came as we were traversing an extremely streep and narrow road down from the heights, finding extreme difficulty in navigating through heavy cloud which had descended and masked everything more than a few inches in front of the car. At times you literally couldn't see the road - and since there was a rock wall on one side and a vertical drop of a few hundred feet on the other, that was kind of worrying. There was even snow banked up in some places. And then, quite suddenly -<br />
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these appeared out of the mist, crossed the road in front of us, and then paused politely on the hillside to allow DH to let go of the steering wheel and grab his camera (I, meanwhile, grabbed the handbrake and pulled it. Hard.) Now what are the odds of finding three llamas crossing your path? Is it good luck or what? A sign?<br />
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A few kilometres further down, the mist lifted and we were back in brilliant sunshine. With gentians. Now Celtic Memory's favourite colour is undoubtedly bright blue and gentians hit the spot precisely.<br />
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This is the sock I was working on during the trip. An Austrian twisted-stitch design which isn't quite finished yet. (Have you ever tried working twisted stitches on switchback roads?) When I do finish and wear these, I will always remember the gentians.<br />
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Down from the heights, a sharp turn right, and eventually you hit the South of France. But not, alas the glamour of St Tropez. DH had his eye and his heart set on the Camargue and a particularly hot and dusty plain known as La Crau.<br />
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La Crau is where you send cars for punishment. If yours is acting up, give it a week on this and it will come home begging for mercy. Small vicious rocks cover the ground almost entirely, with dry red dust trying to make a living between. Occasionally huge flocks of sheep, their fleeces stained red by the dust, wander past, ensuring nothing else can grow very fast or for very long. On colder winter nights the sheep stay in tiled barns like the one shown here. Which also play host to lesser kestrels in the roof space. Which is why DH spent an entire very hot day there.<br />
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But I didn't mind. The south of France meant we were within easy striking distance of historic Orange.<br />
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Stunning place with all its ancient remains, and quite a charming place to spend an evening too. Quite close to Avignon and all its sights, but out of the really huge crowds of tourists. And at dawn next morning I was waiting impatiently at the gates of a very old mill a few miles north.<br />
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I'd been determined to get here, ever since the French trip was mooted, but DH had thought it was too much out of our way. Ha! I knew once I tempted him with the Camargue I was home and dry!<br />
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Pierre Loye et Cie has been on this site for about two hundred years, spinning those wonderful yarns for Anny Blatt and Bouton d'Or. And they have a factory shop...<br />
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Although it wasn't supposed to open until 11, the staff took pity on me knitting so very obviously outside their gate, and let me in early, through the back door. Yes, I had a lot of fun. No, I have no intention of telling you how much I spent. Some things are better not recorded.</div>
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We came back up through the Cevennes (remember Robert Louis Stevenson's Travels With A Donkey?), another place I love a lot. It has deep gorges and tiny villages clinging to hillsides as they have done for hundreds of years. If you enlarge this picture (I think you can by clicking on it) you will see what appears to be a strange huge figure standing up there on the crags above the village. It gave me quite a shock when I glimpsed it. Didn't know Bigfoot holidayed in Europe!</div>
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Even found time to drive through the magical forest of Broceliande, where Merlin lies buried and a thousand legends waft around the sacred fountain. This is another powerful place, although the little villages are starting to build on its reputation a little too much with a lot of pseudo-magical mystery stuff and souvenir shops. Can't blame them, though, really.</div>
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And so back home, coming into Cork in the early morning where the weather was cool and damp after France but the Continental visitors crowded the deck to look at Cobh and its cathedral, and all the brightly-painted houses spilling down the steep streets to the shore. Cobh was, of course, the last port of call for the Titanic, but you knew that.</div>
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And home to a wonderful surprise. De New Book had arrived! A special advance copy was waiting in the letterbox. You can see what it looks like up there at the top of the page. It was a long, hard slog (as is every book for every writer) but holding the finished product in your hands for the first time is always incredible. And, despite all our fears, the sepia tints and black and white pictures did work most effectively.</div>
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Don't you think? Oh I can't disguise it, I'm as proud as Punch! What started out to be a fairly simple and easy overview of fairy tales and legends took its own path and insisted I explore the old ways and old beliefs of Ireland, showing how they are still there, still practised, still to be found. And that's what it became.</div>
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Oh look, why not show you this? I got DH to take it in St Malo. The sign is pointing the way to the ancient House of Poets and Writers. And I thought well if not now, when?</div>
Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-41117639149640472762014-12-21T20:42:00.002+00:002014-12-21T20:42:42.239+00:00In Which The Turning of the Year Brings The Winter SolsticeJoy of Midwinter to you! The days have been short and the nights long, but from now on, the pattern is reversed and we start moving towards spring and summer again. (Of course it doesn't happen in quite such an organised and numerical manner as that, Nature takes her own good time and knows what she is doing, but it can't be denied that we have reached Midwinter in calendar terms anyway.) And in West Cork this morning there were even a few trills of birdsong to show that all creatures are already looking forward to brighter warmer weather.<br />
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Well... perhaps not <i>all</i> creatures.<br />
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When the weather gets cold and the days darker, canines and felines conveniently set aside their usual antipathy and jostle into a warm and comfortable conglomeration on a rocking chair near the fire. Sophy Wackles usually gets up first, and then Tamzin leaps lightly over Sophy's supine body and settles next to her. Finally Paudge Mogeely floats over the arm of the chair with no apparent effort, and tucks himself into the tiny space left. That's them settled for the evening. Polliwog? Oh he's out wandering in the orchard and thinking dark thoughts. Black cats are often like that.</div>
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Petroushka, being only just a year old (Dec 8 in case you were wondering) is full of energy of course, and always willing to lend a hand with anything, be it the cooking <i>(let me deal with that beef, willya? I know just how to mince it!)</i> or the decorating.</div>
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She is also ploughing determinedly ahead with her work for the Yarnslayer badge, which she hopes to receive before New Year. She got an unexpected bonus lately when I inadvisedly left an Advent scarf in progress on a low chair. Foolish I know, but honestly I was only gone for a moment. It was enough. The basket was carried bodily out to the hall where 'Troushka could deal with it properly.</div>
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(Yes, the WIP survived, and the scarf, which I turned into a cowl, made it through in the end. The recipient need never know.)</div>
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Once that was done, this was an attempt to make a crochet scarf that looked like a cobweb. It's based on a pattern called Ana Luisa's Wrap, by Julie Blagojevich, but I narrowed it considerably. Added a thread of sparkle and a few translucent beads to heighten the effect of a dew-drenched web. Hope that recipient likes it.</div>
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Also got a bit of practice in on the knitting machine, and tried out a large cone of bright blue mohair that had been hanging around quite long enough.</div>
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Had just enough for this floaty wrap (Bill King's Gold Star if you want to try it). DH discovered that it took on a whole new quality when backlit by a rare five minutes of winter sunshine.</div>
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Today was not sunny, though. The druids were walking the hills, as you can see . They cause a magical mist to rise when they are moving from one place to another (as naturally they would be at the winter solstice) so that they will not be perceived by common mortals.</div>
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Nevertheless, we headed out to capture some pictures so that you could share Midwinter in West Cork with us.</div>
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This wonderful arch of holly bent low over old stone steps leading up a forested hill. It was mid afternoon, so empty as far as we could see. Late tonight you wouldn't know who would be walking there, working the old magic to ensure that the sun becomes brighter with every passing day. But it's better not to turn up uninvited for the old rituals.</div>
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This tiny leafy track too seemed to hint at a secret road to somewhere different. At the solstice, the veil between this and the Otherworld is very thin indeed. It is generally accepted that They (the Good People) are closer than you think at these times.</div>
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But finally I saw this little mound through a gap in the hedge on a very muddy back road, and knew it was the one with which to leave you this evening. Get close to it, climb through the hedge in your mind (just watch those brambles, they can scratch!) sit on the mossy rock underneath that thorn tree, and hold your own Midwinter celebration here tonight.</div>
<br />Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-9613504544185334172014-12-17T22:13:00.001+00:002014-12-18T10:32:56.969+00:00Of Travels in Old Estonia - And Yarn Inspirations TooCan't quite imagine how it's a week to Christmas Eve already, but if I don't tell you about the September trip to Estonia now, it's in danger of being forgotten altogether.<br />
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It's not expensive to get to Estonia from Ireland but it can be quite a lengthy and complicated business. For this trip we had to take three flights - Cork-Vilnius, Vilnius-Riga and finally Riga- Tallinn. Yes, I did bring a couple of knitting projects. Did you think I wouldn't?<br />
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There was a nice experience on one of the flights. I noticed that the lady sitting opposite was also knitting!<br />
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It still isn't that usual to see this on European flights so naturally I was thrilled. I showed her what I was working on (an Elizabeth Zimmermann Rib Warmer) and she showed me the beautifully detailed little baby jacket that was occupying her hands. She was Russian, with no English, my Russian is limited to basic courtesies, but we managed to communicate quite well through the medium of gestures and examples and stitch patterns. It was a very happy feeling, making contact through knitting.<br />
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On arrival, we headed out along the coast. It was late in the month, and the trees were changing colour but it wasn't really cold yet. Haapsalu, still one of my favourite little old-world towns, was quiet, with only the occasional cat strolling the cobbled streets.<br />
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In the mornings the Baltic was calmly beautiful as the sun suffused the clouds with colour.</div>
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Renewed our acquaintance with the venerable old railway station which is now a museum. I love the atmosphere of this place, full of echoes from the days when ladies in white gowns and gentlemen in full uniform paced the platform or alighted from first class carriages to spend a few weeks in this fashionable spa. The Russian royal family were regular visitors, and so, naturally, were all those who wanted to be associated with the royal court - including Tchaikovsky.<br />
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The length of this platform is unbelievable. Just imagine what it was like in, say, 1900, with trains arriving from all over Europe, and the royal yacht anchoring in the bay? Somebody really should write a supremely romantic novel set here at that time.<br />
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This little old lady, on her way home with the morning's shopping, was wearing thick handknitted socks against the morning chill. I wonder if her mother, or her grandmother, had seen the Tsar and his family in Haapsalu?<br />
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Clambered up to peer through a crack in the padlocked door of this old carriage. Inside I could just see a huge iron stove which must have kept the guard and the mail sorters warm as the train journeyed across vast snowy landscapes. Now the stove lies unlit, dreaming of long ago days. Wish I could have taken it home, but quite apart from the raised eyebrows at airports, it probably couldn't cope with the comparatively mild climate of West Cork. People used to sleep on top of stoves in old Russia. Maybe they still do in Siberia.<br />
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We were having a lovely time, but then a crisis occurred. I had only brought one knitting project with me (I know, I know, I said projects further up, but it wasn't true, and I suffered for it, don't rub it in!) And now, it began to become frighteningly apparent that not only had I under-projected, I was UNDER-YARNED! Had thought that one cake of unspun Plotulopi would be plenty to make the EZ ribwarmer, but I ran out! Yes, really. On a country lane, while DH was photographing wild geese.<br />
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CELTIC MEMORY WAS PROJECT-LESS!<br />
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I will say this for DH, he does realise a serious situation when he comes across it. No question but that we must go in search of help immediately. The birds could wait. And fortunately Haapsalu was able to offer that help. I found a little yarn shop which had two skeins of a local wool in a nice bright royal blue. It took some winding, being oddly tangled, and with more than a couple of knots and breaks, but heck it was not expensive and it was local. Sketched out a notional vest in a cheerful cable and lace mix on the back of the skein band, and cast on happily.<br />
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Halfway up the back, it seemed like a good idea to go back and get some more of the same yarn. But they didn't have any more. What, none? Sorry, but no. Well, it would have to suffice then. Just have to hope... (Do you ever find yourself working faster when you think you might run out of material? Or driving faster when the petrol is running low? No sense in it, I know, but it's human nature.)<br />
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Finished in just three days - with literally eight inches of yarn to spare!</div>
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Gosh, now that I come to think of it, that EZ Ribwarmer still isn't finished! Brought the half-completed project back to the land of plenty, with Plotulopi all over the place willing and eager to play its part, but the bag is still lying there, unattended. Shame, shame, shame. Oh well, add it to the pile of Will Get Round To It On A Rainy Day.<br />
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There is a tide in the affairs of knitters<br />
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,<br />
Omitted, many a project's tucked away,<br />
To wait in hope, another rainy day...<br />
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It has been a bountiful autumn in Estonia. Was absolutely driven mad by the wonderful rich harvest of apples on every laneway, every side road, in every garden, and on every wild hedgerow. Some householders had thoughtfully put boxes of apples out on their gateposts for anyone passing to avail of. Children in one village were hopefully touting handfuls to passing motorists. And I longed, beyond reason, to pick great bagsful and bring them home. No matter that the freezer is already full of pureed apple from our own trees. No matter that the airport authorities (already on high alert at the possibility of my toting in a vast Russian stove) would slam the boarding gates in my face and throw the unreadable Estonian book of rules at me. I wanted to gather and love and bring home the lot!<br />
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We did see people picking them in some places though, which was reassuring. And out on a wild headland by the sea, this elderly lady was also collecting rosehips.<br />
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Clearly there are still those who remember the old ways, the traditional custom of using nature's bounty. I must try making rosehip syrup myself one of these days. I know you have to be particularly careful about straining out the fine hairs in the hips, but the resultant syrup is definitely a Good Thing.<br />
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Which reminds me - I'm not quite sure why, but maybe it's the mention of traditional recipes - do any of you know anything about salamanders? I don't mean the animals, I mean the kitchen utensils which were used in Elizabethan times to brown the top of food dishes? I'd like to have a salamander. Maybe I could get somebody handy to make me one? A cross between a potato masher and a branding iron, I would think. Will report back when experiments have been duly carried out.<br />
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But back to Haapsalu. You're wondering if I finally managed to catch the lace museum open. Some of you may recall that I have made several visits to the town in the past, and never managed to get a foot in the door. In October they said it was closed until June. In June they said it wouldn't be open until September. In September they said it had closed for the winter.<br />
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But this time - this time was different. And please take notice that the legendary Lace Museum of Haapsalu has MOVED! It is now right on the main cobbled street of the old town, and it is open EVERY DAY.<br />
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I went in and met the really lovely Myria (it might be spelt Miria, and if so, I apologise). She spoke very little English and I was equally handicapped, but we had a wonderful time exploring the exhibits and talking half in gestures, half in words we both knew.<br />
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She was knitting wristwarmers in fine mohair when we arrived. 'No, don't photograph these,' she pleaded. They are not Haapsalu lace! They are so ordinary!' No, they weren't exactly ordinary. Tiny works of art, I would have said.<br />
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Speaking of tiny works of art, what do you think of this doll, one of the exhibits? Not only is she dressed in a lace gown, she is holding a miniature lace shawl. Wandered around for simply ages, enthralled by the gorgeous display and fine work.<br />
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Just as we were leaving, I spotted a small stack of rather lovely looking glossy books on the counter. What were they? Myria's eyes lit up. Had I perhaps heard of Orenburg? Had I <i>heard</i> of it? Its shawls, its legendary shawls!? Too right I had! Well, this was a new book - a very new book. These copies that I saw had arrived only yesterday. A lady had brought them in from Russia, in a big carrier bag. Look, it is written in English and in Russian. Is that not beautiful?<br />
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Yes, we were on a tight budget. But what would you have done? This glorious book is full of pictures, patterns, archival material and history. I think I paid about €25 for it, but honestly I would have paid more, if only to honour that lady who travelled from Russia with a heavy carrier bag full of the newly-published copies.<br />
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Here is another picture from the book. Babushkas selling traditional shawls in the local market place at Orenburg. There are historic pictures too, dating back a century or more, showing local knitters creating the masterpieces.<br />
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Was it coincidence? I've been thinking about it since. First I happen to meet and communicate with a Russian fellow-knitter on my journey to Estonia. Then I just happen to discover this book practically as it arrives across the border from Russia. It makes me feel very happy and somehow linked to knitters in far off places. They don't know me and I may never meet them. Our lives are so very different, in so many ways. But we have a common bond. And that has got to be a good thing.Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-479131652304053092014-08-04T16:17:00.001+01:002014-08-04T16:23:12.824+01:00A Hebridean OdysseyIt was something we had always intended to do, one day. But there were always other countries, far-off places to discover, strange paths to tread, and so it was put off and put off. However, last month we finally did it. On a fine July morning we left West Cork, travelled diagonally the whole length of Ireland, caught a ferry across to Scotland, drove up past Glasgow, and took a left turn for the sea. We were on the Road to the Isles. And not just the near isles but the furthest ones - the Outer Hebrides. (That's if you discount St Kilda which is so far out, and so difficult of access that is really isn't funny.)<br />
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Some idea of the distance can be gauged from the fact that even when you'd got, at last, to the jumping-off point at the busy and jolly little harbour of Oban, the ferry (oh wonderful Caledonian MacBrayne, how nice to see you again, haven't been with you since student hitchhiking days) took a full five and a half hours to reach the tiny island of Barra, southernmost of the inhabited Outer Hebrides.<br />
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The hotel's dining room looked right out over the harbour at Castlebay and you could watch the morning ferry docking while enjoying a full Scottish breakfast (very sustaining and ideal to keep you going for the day.)</div>
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On the tiny island of Vatersay to the south, linked to Barra by a short stone causeway, the ground was a carpet of wild flowers. Really. It is the first time in my life I have actually walked on carpets of orchids.</div>
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It has a lot to do with the remoteness of these little islands and their reliance on old-fashioned traditional farming methods. No weedkillers or chemical fertilisers here, just nature and plenty of time.</div>
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Was particularly excited at getting to Barra for two reasons: one, it was the home of Sir Compton MacKenzie, the noted writer (his famous Whisky Galore was made into a film here), and two, it is the only scheduled air service in the world that has to take account of the tides.</div>
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Here is the 12.30 from Glasgow coming in to the beach. What a way to arrive in the Hebrides! </div>
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It was lovely to see the passengers disembarking and hauling their bags up to the tiny terminal. Friends who had come to meet them in jeeps (four wheel drive is a distinct advantage here) called and waved as they came into view behind the plane, and then whisked them off to exchange gossip and chat at their holiday homes.</div>
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The Tour de Fleece was in full swing during this trip, by the way; for those of you not on Ravelry, this is a spinning event which runs in conjunction with the Tour de France and requires you to spin every day. It wasn't really practicable for me to take along a wheel so I made good use of a tiny lightweight drop spindle whenever I got the chance.</div>
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That included waiting to see the flight take off again from Barra beach. After all, how often do you get an experience like that? I know the breeze and the sunshine and the white sand and the sky and the effortless soaring of the tiny plane are all twisted into the yarn I made that morning.</div>
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Island-hopping was the keynote of the trip. To get across to Eriskay, we had to drive at least twenty miles up across Barra to catch a really tiny ferry. But then, Eriskay is a really tiny island. About three miles long by one mile wide. Change up a gear in the car and you'll be off the other end before you realise it. So green and gold, so sunshiny when we were there, so adorable.</div>
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This is the Prince's Beach, because it was here, on this white stretch of sand that Bonnie Prince Charlie landed, in his ill-fated attempt to establish his right to the English throne. And it was from Benbecula, a little further up the island chain, that he eventually managed to escape imprisonment and almost certain death with the aid of Flora MacDonald who disguised him as her Irish spinning maid, Betty Burke, and brought him to Skye.</div>
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<i>Carry the lad that's born to be king</i></div>
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<i>Over the sea to Skye...</i></div>
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The island is also home to the sturdy little Eriskay pony, said to be the ancestor of the Icelandic version. Now that I've seen both, I can well believe it. Small, but tough, as they need to be to survive here, with wonderful manes and tails.</div>
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This little fellow was busy seeing off a pretender to his throne. Once he had chased the miscreant across the hills, he came back to see if we were going to make trouble. Once we had assured him of our peaceful intentions, he returned to his harem of mares, and chivvied them away to a quieter location with many snarls and nips at haunches. Hard work being a king hereabouts.</div>
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The younger members of the family, though, were extremely friendly and willing to talk about interesting things like carrots and apples.</div>
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From Eriskay you can drive across to South Uist, and then on to North Uist by another of those helpful stone causeways which are making life much easier for the islanders. Just imagine what it must be like to have a severe toothache or a broken leg at midnight on Christmas Eve or some such inappropriate time. Now at least they can get to another island where the necessary facilities may be available.</div>
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You can't always rely on basic creature comforts when travelling in the Western Isles. We were yearning for coffee one morning and thought ourselves very lucky when we found this Last Homely House at Lochboisdale on South Uist.</div>
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It is actually the post office, but it also managed to cram in souvenirs, knitwear, coffee, home baking, and a few other things - all in the space of a fairly restricted shed. Very jolly though. You would like to post your letters in a place like this, wouldn't you?</div>
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But there was evidence everywhere that it isn't always possible to live your life in the Outer Hebrides. Ruined cottages, deserted fields, old old stone walls that now sheltered nothing.</div>
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Every time we passed one of these I would cry, 'Oh it needs someone to love it!' Just as well we didn't have unlimited funds at our disposal. It would have been so tempting to restore this to what it should be.</div>
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Or this tiny one by a loch? It really does have a window at the side there, so it's a house, not a shed. Just a new roof of split stone, some strong window glass, maybe wood panelling inside.... you think there would be room for an Aga maybe?</div>
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Look at this little tumble of stones. </div>
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Doesn't seem much, does it? Yet a notice nearby records that it was from this simple hut that two local women sold the very first tweed fabric ever woven on Harris. That was back in the early 19th century. And so of course I had to gather a few strands of fleece from around and about, to bring home.</div>
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<i>(Actually, that became a bit of a habit on the trip. If the fleece was soaking wet - as was the case more often than not - it got spread out on the floor of the car, wherever there was a space, to dry. Which led to a distinct but not altogether unpleasant aroma.)</i></div>
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From North Uist another ferry took us over to the island of Harris, which is more or less joined to the northermost Outer Hebride of Lewis.</div>
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Harris is mountainous and craggy, very different to green and gold Eriskay or Barra. And the clouds were sitting low on the mountains as we approached. Fortunately, as always, our hosts at the guest house were warm and welcoming and it's quite fun to explore in dark gloomy weather when you know you will come back to hot tea and home made shortbread. Plus there was always the chance you might see a golden eagle plunging down out of the grey mist (we did!)</div>
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And finally, at last, we came to Lewis and I fulfilled a lifetime ambition, that of visiting the Stones of Callanish.</div>
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These really do take your breath away. Out on their own, on the westernmost fringe of Lewis, gazing across the Atlantic waves, they are silently magnificent. While the huge central stones dominate, every single outlier seemed to have a character of its own too.</div>
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I particularly loved this one and felt that she is surely the stone embodiment of the Wise Old Woman of Callanish.</div>
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And naturally, despite a force 8 gale and driving rain, I had to incorporate some of the magic of Callanish into my spinning too.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uts67fOVgqs/U9-i-zUEcWI/AAAAAAAAAx0/DKj6Mm8cpX8/s1600/St+Enda+at+Callanish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uts67fOVgqs/U9-i-zUEcWI/AAAAAAAAAx0/DKj6Mm8cpX8/s1600/St+Enda+at+Callanish.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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Even the St Enda Aran sweater which was specially started for the trip got its turn on one of those ancient stones, to give a good twist to the intricate cabling. After all, the designer, Alice Starmore, lives on the Isle of Lewis, so what better place to bring it?</div>
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It was hard indeed to leave the Hebrides, but there were things to look forward to on the journey home as well. Like visiting the old spinning mill of J. C. Rennie in Aberdeenshire.</div>
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It's been here by the river in Mintlaw for generations, and the current member of the family running the business, Christian Rodland, was courteously welcoming, allowing me to run wild amid the glorious fibre treasurehouse.</div>
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Oh the benefits of having your own car on a trip! So many times in other countries I have had to pull back from going absolutely mad because the baggage was already crammed to bursting! On the other hand, it's less hard on the credit card if you do have a luggage limit. Suffice it to say that the stash has been augmented more than somewhat.</div>
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And at Mintlaw we had arranged to meet up with a good friend and fellow Raveler, Aurelie, who drove up from Aberdeen to see us.</div>
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What do you know, she had brought a copy of De Book especially for us to sign! That was a total surprise and so sweet of her. We had a lovely time chatting over coffee, comparing our spinning for Tour de Fleece (Aurelie also was working on a mini drop spindle, but we were talking so much we forgot to take pictures!), and exchanging all the gossip. Happy journeys indeed that end in friends meeting.</div>
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And so we retraced our steps across Scotland, across the sea, and down through Ireland to West Cork where the dogs and cats were delighted to welcome us back. But the memories of our Hebridean odyssey will long remain.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5aMJQIXEbRQ/U9-QKFWP1qI/AAAAAAAAAwo/v3hUCsLqJsI/s1600/Traffic+control+Hebrides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5aMJQIXEbRQ/U9-QKFWP1qI/AAAAAAAAAwo/v3hUCsLqJsI/s1600/Traffic+control+Hebrides.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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Like the placid way Hebrideans regard traffic control</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6-W-QZosBmc/U9-QIRvgAYI/AAAAAAAAAwE/SlRzJi7VOoM/s1600/Sunset+South+Uist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6-W-QZosBmc/U9-QIRvgAYI/AAAAAAAAAwE/SlRzJi7VOoM/s1600/Sunset+South+Uist.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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The splendour of an island sunset and cloudscape</div>
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And, perhaps most of all, the tranquil beauty of another world, living on another time scale, far from cities and commerce and frantic rushing. A good place indeed to spin your yarn.</div>
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Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-37704482260400433032014-04-07T16:34:00.002+01:002014-04-07T20:03:46.215+01:00Wherein Ferocious Frogging Is Interspersed With Sea Air, And An Ancient Road Is DiscoveredIt comes to all of us. That day when you look around and realise with appalled horror that things have got completely out of control. For some it's the garden (we won't even go there right now, OK?), for others it's the housework (what's that?) For an obsessive crafter, it's the day you open a cupboard and a hundred projects in various stages of incompleteness fall out, you rummage round on a sofa to find a ball of yarn and seventy-seven previous Brilliant Ideas set up a cheeping and a begging for attention, you try to extricate a perfectly innocent scarf from a corner and it's being dragged back by angry Works in Progress.<br />
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Chez Celtic Memory we did try to ignore the growing problem for as long as possible (how long have I been blogging now? About eight years, I reckon. We won't bother excavating back beyond that, will we? Some things are better left in peace.) If a particular size of knitting needle or hook couldn't be found, oh well, it was time to buy some more. But when you start a delicious new project and then discover the crumpled remains of that pattern, already marked up in your own hand, <i>and you don't even remember starting it before</i>, then something has to be done.<br />
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And so it was that this past weekend consisted of Ferociously Finding and Frogging Friday, followed by Savage Sorting Out (plus Swearing) Saturday, and Serious Stowing Away Sunday. May feel better soon, but still in the appalled state. How, how, HOW ON EARTH could I have started and failed to finish so many projects? Worse still, what was I thinking for most of them? Wrong colour, wrong style, far too ambitious, far too simple, utterly boring, won't wear it in a million years, don't know anybody who would accept it, even as a gift... ye gods it was depressing!<br />
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I had intended to photograph each condemned project, the better to hammer home my depraved habits, and that's the way it went for a little while.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BvQTY0_j3L0/U0K4UDqoaHI/AAAAAAAAApw/Co3yssIs2KE/s1600/Crochet+cowl+in+suri+alpaca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BvQTY0_j3L0/U0K4UDqoaHI/AAAAAAAAApw/Co3yssIs2KE/s1600/Crochet+cowl+in+suri+alpaca.jpg" height="320" width="254" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8S_wwHERv_0/U0K4ZPK0V0I/AAAAAAAAAp4/XDh9jg5Rw5w/s1600/Machine+&+hand+knit+gansey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8S_wwHERv_0/U0K4ZPK0V0I/AAAAAAAAAp4/XDh9jg5Rw5w/s1600/Machine+&+hand+knit+gansey.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R7uLw7nwmRE/U0K4fObTGGI/AAAAAAAAAqA/qrEKvGiknj0/s1600/Porcelain+Berry+Shawl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R7uLw7nwmRE/U0K4fObTGGI/AAAAAAAAAqA/qrEKvGiknj0/s1600/Porcelain+Berry+Shawl.jpg" height="241" width="320" /></a></div>
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The crochet cowl in brushed suri alpaca, intended as a Christmas gift for a friend (made her a shawl instead). The combined machine and hand knit gansey, the main body done on the machine with the more complex patterning to be completed by hand. The delicate shawl in two shades of green silk where the silk got tangled and I remembered that green just wasn't my colour in the past, present or future. And dozens more. What am I talking about? MYRIADS more! The upstairs sitting room began to resemble the glory hole at a jumble sale. The ball winder was going full tilt and my arms were starting to object.<br />
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Oh yes, forgot to mention the arms. Made a double-sided kimono in Shetland yarn for the Ravellenics this year. On the knitting machine. Which involved not just hours but days of bashing that carriage back and forth. Should have known, should have taken care, but wanted to finish by the closing ceremonies. Which I did.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-np_LdyJ9E54/U0K50riJR3I/AAAAAAAAAqM/Z-YqvYZUwrE/s1600/Kimono+on+Brow+Head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-np_LdyJ9E54/U0K50riJR3I/AAAAAAAAAqM/Z-YqvYZUwrE/s1600/Kimono+on+Brow+Head.jpg" height="320" width="261" /></a></div>
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Lovely warm and wearable thing, ideal on chilly evenings. Took it down to one of my favourite places, Brow Head above Crookhaven in West Cork, for a really nice picture.<br />
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Let's digress for a moment. I'm sure you'd like to. It was only when we'd finished the photo shoot and I had time to look around, that I realised just what a spectacular place this is. We'd managed to climb down the cliffs through the gorse and bracken quite a bit further than usual - almost to the spot where the local fishermen used to sit and watch for the transatlantic liners in centuries gone by. The liners would drop a drum of mail and newspapers, the fishermen would row out to retrieve it, and the mail would then be sent up to Cork by donkey cart and train. In that way, the Cork Examiner often had the latest overseas news before the London Times, which gave them a very comfortable feeling of superiority.<br />
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But the scenery, you cry, the scenery. Well yes. I got DH to take a special shot because this was an angle you couldn't have seen from the narrow winding road that leads to the top of the hill, nor from anywhere normal really. You have to clamber down the cliffs to get this one.<br />
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But it's worth it. It's the kind of vision that literally shakes your heart.<br />
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Oh the kimono and the over-eager use of the machine. Well, as soon as that was done, it was time for Sock Madness again, one of my favourite online annual events ever since it began seven years ago. Our first pattern was Brucie, a lovely design from Amy Rapp. I wanted to finish these in double-quick time, to qualify for later rounds, so some long knitting sessions were put in. Towards the end the elbows, already complaining from the machine sessions, started some serious throbbing, but the socks got done.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H6qVfy68g1c/U0K8seVeR3I/AAAAAAAAAq4/wRjE05ISDzE/s1600/Brucie+socks+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H6qVfy68g1c/U0K8seVeR3I/AAAAAAAAAq4/wRjE05ISDzE/s1600/Brucie+socks+2.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a></div>
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Aren't they lovely? Trouble was, by this time I couldn't pick up a needle, let alone knit a stitch. Suffered in (partial) silence for several days and then went shrieking to my pet therapist, who specialises in pulsed signal therapy. This is an incredible non-invasive technique which can cure even slipped disc agonies, let alone RSI. She gave me several treatments and then sent me home with stern warnings Not To Knit And Especially Not To Machine Knit for at least a week. Which is where we are.<br />
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Frogging and winding and the retrieving of long lost treasures aren't really knitting though, are they? And look at the rewards! <br />
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Here is what has been retrieved in the Great Sort Out so far (I don't think we're done yet). There are approximately two dozen circulars there, of every size from sock to chunky, five or six crochet hooks, a stitch marker or two, a pair of snips I'd given up for lost, and dozens of those handy padlock stitch markers that I'm always trying to find.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W4gwxeQjdtk/U0K7vtfFVkI/AAAAAAAAAqs/4jYK7J0FCG4/s1600/Project+bags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W4gwxeQjdtk/U0K7vtfFVkI/AAAAAAAAAqs/4jYK7J0FCG4/s1600/Project+bags.jpg" height="320" width="292" /></a></div>
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And here are just some of the project bags returned to usefulness and public life again. Up there at the top is my absolute favouritest one of all, with blue cats on it.<br />
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No, I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do with all the yarn frogged, rewound, returned to storage. Some to the Ravelry stash for trade or sale, I imagine, others to eBay, others to anyone who loiters near my gate with empty pockets. And then it will be clean, fresh, air-blowing FREEDOM chez Celtic Memory. Freedom from guilt, from untidiness, from that awful pressure of too little time, too many projects. Freedom - oh who am I kidding? I know perfectly well that as soon as things are reasonably tidy, I'll be back out there with renewed vigour. Forgiven, cleansed, ready to start all over again.<br />
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YES I CAN HEAR YOU THERE AT THE BACK, WINIFRED WAGGY-FINGER! You are saying in that smug tone of yours that you absolutely never start a second project before you have completely finished, sewn up, washed, blocked, aired and worn the one you're on at the moment. You never (perish the thought) buy more yarn than is immediately required. You never, but never, yield to temptation, were it even Wollmeise waltzing past at half price, or Madeline Tosh murmuring gently from a shop window. I would bet you vacuum your house daily too.<br />
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Well let me tell you something, Winifred Waggy-Finger. You work that way because it suits you. You actually <i>like</i> having only one thing to work on at a time. You positively <i>enjoy</i> a daily bout of dusting and cleaning, even if it isn't necessary, and will only have to be done all over again tomorrow. A place for everything and everything in its place is your mantra. That's<i> your </i>way of living. <i>But it isn't Celtic Memory's. </i> For those of us who multi-task as a matter of course, there is nothing more exciting than suddenly leaping off at the glimpse of something glittering in the distance, swerving from the main road to follow a winding path through the woods to a sunlit glade, and never mind that dinner will be late on the table. The possibilities over the horizon, beyond the hill, in this new yarn shop we've never explored before are boundless, and who knows where the next step will take us?<br />
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I am trying, though, to make a few basic rules. Say just seven or eight projects in active service at one time. Some knitting, some crochet. You don't always want to do the one when the other beckons. And some with fine yarn, some with bulky. Silk and wool, cotton and bamboo. And then there are new baby friends expected any moment, and a friend who needs a comfort shawl. Maybe a dozen on the go at one time? No more. No, really.<br />
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Speaking of winding paths and sunlit glades back there reminds me to tell you of a wonderful find yesterday evening;. I'd at last tired of winding up frogged yarn (or my wrists had) and DH commanded that we take the dogs out for a run in the countryside. We headed for the wilds of the Kerry hills, far away from the popular main roads. Magillicuddy's Reeks 'twixt Glenbeigh and Kenmare, sort of.<br />
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It's a wonderfully forgotten region, with just the tiny stone walls and hints of ruined cottages to remind you that large communities lived and worked here before the Famine. Can you see the green lane going up by the gable end of a tiny stone cottage behind the sheep there?<br />
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The primroses were carpeting the woods everywhere<br />
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and the wood anemones were nodding their delicate little heads.<br />
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And then, pulling in by the side of the narrow lane through some very deep woods, we came across something entirely unexpected. We took the dogs out, and wondered if there was a way through the almost impenetrable growth of bushes, trees and shrubs, not to mention rocky outcrops. Then we stooped under some trees which were lying across our way, and found ourselves -<br />
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- on an old stone road. A hidden, secret road, that you would never suspect as you drove by on the main highway. Straight out of Tolkien.<br />
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It is a road, certainly. And an ancient one. Whoever laid those stones did so many many centuries ago. It wandered off in front of us, through light and shade, a mossy causeway across bogland. Rushed back to the car, extricated the relevant map and studied it keenly. No, no road, lane, track or byway whatsoever was marked. It wasn't there. But it <i>was </i>there!<br />
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<i>They shut the road through the woods</i></div>
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<i>Hundreds of years ago</i></div>
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<i>Weather and rain have undone it again</i></div>
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<i>And now you would never know</i></div>
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<i>There was once a road through the woods...</i></div>
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We followed it as far as we could. At intervals little streams meandered across, and here old stepping stones pointed the way. How many feet had passed this way before us, in times gone by? And where were they going? What were their stories? The dogs, fortunately, took the stepping stones in their stride.<br />
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At last the fallen trees made it impossible to go further. But we'll come back another time, and make another try. An old stone road should not be forgotten, and I for one won't rest until I know what purpose it served, and who might have used it.<br />
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<br />Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-15937097484955580052014-01-01T14:27:00.000+00:002014-01-01T18:18:21.617+00:00Of Storms and Strudel, Felted Toys and Fallen TreesAnd a joyous New Year to everybody! 2014 is being ushered in here in West Cork rather violently, with storm after storm tearing across the countryside, downing power lines, flooding low-lying lands, disrupting travel and generally making us feel like our ancestors, huddling low in our caves and hoping against hope for spring.<br />
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Fortunately the storms hadn't started when we took a brief trip to Vienna early in December, to do a feature on the Christkindl or festive markets. For a change, we decided to stay out by Schonbrunn rather than in the city centre and it really was rather nice out there, away from the crowded revelry around Stefansplatz and Karntnerstrasse.<br />
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Personally I think the utterly charming little Christmas market they set up outside the royal palace is cosier and more in the spirit of the original than the jazzier larger ones around the Rathaus in the city. During the day this more rural one is crammed with excited groups of schoolchildren who have had a healthy walk in the grounds before being allowed to spend their pennies on gingerbread and small toys at the stalls.<br />
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As the sun sets, the children have gone home, and the older folk take over, sipping mulled wine and gossiping with friends as they stroll from stall to stall.<br />
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What do they sell? Every kind of Christmas decoration you can imagine, from featherlight hand-blown glass baubles to hand-made wooden creches. It's the kind of place you need to keep a firm control on your will power, not to mention your purse. It would be all too easy to dash from one bright little booth to the next, gathering basketfuls of the prettiest things you could imagine.<br />
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Look at these intricately wrought tiny metal ornaments. Even the tiniest black cat was pretty expensive (as it should be, given the work that went into these very Austrian traditional pieces) but I did covet that wonderful tree with the doves on it!<br />
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Most satisfying to the heart of an inveterate crafter was the range of hand-made, hand-felted decorations. Whole stalls of little mice, elves, angels, deer, snowflakes... clearly Austrian imagination is wide-ranging when it comes to felted miniatures.<br />
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Look at these lovely little elves. One of them came home with me.<br />
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As did one of these really beautifully made wild men of the woods (or so I christened them). Didn't even realise DH had stealthily purchased one until I unwrapped the little package on Christmas morning!<br />
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No, we didn't spend the entire time wandering around the stalls. (Although it would have been all to easy so to do.) You can't go to Schonbrunn without clambering up the steep slopes to the Gloriette and getting the spectacular view of the city spread out below.<br />
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It was jolly cold up there, with a wind whistling straight from the Ukraine across the Hungarian puszta and losing none of its chill on the way. Sadly, the cafe tucked right into the heart of the Gloriette was closed, but serious remedial treatment was needed if we were not to suffer from frostbite or worse.<br />
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Fortunately, you're never far from serious remedial treatment in Vienna. <i>Kaffee mit schlag, und apfel strudel. </i> Gosh, there are times when I wonder why I don't live in Vienna. Imagine being able to indulge in that whenever you felt like it? No, on second thoughts, perhaps better not. Are Viennese weightwatcher clubs always full to overflowing, one asks?<br />
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The most wonderful thing about wandering around the vast grounds of Schonbrunn though is the sense of the past you get, of the time when the Hapsburg Empire ruled supreme, the Emperor's word was law, and the fortunate could spend whatever they wished on whatever pleased them. I'm thinking particularly of the gigantic conservatories, each one a symphony in wrought iron and glass, which must have demanded a positive army of gardeners and handymen just to keep them in the kind of order Franz Josef or Elisabeth would expect as they strolled the gravelled walkways before returning to the palace to dress for some grand gathering.<br />
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The past seems closest at sunset. You can almost hear the whispering of silk gowns along the paths, get the scent of a cigar, the perfume of hothouse flowers gathered for the royal boudoir. Theirs was a world that was to change utterly in the early 20th century, never to return. The last Hapsburg heir died on - was it Madeira? I know I saw his tomb there years back. Sissi, however, will never be forgotten. Like Diana, Princess of Wales in England, only more so, she is remembered everywhere and pictured on everything from chocolate bars to books, in paintings and poems, throughout homes and hotels, street signs and subways.<br />
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It was a lovely if very brief trip to Vienna, but once home there was Christmas to prepare for and as usual lots to do. The knitting machine was practically smoking with the speed at which wristwarmers were being cranked out, while Works in Progress were littered everywhere, each in a bag or basket to keep it safe from predatory cats and dogs (ha ha, fat chance! The two species have now worked out a satisfactory arrangement whereby the cats will knock down the desired receptacle and then make off with one or more balls of yarn, while the dogs fall upon the actual knitting with rapture and proceed to restructure it with the aid of paws and teeth. Probably very good for their creative skills, but distinctly detrimental to the giftgiving list.<br />
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And then the storms started to strike. We got warnings of strong winds and heavy rain but didn't take much notice. We're always getting those. But this time they really meant it. One morning I was looking out of the study window here at a particularly tall eucalyptus which should have been topped during the summer but hadn't been. It was whipping wildly to and fro in the gales. A few minutes later I looked again, and couldn't quite believe what I was seeing.<br />
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You know how it is - your mind can't quite take it in. 'But - but it was standing a moment ago,' you say stupidly, still staring. That's a fairly large lawn, and a good thirty foot of tree. Thank the Goddess it fell precisely as and where it did, missing both my study roof and the delicate little magnolia tree to the other side. You can see the white scar of the broken trunk on the right, where the tree was snapped by the wind.<br />
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DH claims his picture is more effective, so I'll put that in too. Either way, it was a lucky escape. And yes, it did give a rather dreadful feeling too. Admittedly we'd intended to top it, but seeing a beautiful tall tree lying snapped like that is - well, it calls to something very basic in us, I think. We can't help but mourn it. Maybe the remainder will sprout again. We'll summer and winter it, and see (always a good gardening maxim to follow when things look done for).<br />
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The stormy weather has continued ever since and shows no sign of abating. The weather forecast hardly varies. 'Heavy rain giving way to widespread showers. Storm force winds abating slightly but strengthening from the south west later. Flooding expected. Structural damage expected. Don't go out unless you have to.' Strewth, will the spring never come?</div>
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And inevitably there were some leaks, necessitating trips into the roof space to see what could be done to ameliorate the situation (certainly no time for going up on the outside. <i> Ni he la na gaoithe la na scolb</i>, as we say in Ireland - 'the day of the wind is not the day for the thatching'.) Polliwog in particular found these activities most engaging and began to spend a great deal of time on the wardrobe, waiting for the trapdoor to be opened again. To see that cat make the leap from the bed a good eight feet upwards to the top of the cupboard is incredible. I don't know how they do it. (DH is still trying to capture it on camera but Polli won't do it if he thinks we're looking.)<br />
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And of course, once the trapdoor was opened, The Great Explorer was up in an instant. To wander and explore for an hour or more, until the rattling of a food bowl reminded him of dinner.<br />
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The dogs have been very distressed by the thunder and lightning that has been part of the stormy conditions, all crowding into whatever room we're in to get comfort and closeness. The cats aren't so bothered (Polliwog in particular is setting up some complex wires and metal rods to experiment with) but have been spending more time than usual in the cosy warmth of the general living space rather than off on their own.<br />
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They have even developed an interest in nature documentaries, often sitting up very close, the easier to be able to reach out and gently pat the screen with an inquisitive paw if really fascinated.<br />
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May 2014 be good for you and yours. Make it the year you finally go for that ambition, achieve that result, get whatever it is you've always longed for. Write out a notice in large letters, 'Have You Really Tried?' and put it where you can see it every morning when you wake up. (Well of course I'm going to. Why do you think I'm mentioning it?)<br />
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<br />Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30877720.post-22262512988184992062013-11-10T15:34:00.002+00:002013-11-10T17:29:05.213+00:00Season of Mists and Making PreparationsBecause it does creep up on you, doesn't it? The festive period, I mean. One minute you're enjoying the late summer sunshine and gathering apples from the reliable old tree in the back garden, the next you're lighting the woodstove at four in the afternoon and frantically calculating how many pairs of wristwarmers you can get finished in time.<br />
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Just cast off this first Estonian-style comfy gauntlet and must now cast on for the second. I've made these (Nancy Bush's Colorful Cuffs, as I recall) before, but only short little pulse comforters. These are longer, to give more of the snuggle factor on bleak winter days.<br />
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Which it's been here lately. Bleak, I mean. If there is any cloud or rain going, then West Cork gets it, with a double dose at weekends. Chilly too.<br />
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The cats have quickly realised that dogs make a good hot water bottle and Podge, although he treats canines with amused contempt most of the time, is quick to take advantage of a sleeping Tamzin. Can you see, he's actually parked right on top of her, to get maximum warmth?<br />
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Whenever there is a bright moment, a break in the clouds, though, Taz and Lucy (yes, the Lucy Claire brigade won the day and that's her name from now on) head for the orchard to play games. Those of you who enquired if the puppy's arrival helped Taz to overcome her nervousness and bad memories, see if this will convince you.<br />
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She adores the little monster and will patiently endure having her ears chewed, her tail tugged, all sorts of indignities and discomfort. Now and again, after a particularly energetic session, you will find her sneaking off to the highest chair she can reach, to get some rest before the next bout.<br />
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Yes, I did say 'monster.' Lucy is one tough little scallywag, afraid of nothing, jolly as the day is long, and always, but always ready to play. Gosh, aren't puppy teeth sharp?<br />
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We did have one scare with her a week or so back when she went for her booster shots. Within minutes of getting home, her eyes were swelling up, her skin, underneath the fur, had gone bright red, and she was showing signs of extreme distress. Broke all records getting her back to the vet who provided antidotes to the evident reaction and took her home for the night. Fretted and worried until next morning when I could at last collect her again (none the worse, brighter and chippier than ever) and bring her home to Taz who had gone into a positive decline at the loss of her precious charge. Put puppy down on the lawn and let Taz out of the house to discover her. Taz's hysterical delight as she realised Lucy was back, her dancing and rushing around and licking and barking, was lovely to see.<br />
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Oh yes, I almost forgot. Not only is Tamzin more than qualified to receive her Yarnslayer medal already, but Lucy is showing incredible aptitude in that direction also. Leave a project or a basket of yarns unattended at your peril. I thought the cats were bad, but they just run off with a single ball and dab it around underneath the furniture in a sort of cats-cradle game. The Dastardly Duo attack each skein or ball as they would a good piece of steak - holding it down with both front paws while hauling up succulent mouthfuls. I never thought any animal could make such a chaotic mess of a neat basket of yarns in such a short time. And no, I didn't take pictures. I was too busy shrieking.<br />
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Fortunately they didn't get hold of the new festive range of yarns I dyed up during the last bright spell and hung out to dry in the orchard.<br />
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These are the Silver and Gold range, where a fine thread of glimmering luxury runs through the soft merino fingering, making it irresistible for gifts and general festive projects.<br />
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Here is Moonsilver,<br />
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and Rose Gold. You may not be able to see the lovely glimmers of silver and gold in these pictures, but believe me, they're there. <br />
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Have also been busy making up some more Special Shawl Kits because it appears everyone wants them at this time of year.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_RgsuPdFvZE/Un-f9nATEyI/AAAAAAAAAjw/NcPxbwoxjx0/s1600/Shawl+kits+in+orchard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_RgsuPdFvZE/Un-f9nATEyI/AAAAAAAAAjw/NcPxbwoxjx0/s320/Shawl+kits+in+orchard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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They look cute as anything tucked among the moss-covered rocks in the orchard, with ferns leaning over in admiration, but I had to whisk them back indoors pretty rapidly as Lucy was about to launch herself upon them with gay abandon.<br />
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We went out to Lough Ine recently, to see if we could get a really nice shot of the ancient well there, traditionally resorted to for eye troubles. <br />
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Our editor thought it might be good as a cover picture for De Next Book and I'm inclined to agree. It's marvellous to see a place like this in the depths of the woods, clearly well resorted to by all kinds of people all the time, as the little offerings and tokens placed all around or hung on the trees show. Oh the old ways may not be immediately visible in Ireland today, but they're only just underneath the surface, that's for sure.<br />
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On the way back we stopped at Bandon to look at the weir which was well flooded after heavy rain. DH decided to try a slow exposure of a motionless heron against the rushing water. I thought you might like to see it. Isn't it beautiful?<br />
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<br />Jo at Celtic Memory Yarnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783844924689656726noreply@blogger.com8