In Which The Source of Unspun Icelandic Is Sought, And A Sea Of Blue Lupins Discovered

Myself, I blame Meg Swansen. And quite probably Sandykins and LilyMarlene would agree, wouldn't you girls? There she was at UK Ravelry Day, looking absolutely stunning in her own version of the EZ Ribwarmer (I think she calls her design Ribwarmer Revisited, but I could be wrong), and what could any knitter worthy of her needles do but instantly vow to try. Or, in my case, try again. You may or may not recall that I first attempted this cunning little bit of engineering a year or two ago with a very nice variegated boucle. Realised before even hitting the decreases that it would fit an elephant and one with no very good idea of fashion sense at that. So to the frogpond it trotted, and I eschewed the EZ Ribwarmer for ever. And ever.

But after seeing that gorgeously chic little oatmeal number, edged in i-cord in a slightly darker shade, I couldn't pretend disinterest. Came home and hunted out a cake (a wheel? A round? A big squishy flat sort of plate) of unspun yarn and started over. Now this was a particularly nice oatmeal shade, this unspun, but - let's whisper this bit - I wasn't entirely sure it was the real McCoy, the genuine unspun Icelandic. I'd bought it in Finland, so maybe it was the wrong nationality?


Surely that wouldn't make much difference? Aren't we getting just a bit too purist here? Of course we are. Cast on forthwith, worked merrily away, posted about it, boasted about it, coasted around the corners at full speed, and finished it in short order.


'Twas a bit big, even with all that careful measuring en route. No matter, a bit of felting will soon fix that. Into the pot with it.



Ah.



OK.


Now I don't really need someone to explain how a felted piece can come out with one part of it more shrunken than the other. Accidents can occur in the best regulated felting families. 'Could happen a bishop', as my mother would say comfortingly to the cats when they made the occasional idiot of themselves (you know how cats simply hate making idiots of themselves, it throws them off completely, whereas dogs don't mind in the slightest, and in fact do it all the time without even trying).


But I would like to know how one armhole came out twice the original size while the other had gone down to half its original dimensions.


I screamed and ranted about this on one of the Ravelry groups and Zemy was kind enough to suggest running a safety thread through armholes and edgings before felting. I'll try that, Zemy, next time. But to get one twice the size and one half?

The vest now resides in Muffy the Yarnslayer's bed. She likes it a lot, and does some work on it in the evenings.

The iron, however, remained in the soul. And rankled. Which is distracting, especially late at night or early in the morning. Or anytime really.


Where had I gone wrong? I mean, look up the Ribwarmer on Ravelry for heaven's sake, and it appears that every knitter in the world has laughingly thrown dozens of perfect examples off the needles in less time than it takes to say 'What an easy knit!'



WHY ME? (Or, to put it another way, why not me?)


I'd checked the gauge. I'd followed the pattern. I'd used unspun yarn...



Ah.

Maybe that was it. I had used what I considered to be an appropriate yarn, but was it the right one. Was it the very exact specific unspun specified in the specifications?


Maybe NOT.

Only one thing to do in circumstances like that, and as chance would have it (no, honestly) DH offered the one possible path of hope and opportunity.


Had fully intended to go to Woolfest last weekend, but a few days before, he instead dangled the thought of heading further north (a lot further north) so that he could look for seabirds and I could perhaps track down the elusive yarn in its natural habitat.


Did I hesitate? Did I 'eck!



And so, towards the end of June, we came at last to Iceland





and to one of the most hauntingly beautiful and remote landscapes I have ever seen. Mountains (volcanoes really, several of them still in grumbling mood), vast stretches of grassland, moss, and lava fields. This country is slightly larger than England, Scotland and Wales combined, yet it has a population of just 300,000 - that's hardly more than County Cork, for heaven's sake! Since most of them live in Reykjavik, that leaves a great deal of empty countryside,







with the occasional tiny white church emphasising the remote emptiness of it all.

But there are some industries in Iceland. Guess where this is:




Not too difficult, even if you can't read the writing on the van. How many cars have colourwork knitted fenders?

Yes, it was Alafoss, legendary old mill where Icelandic yarns have been made for generations. They have now moved production to a more modern mill, closer to Reykjavik, but the old one has been turned into an outlet where they sell knitwear and yarns at cut price.


I bet you're drooling. I could hardly wait for DH to stop the car before I was in the door.






It's a wonderful place to wander around, full of the most exquisite handwork in caps, scarves, vests, sweaters, gloves, socks...





even tapestry kits of Icelandic birds (DH liked those a lot).





Look at these lovely little knitted figures, grouped around the old hand-cranked sewing machine.


But I had come on a mission, and I wasn't going to be distracted.





Didn't dare to look at all the other yarns on offer, but concentrated on the Plotulopi, which is the unspun favoured first by EZ and now by Meg. When you find all these cakes of yarn stacked up high, in every colour you could imagine, it's hard not to lose your head entirely and run round in circles babbling feverishly. Did that for a while, before buying lots and lots and going out to reassure DH that I hadn't dived into the cellar and gone to sleep on a bale of wool.

The yarn here at Alafoss is cheaper than anywhere else at any time, but right now the Icelandic kronur is at an all-time low, so the yarn was too! Pity a poor girl who had only travelled with cabin baggage (I know, I know, but believe me if you have to go through several airports these days, you do not, repeat, do not, want to think about checked bags, really you don't. It can turn a quick weekend into a lengthy imprisonment very easily. Go check out their website - they'll ship. But don't leave it too long, can't tell how long their financial recession will last.)

After that pleasant little introduction to the country, we went out to explore a bit more of Iceland. Not the whole lot - you wouldn't expect to get around the UK in three days, and nor could you get around Iceland where they haven't heard of dual carriageways yet, let alone motorways. We confined ourselves to the Western Fjords which were quite stunning enough.



This is the must-see of this far northern land - the majestic mountain/volcano called Snaefelljokull. Why? Well for one thing it's pretty dramatic, and even when the rest of the country was basking in midsummer, it was still a land of ice and snow up there. But the real reason of course was Jules Verne.

Descend into the crater of Yocul of Sneffels, which the shade of Scartaris caresses, before the kalends of July, audacious traveller, and you will reach the centre of the earth...



Devoured the book in childhood, saw the movie, but never really thought I'd be there. And just before the kalends of July too, what good timing!








You'll have to look pretty closely to see a tiny figure down there, but take my word for it, that's me. In the crater of a volcano.

No, it wasn't actually Snaefelljokull. As you could probably gather from that previous picture, it wasn't exactly casual hiking weather up there. Besides which, I'm not that keen on exploring the centre of the earth. In fact, although I wouldn't like to admit it other than here, among friends, I was a bit nervous clambering down even into that one, which hasn't erupted for about four thousand years. Kept sort of expecting the ground to crumble away below me, and precipitate me into lakes of molten lava, you know?

Another sight people obediently trek to see in Iceland is a geyser - or Geysir in fact, the original old fellow who gave his name to the phenomenon. And the Blue Lagoon where you can sit in natural hot water by the seashore and do yourself lots of good.But we weren't in the mood for tourist attractions so we went off and found our own little smoking water supply.





When you see this from the road, it looks for all the world like a tip, with rubbish smouldering, you know the kind of thing? But when we went down to check, it was a little bubbling spring right enough, with boiling water spouting out from the sand.







You might be able to see the steam on the right of the picture here, rising from the stream as it rushes into the sea. It was too hot to hold my hand in, even there.


I only then remembered that when my father went to Iceland back around 1950 (and it was quite an adventure back in those days, he had to take one tramp steamer to Scotland and another onward to Iceland, passing St. Kilda on the way, which really made me jealous, tiny though I was at the time) he told us on his return that he washed his socks in these natural hot water springs. I think it would have felted mine. Heck, should have brought that Ribwarmer and given it a good shock!



Now in the middle of summer, there is virtually twenty-four hour daylight in Iceland, and the flowers are blooming as fast as they can, to get seed set in time before the twenty-four hour nights of winter.





Even on the rough volcanic pebbles at the sides of the roads, the wild thyme was blooming. It had a lovely scent here, almost more like lavender.







This glorious sweep of bog cotton was just the place to photograph the Noro shawl in progress.



What really took our breath away though were the lupins. Swathes, lakes, fields, whole valleys full of them. We first saw them as the plane circled before landing and couldn't believe our eyes. They were everywhere and more plentiful than I've ever seen them anywhere else. Apparently they were introduced from Alaska to help save the soil of Iceland from complete erosion by wind and sea, and they're doing a jolly good job. Tucked a few seed pods into my pocket to try out in the gentler climate of West Cork.

Of course we saw lots of sheep. Next to fishing, wool is one of the vital industries here.




Icelandic sheep very often have twin lambs. They come in a lot of colours too.



Opinions were divided as to whether this Arctic tern was collecting warm wool for its nest (me) or warning the sheep to keep its silly clumsy hooves away from aforesaid nest (DH).

And yes, we did find that rare breed, the Icelandic ponies. Lots of them.




Again, these come in every colour, from dapple grey to black, chestnut to roan, even skewbald, but all with that characteristic identifying thick mane and lovely heavy fringe over the eyes.







This one was enjoying his quiet time far too much to get up and come over, although we coaxed. We could just see one eye regarding us sleepily through the buttercups.


There were so many other lovely things to see, we didn't have half enough time.






Spectacular waterfalls cascading down dizzying cliffs.

Felted slippers , headbands, and mittens in a tourist information centre.

Delectable cakes in friendly cafes. See, Icelandic isn't that difficult after all, is it?

In fact it's a very old language indeed, and exceptionally close to the original spoken by the Vikings. So much so in fact that modern Icelanders are in the happy position of being able to read the ancient manuscripts in the original - must make research a whole lot easier! I was entranced to see that they still use the letter like a 'p' with a stroke top and bottom, which stands for 'th' in Anglo Saxon and old Norse. It links you right back across the centuries.

And on the way back, guess where we flew right over? Guess?

The Isle of Lewis in the Hebrides. Alice Starmore is down there. We probably flew right over her house!

No I did not. I simply inclined my head gracefully, waved elegantly, and flew on. I could afford to be magnanimous. I figured we were safe enough at 35 thousand feet. And that has just got to put me on the winning side, hasn't it? Now I can essay another trial on St. Brigid - maybe?

So what eventually did get crammed into the rucksack, which was already packed enough with the bare essentials like a warm sweater and a toothbrush, several spare lenses for DH's cameras, the current knitting project, a book, a spare pair of socks, a woolly hat?

Quite a few wheels of unspun (there's another of the darkest charcoal already on the needles with EZ Ribwarmer MkIII); a whole colour card for the unspun, given to me by an utterly lovely lady at Alafoss whose name I somehow omitted to get, but who spoke perfect American, and with whom I intend to strike up a deathless friendship; and a copy of Icelandic Colour Knitting, which has details on how to make those fascinating knitted inserts for shoes which I think I already saw in the Bulgarian mountains. Oh and two Colonial Rosewood circulars which happily they stocked at Alafoss. My favourite needles of all time and this is the second occasion on which I've struck lucky (-the last, if you recall, was in Talinn, in that shop which took some finding, seeing as how it had no name outside, no notice, no indication whatsoever that it was actually upstairs over a fitness gym in a side street. But I digress.)

Some of those wheels of yarn had to be squashed into little bags and tucked into side pockets. Others went in DH's pockets (well I was carrying his lenses, wasn't I, and they were a lot heavier). The lupin seeds went undetected (unless a member of the Irish Ag & Fish reads this blog in which case I'm in trouble).

An absolutely wonderful weekend. Well stocked up now with unspun, and will order more online as needed. On second thoughts though, might just go back to get it in person. Coming?

Of Coventry, A Cuddly Lamb, and A Secret Clapper Bridge

Went to Coventry last week for the first ever UK Ravelry Day. The weather could hardly have been worse - downpours, black clouds, shivery temperatures - but we had fun nevertheless. I met up with Sandy, a fellow Sock Madnesser, who had flown in from Sweden and shanghaied an innocent businessmanfrom her flight into escorting her to the hotel (I heard him later on explaining on the phone to his wife that he'd met this woman on the plane from Sweden and could she please pick him up at said woman's hotel - I wonder what kind of evening they had when he got home?)


But it was great to meet Sandy in person after sharing so much terror and pressure and stress and all the other joys of Sock Madness via Ravelry. And as is usual with knitters and bloggers, we felt we knew each other pretty well already. She brought me some gorgeous yarn from Sweden and I gave her some Irish skeins in exchange so we were both well content.

I have to say that spirits were high at the event, despite the wretched weather.



I don't know if this is Sarah or Gemma from Brownberry Yarns, but she was smiling even while drips were falling from the inadequate tarpaulin right on her koala bear's head. Oh wait, Gemma's KraftyKoala, isn't she, on the Web, so maybe it's Gemma.





These alpacas were behaving beautifully, though they must have been feeling rather damp. You can't see how hard it's raining, which is perhaps just as well.

Indoors things were very crowded, since nobody who could avoid it wanted to stay outside very long, but it was all very jolly.



There were workshops, all extremely well attended,



there were knitters in every available space,



Medecins Sans Frontieres were there, a sight to gladden the heart of our own dear Yarn Harlot,



there were spinners




and of course there were lots and lots of stalls, both inside and out. I bought two pairs of Holz & Stein circulars in ebony from the lovely Frangipani or Guernsey Wool, I don't know by which title they prefer to be known, but they were exceptionally helpful and nice, again despite the rain which must have affected their sales. Bought far too much from the lovely Andy as usual - a big cone of gorgeous fingering weight merino in natural, two balls of Noro Silk Garden Sock, Cookie A's new sock book, and the new Noro Mini Knits 2 for good measure (and good weight, the rucksack was getting heavy by this time). On somebody else's stall I found the highly entertaining Crazy Zauberball yarn and bought one in red and one in blue.

If you look at that last picture above, you might see a lady at her spinning wheel. That's Kirstie Buckland from the Knitting History Forum. It's worth seeing her glorious outfit close up:




Every little detail correct. I must join the Knitting History Forum, really I must. It's fascinating to learn as much as possible about the craft.

Took a class in machine knitting with Jane, who made it all seem so simple - it's never as easy as that when you get home though, is it? Went to Meg Swansen's talk and met up with LilyMarlene, another of my old Sock Madness friends. We had so much to talk about that, after we'd enjoyed Meg's talk and queued up to look more closely at her superbly chic Ribwarmer Vest, we went out to a local Viennese cafe for coffee and cakes and a really good gossip before she had to leave to drive back to the Isle of Wight.

Met up with quite a few Irish knitters too, in the pub that night, as well as discovering a perfect treasure of a medieval drinking house, thanks to Jane who told me where to find it. These ancient buildings are wonderful, all creaky stairs and low ceilings and odd corners and angles. I sat in a tiny dark inglenook all by myself for half an hour with a glass of Old Peculiar or something, and fancied myself back in the Middle Ages.

But cities are not really Celtic Memory's thing, and I was very grateful to get back finally to the green fields and peaceful woodlands of West Cork where we had summer for a whole week while England grew steadily more sodden. The garden of course is totally untamable now, and it's difficult to find your way through the jungle without a machete, while the dogs never go out without their GPSs and whistles. I opened the window the other morning to see DH in the corner of what was once the rose garden (and could be again if I could stop knitting and get some serious pruning done), surrounded by tripods and lenses and wires -




It transpired he was photographing a particular form of fungus with the exceptionally attractive name of Stinkhorn.




Not a particularly good picture - I blew it up from a section of the previous image - but you can probably see where it got its name. Did I mention it smells as though something very dead is lying close by?

Went down to Gougane Barra a few days ago to see a new addition to the Lucey family.





Ali says she had always wanted a pet lamb, so although she was sorry that Lucky's mother had died, she was thrilled to have a little creature of her own to look after.




I tell you, he really butts at that bottle, sucking and thrusting until every drop is gone. I love his rich black coat with touches of white and have already tried to lay claim to the first fleece, but they assure me that it will change to a duller brown within the year. What a pity.


When we were leaving the valley, we headed off up a narrow side boreen on a whim, and followed its potholed and bumpy surface for a mile or so until we ended in the rocky yard of an old abandoned farmhouse. It was a fine afternoon so we went wandering down the old laneways which would once have led to the infield, the outfield, the river.

And, coming down to the bottom of the lane, where we could hear water running (you're never very far from a stream anywhere in Ireland), we turned the corner by the blackberry bush and what did we find.




A totally unsuspected, unknown, undiscovered, secret clapper bridge. A little one, all by itself, crossing a small stream in the middle of nowhere.

Built anything up to ten centuries ago or more, clapper bridges aren't uncommon in this part of Ireland, and in fact there are two well known ones within five or ten miles of this spot, but we had no idea this one was here. It certainly isn't marked on any of the ordnance survey maps and isn't listed in my archaeological reference books. It is just possible that it has escaped being recorded, being so very out of the way.

It was the perfect end to a beautiful day. Dear little bridge.


Inevitably came back from Coventry with so many creative ideas that nothing would suffice but to start several new projects all at once.





As I said, Meg Swansen looked so confoundedly elegant in her Ribwarmer that I had to try again (did try before, if you remember, using the wrong yarn and the wrong size needles, so it's hardly surprising that it turned out a total disaster). Must say this is great fun to work, especially those short rows which bring it round the corner and up the back. Using Icelandic unspun I think - bought it in Finland though, so it may be the Finnish version of that super-delicate, super-light yarn. If you even let a loop of it fall around your knee, you've had it - it separates at the slightest pressure. However, since Celtic Memory has always been known as a loose knitter, she is delighted to discover that her style is entirely suited to working with unspun. No yarns tightly wound around several fingers for her. No steely maintaining of gauge. Just throwing the yarn in the general direction of the needle and then easing it through the stitch, is all that is required. So far I've only broken the yarn twice, which isn't bad going. Yay, the ugly duckling has found the right pond! At last I'm not an outsider, mocked as a 'loosey goosey', I can do this!





Decided that the Conwy Socks from Nancy Bush's Knitting On The Road were just right for the Crazy Zauberball I scooped at UK Ravelry Day. Yes, you're right, Celtic Memory has made an inexplicable slide sideways and is actually using red and brown rather than her usual blues, turquoises and violets. Blame it on the English weather - I'll be back to normal soon. It just seemed right at the time...







Sock Madness may have ended for this year, but the fun goes on in the group. The latest idea is to create new ideas to use up all those itty bitty leftover yarn balls you tend to accumulate. Here I'm trying to make a patchwork project bag - that's one of four projected panels you can see there, and the pointed bit will become a quarter of the bottom, so it will sit flat. I think it's a bit loose on tension though, so might try with a smaller needle. A project bag needs to be fairly firm.








This is the See You Later sock, the final pattern in Sock Madness. I was working on that at Coventry. Highly entertaining, with all those wraps and loopings - you never get bored. Koigu KPPPM - or is that KKKPM? Or KPMMM? Well, Koigu yarn anyway.







Even the Seahorse Socks got finished at long last. These were made, you may recall, by first working two tubes on the old sock machine, and then working toes and cuffs before bravely snipping a thread on each tube (having carefully measured first) and unpicking stitches to make the afterthought heels. They turned out very nicely indeed. Wonder if there would be a market for Save Your Sanity And Spare Time kits, where all the boring legwork was done, and you could play round with the tops and tails?



OK, OK, this isn't the way to finish the posting, I know. You want to see the bridge again. So do I.




I wonder how many footsteps have passed over it throughout the centuries since it was first laboriously constructed? Heavy hobnailed boots going to a day's hard work; light bare feet of a girl running to a lover's tryst in the fields at evening; faltering steps of emigrants; cattle, sheep, geese being driven to market; and maybe, just maybe, in the silent dew-drenched hours before dawn, even the silver slippers of the Good People .

A Runaway Bag and a Russian River

You wouldn't think it could happen twice, could you? Should have known that I was asking for trouble, taking Little Yellow Suitcase right back to Helsinki where it occurred last time. But I felt that as we were heading out, not home, and that there was no new stash loot, just WIPs in the checked bag, all would be well. Ha!




At least I'd been working on the Evelyn Clark Flower Basket Shawl on the flight, so had that to keep me occupied.



In the event, it just meant that we had to spend the night in Ivalo, northern Finland, instead of driving into Norway straight away, but that was OK, since it meant reindeer stew with lingonberries for me, and a happy encounter for DH before breakfast next morning:









The next flight up from Helsinki didn't get in until noon, so we went wandering on a nearby moor, and my lovely pink Talia's Wings socks, designed by YarnYenta for this year's Sock Madness, had their first look at a frozen lake.





Since these were the only socks I had with me, pending the arrival of Little Yellow Suitcase, they'd already had a quick overnight wash and dry, courtesy of competent Finnish hotel bathroom heating, but took to the busy life with great aplomb and kept the Celtic Memory feet cosy and warm throughout the morning. Lovely design, Heatherley, one of my favourites!


Wandered back to the sleepy little airport at noon, and saw the plane touch down amid the fir trees. Nice to be at a small country airstrip with no hassle, security, pressure or crowds whatever, just the wind blowing through the birches and the sun warming your back pleasantly while you waited.








Can you see a flash of defiant yellow on that unloading trolley?






I tell you, I gave it a good scolding. I see it all now. That first time of getting lost in Helsinki, it met up with a hunky travel bag - probably from Germany - and plans were laid to meet again the very next opportunity they got. What do I do? Change bags? Revert to cabin baggage only? (If I but could - you just try travelling with a professional photographer!)

It was high time to get going, since it's a long way, not only to Tipperary, but to Varangerfjord. Stopped for coffee just south of the Finnish/Norwegian border, and what did we find?





I'd actually seen this truck parked by our hotel in Ivalo the night before, and it had set off early, but here it was, open for business in the car park by the coffee shop. You'll never guess -





It was a mobile LYS!

It also had rolls of fabric, needles, thread, everything the competent housewife could desire. Isn't that the most marvellous idea? I want to fit out a little green van right this minute and set off around Ireland with it, taking thread to Thurles, wool to Wexford, needles to Newbridge, sock yarn to Sligo, quilting fabric to - where else - Quilty (yes, it does exist, honestly) and generally spreading joy and happiness around the land. Wouldn't even mind if much didn't get sold - it would be the spirit of the thing.

The Sunday, as it happened, was Norway National Day, and every little town and village was en fete, with people in the most beautiful traditional costumes.




Look at these gorgeous girls hurrying to shelter through an icy wind in Vardo. The embroidery on those woollen bodices and skirts was exquisite. And on that point, I found some wonderful pattern books in local shops, giving knitted designs for all kinds of Norwegian traditional dress. They were for children, but you could easily adapt those waistcoats and skirts and socks and caps for adult use. I'll put up some pictures when I get a chance. Oh hang on, I'll go try to take a shot or two now. Wait there.





Done it. Not a very good shot, took it quickly, but you get the idea? Why oh why don't we have lovely books available like this in our shops? Norway has a great pride in its traditional crafts.


The Flower Basket Shawl, made in some silk I'd hand-dyed, worked out quite well. I think it's the first lace piece I've completed, and again thanks to efficient hotel heating, managed to block and dry on a towel before taking it, with all due ceremony to that wonderful stone circle out on Varangerfjord for its christening.




I can tell you it was well cold enough to tuck that shawl inside the neck of my jacket. Had about fifteen layers on, and the wind singing through every one of them without a care.






The lichens on the ancient rock were most obliging about holding the shawl in position for a close up. Felt it was a bit of an imposition, but maybe they were austerely amused at the frivolity.

Speaking of the cold (and by 'eck was it cold up there, you genuinely didn't dare even to smile too widely for a picture because the bitter chill immediately attacked your teeth), I was fascinated by this simple image in Vardo:



I saw it more than once, with different groups. Here in Ireland, children would tuck dolly in with her face showing. Up there, the kids carefully covered the doll's pram right over with a blanket, against the cold.





Here is something else nice. Little wooden shoreline huts for storing fishing tackle, oars and nets. Can you see how carefully the rotten wood has been cut out, and the new wood fitted in? The gaps were caulked with moss. The huts are on sturdy runners, so they can be moved as need be.


It was sunny there near Vadso, but out on the Hamningberg Peninsula, it was grim and black.






It's such a dramatic coastline - you feel awestruck just driving it, and very small indeed in the immensity of it all.


We saw dozens of sea eagles, and in one very fortunate moment, several otters squeaking excitedly to each other as they fished offshore.




The road up to Batsfjord lies over high open moorland, where the snow lay thickly and the spring was still a long way away.





When you drop down to the sea at this lively fishing port, though, it's much milder and the reindeer were everywhere, taking advantage of the gentler climate.





A local fisherman told me the reindeer come down to the shore to give birth each spring. 'It is better for them here, safer too, I think.'

I have a dear friend in Batsfjord who I was hoping to see again, if I could discover her whereabouts. Dropped into the local LYS first (as you do), and who should I find coming to meet me but Else herself!





I had no idea that she was working here! She's finished her studies in Lillehammer for the summer, and what more convenient than that she should find opportunity for stash enhancement gainful employment in her LYS? It was lovely to meet again and hug and exchange news. Good luck with the final exam tomorrow, Else!

Had hoped to see Marianne in Vadso too, but unfortunately she was returning from a trip as we were leaving, so it wasn't to be. Next time, next time. Else, I know I promised to show you how to do a short-row heel, and Marianne, I had every intention of getting you to show me how to make those lovely felted pieces. We'll meet again...


There was a final leg to the trip to be made - out to Kirkenes, where the Hurtigruten boat calls in each day on its voyage around the endless Norwegian coastline, delivering mail and packages, and then on, up an increasingly narrow road, petering out into a rough track, to the very edge of Europe and the Russian border at Grense Jacobselv.







It was strange to drive along a track at one side of a small river, in Norway, and see the green and red painted post on the opposite bank showing that it was Russia. I grew up during the Cold War when the mystique and fear of Russia was very real, as were the tales of borders and daring escapes and tragic endings. To be there now, albeit in somewhat more relaxed times, and to see those implacable Russian mountains rising high behind the river, was quite an experience, especially as it was late in the evening and there was nobody else on that road.




There was still a solitary watchtower on the Russian side, but it didn't seem to be occupied. A merciful release for some soldier who would formerly have been doomed to a long lonely day in freezing conditions up there, watching, always watching.





The watchtower is rather nicely balanced by the King Oskar II chapel on the Norwegian bank. When relationships were very chilly after WWII, it was proposed to moor a gunboat at the mouth of the river, but an inspired soldier suggested that a chapel would be a much more effective icon, and so it was. So it is.



Knitting continued of course throughout the trip.





Here is the complex Celtic crop cardi photographed by a frozen Finnish lake. By now everything is up to the armhole stage, and it will be necessary to put frightening numbers of stitches on to one long circular to work the raglan shaping up to the neck, while at the same time (don't you love that phrase, especially if you read it too late) continuing the cabling on each individual piece. Wish me luck.




I love this felted picture in its window frame, don't y0u? Saw it at Ivalo Airport.


And when we got back, to the green and gold of early summer in West Cork, of course yarns had to be dyed and hung to dry in the breeze.






These are the new laceweights. Can't seem to do justice to their rather nice colours, no matter how hard I try with the camera. Sugar Maple, Connemara Twilight, and Magical Forest.







And these are the semisolids in merino/tencel sockweight which I have christened the Goneril & Reagan yarns after that really rather gorgeous pattern by Liz Abinante. Designed for strong-minded women who like creating a sensation, not for your wilting lilies at all. Turquoise Temptress, Predatory In Pink, Venomous Violet, and Emerald Empress. Took an age to get those listed on eBay last night. Does your PC immediately go into a slowdown when you try to get things listed? Mine takes so long that I now keep some simple knitting next to the keyboard and work a few rows while waiting for the page to refresh.




Now I know what you're sighing. Too much, and after too long a break, you're complaining. You're right of course. I'm exhausted myself and I haven't shown you half the pictures I meant to. Look, I promise, yet again, to try harder. It would be easier on both of us after all if I posted a little and often. Maybe - no, not tomorrow. Maybe three days time? I will try. I'll put a reminder to myself on my cellphone right now. Want to tell you about a day in the Black Valley and the Gap of Dunloe.





Must tell you right now though - the sun is shining in West Cork! And it's a Bank Holiday weekend! This is nothing short of a major miracle. People are out and about, smiling, laughing, talking. Beaches are crowded. Shoulders are being bared. Never mind that the temperature, at about 24 deg, would be considered a chilly spring day in Texas. It's summer in Ireland - all three days of it!

Old Roads and New Life

We were talking some time back - it was probably last year - about old roads and how powerful they can be. I was referring in particular then to the Gearagh, an ancient post-glacial alluvial forest, flooded by a hydro-electric scheme, and how its old pathways can sometimes reappear in dry periods.

That's only a mile or so away, but I realised rather tardily this morning, as I went down through the orchard to see how the fruit blossom was doing (chilly for May as yet, they need a watchful eye, although I've never tried that country remedy of lighting little brush fires on frosty nights to protect their delicate petals), that I have entirely omitted to let you into a rather nice secret. Some people claim to have fairies at the bottom of their garden - Celtic Memory has an old road. Yes, a genuine stretch of old boreen, running right along the boundary. You cross the lawns, go under the rose arch, through the long grass of the orchard, and down to the fence. It's shadowy there, under the overhanging trees, but peek down about a 6' drop and what do you see?

That wall once bordered the busy little highway to Macroom. Donkeys pulling cartloads of turf, black-cloaked women taking butter to the market, herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, all made their way on the old route. The new, wider road, more suitable for fast cars and big trucks, is about forty or fifty feet beyond. The trees have grown up, and you would never know this little stretch of the old road was here unless you happened to come down into my orchard and look over the fence. Which you are very welcome to do if you are passing. I like to think that at night, if you go and stand very quietly in the orchard, leaning on an apple tree (their magic is just as powerful as that of rowan, and that's why they're planted in so many old hedgerows and boundaries), you just might hear the soft tapping of a donkey's neat hooves or the trudging of a tired woman of the roads with her heavy basket. Surely old roads must retain memories of all they have seen, all those who have passed by?

We're pretty rich in this particular corner with highways of former days in fact - across the main road, there's a stretch of another one to be seen - the route that branched off from mine and headed out across a valley, now hidden beneath a lake.

You could walk along this for half a mile or so, but after that you would need a wet suit and breathing apparatus as there is a fairly deep stretch of water between you and Macroom. Denis Murphy's farm is up to the left, and his sheep often gather down here at night or on warm summer days, enjoying the peaceful shade. Nice to have so many vestiges of the older, slower world still there to be found, if you take the trouble to look for them.

The primroses and violets are blooming all along these old ways now, undisturbed by traffic.

Out on the lakeshore, the gorse is in full bloom, and if it's a warm sunshiny day, you can get that delicious coconut scent from its flowers. (Did try to make gorse wine once or twice, but since you have to add grape concentrate, raisins, and dozens of other rich encouragements, you do wonder what part the gorse blossoms play in the preparation at all, if any. Maybe it's just the thought that counts.) Tufts of wool caught on the thorny branches tempt you to gather pocketsful and take them home to spin. When I was learning that craft, a long time ago in England's West Country, I was told very severely that this hedgerow fleece was no good at all and should not even be gathered. If it hadn't been cut directly from the sheep, then it wasn't worth using. Well, I was in fairly penurious circumstances at the time and my Irish heritage wouldn't let me leave such generous offerings unheeded (I'll even pick up dry branches laid on the road in front of me by the wood spirits, and say 'Thank you' for good measure.) I gathered lots and lots of the tufts I found on the Devon moors and it was just fine for spinning. Made several Christmas gift scarves with it. Just goes to show you can't believe everything you're told by the experts.

If you're quiet enough on these rambles, and stay in the shadow of the trees, you might be lucky enough to spot some of the residents going about their business.

Mr. Tod on his way to the fast food outlet at the local chicken run (or possibly Mrs. Tod going shopping, although this chap looks too resplendent to be an exhausted mother in springtime).

A treecreeper bringing food to its own young family

and out on the lake, a proud mama little grebe taking her firstborn for a nice swim in the sun.

DH was very excited about the fox and went off for the afternoon in the car to a spot by a grassy bank where he could park and sit very quietly with the big lens positioned at the window. He figured that where there was one, there could be more, and probably, in May, some babies as well.

He said it was a long afternoon, as he waited, afraid even to move an inch or change position, but in the end it was worth it.

Two curious little fox cubs came out to regard the car gravely, wondering what this strange shiny monster might be.

It was a warm day, and after a while, the temptation to fall asleep was overwhelming, said DH. But that was all right, since everybody felt the same.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Celtic Memory was busy dyeing up some new yarns - both sockweight and a new blend, cashmere silk laceweight.

Left to right, we have merino/tencel in Apple Blossom, pure merino superwash in Bluebell Woods, and right down there in the shadows, cashmere/silk laceweight in Mermaid's Garden.

Dyeing them up and hanging them in the grove to dry doesn't take all that long - it's the listing on eBay that can take forever. Perhaps it's because we're right at the end of the possibility line for broadband here, and the connection isn't always as fast as it could be. These days, a project is always in hand so that a few rows can be put in while waiting for a page to refresh. Surprising how much you can get done that way. Next to me now as I type are a pair of tube socks (tube worked on the sock machine, tops, toes, and heels worked by hand) in bright red, plus the latest new excitement, the start of a cropped, heavily cabled little jacket top, with side and back slits, something after the style of Elsebeth Lavold's Ragna, in blue mousse merino.

Here you can see the first panel for the back, and the second in progress above it. They, and the panel for each front, will be joined after two pattern repeats to work to the armhole shaping and after that we'll see. Maybe an Elizabeth Zimmermann raglan decrease to bring the whole thing in to the neckline, including sleeves worked in the round up to the same point (might put a sleeve slit in too).

That mousse is quadrupled to bring it up to chunky weight - not in the mood for millions of stitches right now, want quick gratification.

Which way of thinking is of course because we've just finished Round Four of Sock Madness

Lucky Diamond, designed for Round 4 of Sock Madness by Melissa Goodale.

and although the design was delightful and the result very happy indeed, these fingers don't want to see tiny stitches and endless rounds for another while. Not in fierce competition anyway (you wouldn't believe how fast some of these speedsters knit, especially the Norwegians!)

UK Ravelry Day is on June 6 in Coventry and you wouldn't believe how difficult it is to arrange a quick there-and-back-in-a-day, which is the method of travel most favoured by Celtic Memory. To put it succintly, you can't. Having explored all the options, including camel train to Ulan Bator, onward donkey to Ladakh, flight to Gander and connecting flight to the Outer Hebrides, finally accepted the inevitable and made a long weekend of it. Still, people like Northernlace are genuinely making major multiple-stop trips to get there (Kirkwall to Inverness and onward, anyone?) so CM can hardly complain at having to use Aer Lingus, get in on Friday afternoon, and not leave until Sunday afternoon, since our national airline clearly doesn't believe anybody needs to travel to Birmingham on a Saturday. Added to which, they have the lowest weight allowance for cabin baggage of any short-haul airline I know (half that of Ryanair), which further adds to the load of Celtic grievance. Large raincoats with tons of poachers' pockets are clearly indicated, to assist the carefully-measured, regulation size rucksack, and never mind that it will be June.

Cold enough for May right now, though. The flowers are emerging, as are the young leaves, since they really can't leave it any longer, but they haven't got that vigorous spring in their step that we find when it's muggy warm and damp as it usually should be at this time of year. The clematis is spectacular though, and one particularly energetic plant in the back garden gives me joy every time I look at it. I had fully intended to trim this very tall tree in the hedge last winter but didn't get round to it (knitting or something), and when I saw how the clematis had used it, I was very glad I hadn't.

Can you see how it's climbed right up and thrown its sprays around the very top of the tree? Do you know what it reminds me of? That famous portrait of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria (Sissi) with diamonds in her hair. Let me see if I can find an image.

Yes, here's one. Well, I can see the comparison anyway. Always wanted a climber to create that effect on a dark tree, and now the clematis has done it for me. Thank you, clematis!

The lily of the valley, with their seductive scent, are blooming too, recalling memories of First Communions and confirmations when our veils were garlanded with the little perfumed bells. Picked a little bunch to keep on the desktop, to remind me that this is Maytime.

I hope the flowers are blooming for you too. Or if you are still shivering in winter, that they are nevertheless there, just underneath the ground, waiting to gladden your heart when warmer weather returns.

Oh To Be In England When The Yarn Is There...

Took a quick dash last week, across to the UK. All this activity with the sock machine and, more recently, nervous essays in the operation of a battered old Brother flatbed machine, meant that MORE CONED YARN was needed. And the one place well known to Celtic Memory as having all kinds of wonderful one-offs and strange finds is Uppingham Yarns, tucked away in Rutland, England's tiniest county. I used to live in Rutland and visited this treasure trove often - in fact it probably provided the baseline for the Celtic Memory stash which now requires an entire basement room of its own and is starting to murmur about really needing an independent yarny house in the grounds with not only a basement but an attic and big windows and - sorry, where was I? Oh yes, Uppingham Yarns.


Rutland, although tiny, is a very old region and thus well placed on the Great North Road, the ancient route from London to Scotland (or Scotland to London if you prefer). Some may refer to it rather prosaically as the A1 but to me it's always the romantic Great North Road. It's quite possible to nip into Stansted airport on the early morning flight from Cork, grab a rental car, and be in Uppingham by eleven in the morning.




Now Uppingham Yarns is not one of your predictable little LYSs. It does have some ball banded yarns, true, but not many. Its huge attraction is in its vast range of coned goodies, stacked high on tall shelving units in numbers of rooms. Aladdin's Cave has nothing on this place!





Heaven bless the Traylen family who opened their business back in 1980 to provide ex-industrial supplies for home knitters, whether hand or machine. That's Nick there, explaining the difference between two gauges of cashmere (be still my beating heart). You might well have met Nick at various Woolfests or Ally Pally knit days, but his stand at those events, delightful though it may be, isn't a patch on the home ground.





This is the Shetland room - all of those lovely shades are the repeatable ones, I think, but round the sides and down at the back, you find smaller cones, discontinued colours, one-offs - you know, the kind that is even more fun to track down than the always-available sort.





Every room has more treasures, aisles to be explored carefully and painstakingly, not a corner left searched. You simply never know what you're going to find.




It's hard not to get carried away in the fancy section, where the most incredible Italian ribbons and glitters and eyelashes are piled in profusion. You get new ideas for designer combinations on every shelf.





This room is devoted to cotton. And silk. And silk tops for spinning. And some hemp. And more. Small wonder that after five minutes in the building I suggested kindly to DH that he might prefer to wander around the picturesque little town and take pictures while I totally lost myself. Being an understanding soul he did - so the images you see here were all taken fairly early on in the visit, and then he left me to get gently hysterical in peace.



Not before we made a couple of nice discoveries though -





I just don't remember these from my last visit, so maybe Nick Traylen has only just put them on display. My mother had just such an old high-standing heavy iron flatbed machine as this. I still have one of the sweaters she made me on it.






And look at this lovely thing! A sock machine with lots of shiny brass, and its own useful iron table with handy inset containers for needles and hooks and things.







But this one I'd never come across before. A circular knitting machine, but a tiny one. It has only about six needle slots. It has to be a cord maker, right? Fascinating. Love it!





Had a most enjoyable couple of hours, going around each room, going back again, starting in the opposite direction, taking turns around shelves from unexpected angles, scouring dark corners - you know how much fun it can be. And got some pretty nice loot to play with over the next while (thank heaven DH had a spacious rucksack with him as well). Always nice to revisit Uppingham Yarns and come away with treasure.

In the meantime of course, DH had been wandering happily around the town of Uppingham, which is gloriously photogenic with that unique character which rural England does so well -





The main street was basking in the warm sunshine (warm sunshine! It was pouring with rain and chilly to boot when we left Cork!) and you could hear the echo of peaceful footsteps as people went about their shopping.





The churchyard of Ss Peter & Paul was looking impossibly picturesque





- and the wallflowers were blooming on old moss-covered roofs and walls. A lovely place. I do like Uppingham and indeed all of Rutland. Multum in Parvo is the county motto, much in little.



Rutland, you may or may not know, lost its independence back in the 1970s, despite public outcry, and was hauled into neighbouring Leicestershire. The local people, however, never accepted this (a bit like Iowa taking over Nebraska maybe, or Massachusetts airily grabbing Maine) and fought constantly to get back their independent status. It is a source of gentle pride to me that I was part of that campaign, and was there in the House of Lords on the night that Rutland regained county status, in the 1990s. Good on you, Rutland! Always remember you with deep affection even though I'm back on my own native soil now.



By the way, this day trip took place during Round Three of Sock Madness, so, although you haven't seen much evidence of them, the socks were very much part of the day's activity, being worked on during the flight, in cafes, in the car when DH was driving, and even back at the airport.








A particularly lovely design this time, created by YarnYenta and called Talia's Wings.







And here's the finished pair (why does it always seem to be late at night when socks are finally done, and one has to try to photograph them under artificial light?) Very entertaining pattern to knit, and it introduced me to the sewn bind-off (they were worked toe-up, forgot to mention), which is an exceptionally useful technique, giving a stretchy attractive top to the cuff. I've already used the method on several other things, to implant it firmly in the Celtic Memory mind.





Now before Round Four of Sock Madness starts, some dyeing up has got to be done here in West Cork. No use waiting for fine weather, they'll have to hang in the greenhouse to dry. Sock yarns of course, in lovely shades of apple blossom and bluebell and all the other flowers coming out at this time of year, but also some laceweights, since so many have been asking for them. No time to lose!

Muffy the Yarnslayer Enters Sock Madness Contest!

Yes, it's true. Abandon hope all ye who hitherto thought you had a chance - Muffy has entered the arena.

Said she'd had enough and more of all this fuss and was going to show us all how it should be done. Collected a few balls of yarn, unearthed two rather vicious-looking six inch nails from her store, and dragged the lot under her cupboard. She's been clicking away busily in there ever since. Can't wait to see the results. I did point out she would have to make a set of four and she looked at me like I was daft.

Well of course you have to have four socks. How many paws does anybody have, for heaven's sake? I mean, what eegit would make - say two for example? G'wan away and don't be annoying me!

She did have some justification for her sudden decision to become a late entrant for Sock Madness (don't worry, moderators, she's created her own sub-division, called, with blinding simplicity, just Muffy, so she won't be throwing anybody else out of the running) since the one who feeds her and generally looks after her welfare has been noticeably distracted this last week or so, since the second round of the aforesaid Madness started.

The pattern for Round Two was due out on Saturday of last week, on or after 1 pm Irish time. But Celtic Memory was not at home. Nope, she was travelling with DH and was, at the appointed hour, somewhere north of Dublin on an attractive estuary where himself was photographing redshanks feeding.

It was fascinating to see how quickly the gulls had learned how to avoid finding their own food; they simply marked down a redshank, and as soon as that unfortunate creature had snaffled a juicy worm, they would descend and bully it until it reluctantly yielded its prey. Kind of reminds you of some human behaviour, doesn't it?

My mind was only half on the bird activity though, as the clock approached the fateful time. When would I hear that the pattern had been issued? The signal that would mean I had to dash for the nearest Internet access? (No, they tend not to have good websites right by the water on a muddy track, bit of an oversight really, I agree.) An hour passed peacefully. DH clicked away. I worked ferociously on a pair of Jeanie Townsend's Cathedral Socks to keep my mind from fretting. What kind of pattern will it be? Can I manage it? How long will it take? Are there others much faster than me? Why do I do this? And so on.

Then it happened. The bleep of a text arriving, followed almost instantaneously by a phone call. Bless the kinship of knitters. Chris texted to say the pattern was HERE and Rosemary in Somerset actually rang, to make sure I knew. Aren't friends great?

Overriding DH's protestations (he'd spend all day like that if he could, honestly, would we knitters spend all day on something? OK, forget I said that) I got the car turned and dashed for Malahide, a little seaside town. Big hotel on outskirts looked promising, and so it proved. Sitting in the car park gave enough of a signal on their wifi to download the pattern. Really, the things we do for knitting.

Work started immediately and didn't stop for the rest of the day. Continued while DH and a bundle (a flock? A gaggle? A gathering?) of birdwatchers watched short-eared owls at dusk -

- and even when one owl swooped low enough for me to glance up and see it in between frantic rounds of ribbing.

These are beautiful birds and not at all common in Ireland which is why we came to be up in that neck of the woods on that fine Saturday.

I think this owl was rather impressed with my knitting actually. He even made a second pass to get a closer look at the colourwork.

Oo, is that stranded knitting? Lookin' good!

Knitted late into the night in the hotel, knitted in the pre-dawn light (a mistake that, meant several rows needing to be tinked back). Even knitted all the way home (don't recommend following a chart on a bumpy twisting road for more than three hours, really don't).

But we took a break on the way, to visit Warren at Craftspun Yarns in Johnstown.

He's only just moved to this new shop in the town and was still getting the stock in order.

But it's a glorious place, already almost full of the most divine yarns, and big ultra-soft cushiony balls of roving too, of several different types. (Yes, yes, he does ship, check his website.)

If I hadn't already bought tons from him, I'd have snaffled even more of these irresistible fibre goodies. But I did come away with a cone of divinely soft Aran weight Blue Faced Leicester yarn. Well, it'll always come in handy, won't it?

It took a good two and a half days to finish those socks, a beautiful two colour pattern designed by Tricia Weatherston, and called Tokena, the Maori word for sock. It's ages since Celtic Memory has done any colourwork and on size 2mm needles it can be a bit hard on the hand muscles. In fact the thumb joint is still aching. But it was worth it. It's no harm to push your abilities now and again, and the result was pretty satisfying.

Of course the usual thing happened: having completed the socks in fairly quick time, found it impossible to stop knitting the darn things. And this is where Celtic Memory has been having a great deal of fun. A LOT of fun.

You remember that lovely old sock knitting machine I inherited? Well, thanks to the assistance of several helpful friends on Ravelry, it is now working fairly well (no you can't do complex colourwork on it unfortunately, believe me I thought of it!) so the time seemed right for a little bit of experimentation. You see, although I can now crank out tubes of knitting with the best of 'em, I haven't quite mastered turning heels and shaping toes yet. So lots and lots of practice tubes.

Until - like Paul on the road to Damascus, a blinding light hit me. Why not turn these tubes into socks with the addition of some hand knitting? Simple? Undoubtedly. Somebody thought of that already? Probably. But I genuinely thought of it by myself and that's always the best way.

Drum roll please. Remember Celtic Memory decrying cutting, steeking, any form of disfigurement of a piece of knitting? Well -

Here is a tube of beautifully soft merino knit being deliberately cut! Actually it only needed one tiny snip of one stitch and then some careful unpicking. But it was a first, a definite first, and nearly gave me a heart attack. That divided the tube into two. Then picked up stitches at one end on each piece (a 2.5mm needle was just right to match the machine stitches) and knitted the toes.

Then came the heel. Another terrifying, deliberate, counter-to-all-previous-learning snip.

Thank heaven for the training received in last year's Sock Madness. I knew how to do an afterthought heel. Hadn't ever tried it from raw stitches before, but it worked. IT WORKED!

Knitting the tube, about ten minutes. Finishing heels and toes, one evening. A bit of dip-dyeing and drying.

Ta-DAH!

HowZAT?

OK, so they're plain, no patterning, cabling, lace or other decorative stitchwork there. But they were so much fun to make. And already there are ideas forming for stripy heels and toes, colourwork cuffs at the top, so many other options. You just do all that long boring bit first, and then have fun with the decorative bits.

I'll probably be drummed out of the Sock Machine group for doing it this way round, and similarly from all the handknitting sock groups, but it's such a satisfying combination of hand and machine that I'm mad about it. And I've tried cutting a single stitch and it doesn't make everything fall apart! Isn't life full of fun surprises?

Made some new friends at the weekend: Linda and her family were over from Montana to explore West Cork and Kerry, so we met up in Killarney and went down to Kerry Woollen Mills. We saw all that lovely traditional bainin yarn, and also some delectable Jacob wool fingering weight.

Here is Andrew Eadie showing Linda a new design he's rather pleased with, a beautifully soft felted knit jacket.

And here is Linda, wearing one new jacket, carrying another, with husband Bruce and daughter Kimberley, ready to head off to Killorglin for more adventures. And she brought me a skein of Mountain Colors from Montana too, bless her! Hope the rest of the trip goes really well for you Linda, and that the weather holds out.

That same weather has been a bit mixum-gatherum here for the past few weeks. Went out one day about a fortnight ago to explore some lesser-known tracks over the mountains above Inchigeelagh.

It was dank and drizzly and not at all pleasant. Just look at that mountain road winding ahead for miles. It puts you in mind of Bilbo Baggins bumping along on his pony and wishing with all his heart he was safe at home with the kettle just beginning to boil.

Yet a week later, the lambs were gambolling in the fields -

the wild plants were already flowering -

- and even on the driveway at home, a determined little clump of violets had pushed their way up through the tarmac.

If you celebrate Easter, then a joyous Eastertide to you. If you celebrate other festivals, then happiness to you this springtime.

Of March Parades, Sock Madness, And Lost Villages

It's been a busy time. Was committed to two parades on St. Patrick's Day so a blustering bright morning found me setting up the trailer at Ballinagree, aided by a helpful piper.

It was the Kromski's first ever public appearance but it took to the open air and the birdsong and the general attention very calmly indeed. And, after adjusting to the stops and starts and bumps, I found it was quite possible to spin the Corriedale as we chugged into the village.

Yes, it's a small place, Ballinagree, but every single man, woman and child that wasn't in the parade turned out to cheer it on. Here we are outside the pub. I'm at the back, sitting on the old wooden settle with Eileen who's crocheting; in the middle are Deirdre with her Ashford Traveller, and Kathy knitting an endless scarf, while in front, standing up, is Sue demonstrating the drop spindle. People really did seem fascinated by it all, and I have lively hopes of resurrecting a once proud Irish tradition, pushed into the background by too-swift progress.

Hey all those of you down there in New Zealand who remember Deirdre with affection, here she is, getting in the warming coffee in the pub after the parade! She's getting married next month is Deirdre, and of course doing all the preparations herself from wedding dress to bridesmaids, so she's got quite enough on her plate, but she turned out for the parade like the good committed spinner that she is.

It was lively outside the pub too. We even had a harpist rattling out the tunes along with the fiddles and squeeze boxes and bodhrans. Real genuine traditional village entertainment, not created by PR companies or TV stations at all.

Nora Casey from the Alpaca Stud decided in the end that it would be enough to lead just one young lad on the day, and it's as well she did, since Vinnie, although he started out well enough, decided he'd have a rest right in the midst of the whole thing, and nothing could move him.

People shouted helpful advice, Nora tugged and pulled, the parade marshals couldn't quite keep their laughter under control, but Vinnie wasn't going anywhere.

Go away and leave me be. Moidering and messing me about. I'll walk in no more parades this day and that's the truth of it.

Eventually Pat stopped his tractor and came down to lend a hand. They lifted Vinnie into the trailer with all his pals, which is what he'd intended in the first place, and he rode in style to Macroom for the second parade.

Here we are waiting for the off in Macroom. We were really lucky with the weather - normally St. Patrick's Day is an excuse for a real downpour (not that the Irish climate really needs an excuse, it does it anyway).

Here are the Woodland String Band from Philadelphia, bringing a touch of American glitz and professionalism to the streets of Macroom town.

It was a grand day.

Two days later, it was Sock Madness 3 - or Sock Madness Forever as it's now called - and there wasn't time to think, let alone post.

The pattern came down at about midday West Cork time and by evening I was able to post a progress pic.

I put them on this Drunkard's Path pillow because the lovely pattern by Ronni (Raspberry on Ravelry) was based on that quilting design. The yarn is one of my own self-striping experiments - didn't turn out quite as intended (do they ever?) but liked it a lot all the same.

On course to finish within my two day record.

Only... the next morning dawned bright and beautiful and DH wouldn't hear of the day being spent indoors knitting. Off to West Cork with us, to gather even more material and pictures for The Book. OK, I could live with that. What did an extra day matter? The socks could come too.

Here they're being worked on Sheep's Head, on an absolutely deserted small boreen winding high above Bantry Bay. Nobody in sight or hearing, even though 'twas a Saturday (well Sophy Wackles was there, but she's being kept out of the picture for the moment).

Oh all right, here she is with some spring narcissi. Can you see the thread of sock yarn in her topknot?

And here is one of the socks, among some early wild violets (know what to call the colourway now, don't I?)

We had a good day, wandering on the lesser-frequented byways and looking for hidden beautiful places.

Like this green lane wandering up to a farmhouse on Three Castle Head -

- and this ruined village beyond Lissagriffin. You'll have to look closely to see the little stone houses blending into the landscape, with the gorse and the bracken and the ivy gradually taking them over, but the more you look, the more of them you'll see. Echoes of the past is the phrase that always comes into my mind when I see a place like this. Those tiny fields, the little houses that once held whole families, the lanes where children ran and men drove cattle - all now silent under the sun and the wind from the sea.

Oh the socks did get done, in only a little over the two days, so there is time to relax and rest the hands before the next round.

They really are divinely comfortable (now that the stitch marker left inside by accident has been located and gently removed) and I'm very happy with them. But of course it's impossible actually to stop knitting the darn things now. Found a pair of Jeanie Townsend's Cathedral Socks that I'd been working on (before Christmas for heaven's sake), and worked out where I was in the pattern (not always an easy task). They'll keep me going until Round 2. The hand resting can wait.