The Year Of Living Dangerously - It's My Blog-Versary!

Who could have thought a year could make so much difference? Twelve months ago today, I started a weblog page, not knowing the slightest thing about the medium. And now... Friends all over the world, wonderful companions at the click of a button, acquaintances everywhere, advice, guidance, sympathy, laughter, teasing, as much as and more than anyone could hope for. Gang, you've given me an amazing year and I'll be showing my gratitude. All this week I'm going to be giving away PRESENTS. I'll pick you at random from my comments box most days between now and Sunday next, so keep tuned, you never know.

But a couple of those presents are already earned. In first place, stand forth Angie, who got me started on this amazing Avenue of the Internet last July 9. You gave me the idea, laughed down my apprehensions, encouraged my attempts, and gave valiant and inexhaustible assistance by email throughout those frantic first few days (haven't we all been through that baptism by fire?), even calling upon your DH and Holly to contribute help when your own knowledge did not suffice. Angie, you are a supremo. And since I know you always wanted some of that Celtic Memory designer yarn, two skeins of Torc Waterfall are already on their way to you.

This picture doesn't do justice to the yarn, but it is a grey gloomy day here chez Celtic Memory, and DH wasn't available to work miracles with flashes and things.

Here's the rather splendid waterfall which inspired this particular colourway: if you look closely at both, and use your imagination, you might be able to see all that lovely moss and white spray and lush greenery replicated in the yarn. Or not. I can anyway. Hope you like it, Angie. Thanks for everything.

And secondly, for making me laugh until I actually cried (and doing the same for DH when he came looking to see what was up with all these strange sounds coming from the study), Ms. Knitingale. If you haven't seen her post about the hot night and the two cats, go look at it now. But don't risk it if you've had stitches put in lately. It is no small talent to give laughter to all your readers and I value it when I am lucky enough to find it. Ms. K, you are a brilliant and wicked writer. I adore you. A surprise package on its way to you.

Now, to knitting matters. Delighted you all liked the West Cork Smock. I should be delighted to write it up properly and make it freely available to all of you - if someone technologically-minded will offer to help me on the how-do-you-link-this-to-that bits.

And here, at last is a picture of the finished Pomotamus sock.

Sorry about the background, I realise it's a bit gloomy and grey, but we've had such wet weather it really wasn't practical to take P down to the squelchy mosses, no matter how greenly beautiful they are as a setting. Already working on the leg of Sock 2. Whoever said the second one was much easier is right - it is. However, watching a TV show that requires any mental commitment at all is a definite no-no. As is trying to read at the same time. Total concentration required for this one. But utterly worth it. Ms. K, try it again. It will get better. Really it will!

Started on the baby gansey (and thank you, Dez, for christening it an elven gansey - that's exactly right. Maybe I could gift it to Dobby the House Elf as part of my Harry Potter KAL contribution?).

For some reason, though, it was inordinately difficult to perform the very simple task of overlapping the front and back mini-welts so as to start the main body of the tiny thingy in the round. I slipped stitches, I swore, I lost stitches, I started again - it's inexplicable that such a clearly explained and clearly understandable exercise should cause so much trouble. There are only four stitches involved at each side, for heaven's sake, and all you have to do is put two in front of two and p. 2 tog twice. How difficult is that? DH looked in at midnight to see me wrestling and swearing and wisely went off to bed. I followed once I'd finally conquered this unexpected obstacle. Looks a little strained after the struggle, but it's done. Now to create tiny initials in seed stitch. Mine? Celtic Memory's? Dobby's?

The new sock yarn that I got from lovely Andy Hammand is a delicious blend of superwash merino and tencel. Superwash, you note. That presumably means some of you, if so minded, can chuck the resultant socks into the machine. And I gather lots of people do. But honestly, is that any way to treat handknitted treasures? I always wash mine by hand - I keep a bottle of gentle wash, or even a shampoo I don't want, next to the handbasin in the bathroom and whisk them through in a moment. And they look so nice hanging on the line!

Reading from left to right, we have here Mad Bluebell Dance followed by my new Summer Lavender colourway in merino/tencel, the Austrian socks, the Sea Cave colourway, Blackberry Pie socks, Birchwoods colourway, and lastly but not leastly, a rather classy cashmere/silk in yellows and oranges, which I have notionally christened Harvest. Listed all the sock yarns and the cashmere/silk on eBay last night, all with the Celtic Memory tag for ease of finding, while the socks are now airing happily in the sitting room which gets a lot of sun when there is any in this corner of the world (no, I keep them out of the direct sunlight you know-it-all at the back, just use the warmth to ensure they're properly dry, and they look so decorative while they're airing that they're a delight to see).

You might notice that the newly dyed yarns are less violent and contrasting than most you find, and that was intentional. I've been noticing lately that although I fall as heavily as anyone else for the gorgeous mixes of colour you can get these days, when it comes to knitting up anything with a distinctive pattern, all your hard work kind of tends to get lost in the frantic blur of colours. So I went this time for the 'less is more' technique, using subtle shadings and swirls to enhance and offset the natural creamy-white of the merino/tencel. (All right, all right, the superwash merino/tencel!) This way, the knitter's expertise and skill won't be lost in a clash of raspberry-meets-emerald-meets-black. I've taken it even further for a skein I dyed for my own use, spraying just the lightest touch of blush pink on to the natural colour, so that when the second pair of Pomotamus gets on to the needles, the glorious pattern will show in all its beauty, with just a faint tinge of pink here and there, like the tips of daisies in spring.

(That's how it appears in the mind anyway. The reality may be somewhat different. Keep you posted.)

Tonight we go to hear Elton John (no connection to the blog-versary, just a grateful client). And tomorrow Sophy Wackles goes to the vet to be neutered. It's good for her, it's virtually risk-free, it's wise (several past dogs barely survived the mid-age womb infection that can strike without warning), but I'm pretty hung up about bringing in a radiantly healthy little doglet for an operation. Even leaving her there will be traumatic. If it isn't too silly and self-centred a thing to ask in a world where I realise far more serious things are happening, keep her in your mind. She's only little.

Oh Help, I'm In Love With Ganseys!

I should have had more sense. I bought Beth Brown Reinsel's book at Woolfest because I'd heard good things about it. I had not, however, bargained on falling totally, completely and utterly in love with ganseys after reading just the first couple of pages.

I mean, it's not as if I'm a total stranger to the style. I've known ganseys most of my life. Even knitted a few in my time. And some of you may remember an unfinished struggle with Alice Starmore's terrifying Eriskay (perhaps that adjective should be applied to Starmore rather than her design?), which has yet to be resolved - sometime.

Yet reading Reinsel's persuasive seductive text, you get totally carried away with the whole idea. Suddenly life doesn't seem worthwhile without at least one gansey on the needles. The thought of living another year without conquering shoulder straps, underarm gussets, lapover welts is unbearable. You have to make one and now.

And this is where I love this woman. She offers instant gratification (now that I come to think about it, she clearly knew the effect her purple prose would have on fanatical knitters, didn't she?) As by far the best method of playing yourself into the intricacies of gansey-making, she advises that you start immediately on -

A mini gansey!

A tiny, adorable, miniscule supremo design, only a couple of inches wide. Isn't that just sweet? I'm off to make it immediately. I have some fine Cheviot in natural that will be just right. And she is absolutely spot on of course. By the time you've completed this gansey for a lucky leprechaun, a fortunate goblin, a pouting pixie, you'll have tried and worked out all the usual pitfalls. Great idea and what a good way to learn! Peg, didn't you do something small and fun at your Quadra Island retreat like this? I'm totally hooked on the tempting sample notion. Let's have more.

Oi! you cry. How about all those other projects? Do we detect a case of start-itis? No you do not. In the first place (and Dez will, I know, bear me out here), creating miniature sample ganseys comes under swatching, and swatching, as everyone is aware, is Good Practice, To Be Encouraged (see Kashmir Knitting Summit, Report VII(c), Subsection iii, footnote x). In the second place, I'm using a yarn that has been sitting neglected on the shelf for years - so Reducing Stash, see? And in the third place, none of you trust me in the first place!

And - AND -

I've finished the smock-thingy, so there!

Back view -

- and demonstration that it does indeed work well with armfuls of dogs.

I'm pretty pleased with this one. I'll make it again, maybe a tad wider for comfort. Looks like a sweater, you say? Well, yes, except for the really nice wide neck which allows it to be pulled on and off easily. The pockets too are not all that usual on sweaters, although not unknown. But those of you who suggest that the split sides and the yoke patterning are distinctly reminiscent of ganseys - well, you might have a point. Started this before I saw the Reinsel book though, so perhaps I was wandering in that direction all the time and never knew. Oh how have I lived thus far without gansey-going? How can I sit here typing when a baby gansey is crying out to be born? Soon, soon. Who needs to cook meals, do the ironing, write articles, when baby ganseys are crying? Not me.

Now - how is the Summer of Socks going in the Celtic Memory camp? Not very fast is the answer, I'm afraid. One Pomatomus is complete, the other started. Tried to take a picture of the finished one - it really is rather nice - but the camera is refusing to play.

(I should like to express gratitude at this point, nevertheless, to the Ghost of The Lord Crewe Arms who woke me up nice and early that morning last week so I could work on the sock for several hours.)

The gorgeous Knitivity Watermelon lace socks are going very slowly. Very slowly indeed.

I am trying to accept the fact that I probably started with too fine a needle and should go up a size. I don't want to know this. But I'll have to face it soon. I just hope this scrumptious yarn will forgive me for treating it so badly if I have to frog and start again. But it probably will. It's classy through and through. But at the moment it is taking millions of rows to advance even an eighth of an inch. You can't even see progress. At this rate it will be the next millenium before I finish them. The frogpond it will have to be. I'll weep tears over it, but I'll treat the yarn very gently and promise it to be more careful on the next attempt.

And then there are the Birch Leaf socks, Nancy Bush's lovely design from A Gathering of Lace.

These are progressing rather gradually too. Part of the problem there is that it's a new chart, I'm unfamiliar with the pattern as yet, and it's tiny. I need to take the chart somewhere to get it enlarged to a point where it can be read without recourse to a powerful microscope. That, or chart it out myself on graph paper. Whatever. They're beautiful socks, inspired by some Estonian designs Nancy Bush saw, and I'm working them with homespun yarn that I bought in the Finnish birch woods, so they ought to be perfect. Once I get happy with the chart.

Some of you observed that I was very restrained at Woolfest. Well, you didn't actually see those cones of merino-tencel I got from Andy Hammand, did you? Let me tell you, getting my strangely bulky cabin bag past the eagle-eyed staff at the airport wasn't easy! But Laurie M, when you observed that you saw dyeing adventures ahead, you were spot on! There have been lots of dyeing adventures chez Celtic Memory over the last few days. Pots boiling, microwaves humming, sinks full, dogs with cherry-coloured paws. The merino-tencel you will see in due course - after a basic dyeing, the skeins are now going to get little paintings of this and that to make them into masterpieces. But in the meantime -

here are some skeins of soft roving, dyed up for a Special Project. A project that may well involve FELTING. Yes, courage has returned and another attempt will be made. Not on the French Market Bag - the wounds are still a bit sensitive there - but on another rather nice project. I'll keep you posted on that one.

Now - baby gansey, baby gansey, I hear you calling me... I'm on my way!

Hadrian's Wall To A Haunted Inn

Sorry for the delay on the second section of this travel tale. Journalistic crises have kept us both rather busy over the past couple of days and this is the first time there has been a chance to write Part Two.




Northumberland was as beautiful as I remembered. I lived there for three years quite some time ago and loved it almost as much as my home country. It's not a bit like the south of England, much more wild and empty and remote. We headed straight from the airport to the old military road which runs roughly parallel with the A69 between Newcastle and Carlisle and follows, along much of its length, the course of Hadrian's Wall.





It is always with a slight shock of disbelief that you see these stretches of stone wall sitting in the midst of expanses of moorland or field.







They can't be genuine, you think, they must have been built as replicas. But they aren't. They've been carefully excavated out of the centuries of turf and earth in which they were buried since constructed by Roman legionaries around the first century AD.








The sections which have been excavated are kept tidy and free of weeds and grass, but mostly that's good Roman handiwork you see there. Built to last.








You sometimes get a better feeling of the immensity of that great wall stretching from sea to sea by looking out over a landscape which has a high lumpy bank running right through it, and realising that underneath that grass lie still hidden solid stone walls, awaiting discovery. Amazing.


The weather was pretty appalling on this first day, by the way, and going over Hartside towards Cumbria and Woolfest, we were sorry for the diehard cyclists who had managed to make it to the top, only to find the welcoming cafe firmly closed.




Journeying on into Cumbria to Woolfest, the rains cleared enough to allow us to admire the play of light and shadow on the Lake District peaks.

We were fortunate it was a wet Friday, as on summer weekends the Lake District is usually jammed solid with tourist traffic. Nevertheless, it was a lot more crowded than we liked, so after enjoying Woolfest thoroughly, we headed back gratefully across to the moors again - this time Durham, the Land of the Prince Bishops (and believe me, those bishops didn't think they ruled the world, they knew they did! Made their fortunes out of the lead mines, most of them.)




The Durham moorlands are just as wild and remote and unpopulated as Northumbria, but theirs is the stillness and emptiness of former industrial landscapes. In the 19th century this would have been a ferment of noise and smoke and haphazard buildings. Lead mining and smelting was the principal industry, although it is now long gone and the land has retaken its own. Just here and there you find echoes of the past - empty stone cottages once occupied by families of mine workers, green tracks leading to lost villages, remnants of once vital structures.



This bit of ruinous masonry, which looks like the arch of a bridge, is actually a section of a lead flue which ran from the smelter across the valley, into the side of a hill, and out at the top into a chimney, carrying the poisonous smoke away from the valley bottom. Regrettably, the idea behind it wasn't to keep the air clean for residents but to catch any lead contained in the fumes as it concentrated on the roof of the flue. At regular intervals workers were sent into the flue itself to scrape off the lead into containers below. Not the healthiest work option, one would think. Interestingly, I noticed from an old photograph that most of the workers in the smelter wore handknitted shawls folded under their hats. It was thought this was to protect their heads from the intense heat. And no, I don't know the average life expectancy of a 19thc lead worker. Not sure I want to.


The moors, though, were beautiful now, their industrial past far behind them. We watched black grouse shepherding their families of chicks through the heather, drank in the bitingly cold fresh air (it's a lot further north than West Cork, and believe me you notice it!), and found patches of wonderful wild flowers.






Here's the gorgeous spirit doll that Ambermoggie gave me, sitting in a field of wild pansies. Don't they match her perfectly?

At length, as the evening was drawing on, we descended slowly from the moors by winding little roads, crossed back into Northumberland, and came, at last, to the haunted village of Blanchland.






It's an other-worldly place, this. I first encountered Blanchland long long ago, in my student hitchiking days. I was dropped off here mid-afternoon and instantly felt an atmosphere so strong I couldn't believe it. It wasn't unfriendly, wasn't threatening - just calmly strong. I didn't even learn the name of the village before I got another lift onwards to where I was headed, but many years later, when I was living in Northumberland, I discovered it again. It was once the abbey of the White Friars, but when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and gave their rich lands to his favourites, the gentle reign of the friars was over. Or was it...? People say that the friars are still there, still watching over their beloved community within its ancient stone walls.






This is what officially remains of Blanchland Abbey - the old church in its atmospheric graveyard.






It's a beautifully peaceful place, relaxing to wander in, with no sense of gloom at all - rather the opposite in fact. It's a strangely happy place.

And right next to it - its wall abutting right on to the graveyard - is the Lord Crewe Arms.





Where that black car is parked on the left of the picture is the abbey church and graveyard. The left-hand end of the inn is the oldest part, the pele tower. The Lord Crewe Arms was in fact part of the abbey, the section where guests were housed and the abbot had his own quarters, so it still continues its ancient tradition of hospitality to travellers.





We're talking about a fairly venerable building here, you understand. In the main hall, that's the fireplace on the left. They put an additional dining table in there now when occasion demands, but it's still the fireplace, with a vast chimney going right up to the roof. You can stand inside and look up. And if you do that, this is what you see.




You're standing right inside the fireplace in this picture and up above eye level in front of you is the now open priest's hole. These were the hiding places for priests or others on the run from enemy forces, only accessed through a concealed trapdoor. In this house, Dorothy Forster hid her brother from the Jacobite soldiers for many months, terrified that he would be found and taken. He survived, however, as did she. Unfortunately, being a woman, and therefore a pawn in the power games, she was married off to the Bishop of Durham, by which ploy the family were enabled to keep their estates (don't ask me, I didn't arrange it).

And whether because she was unhappy or because she cannot forget the anguish and terror of hiding her brother, Dorothy Forster continues to pace through the Lord Crewe Arms to this day, often surprising guests in one particular room by wandering past their bed in the middle of the night. She doesn't harm anyone, doesn't say anything - just goes on pacing past, lost in her own worries. She isn't giving away much in this portrait, which hangs on a wall of the inn.

No, we didn't stay in that room, it was already taken. It usually is, since most people can't pass up the chance of seeing a real, well-authenticated ghost. Instead our most courtly host, Alexander Todd, put us in the room directly over that one, at the very top of the pele tower. This would have been the place to which the monks retired precipitately at the sound of alarm and attack, hauling up a ladder so that they could remain safe until danger was past.






It's been done up a bit since the twelfth century though, a few home comforts added. Including a bed. Quite a nice bed too. And an exceptionally comfortable one. We passed a quiet night in peaceful slumber with no alarms or excursions of any kind.


Disappointed? Well.....


It's not that I have a story to tell. It's not really anything. Like that incident I described last Hallow-E'en, it's not that anything of real note actually happened. And yet...


Well here it is. Richard woke up at 5 am and decided to head up on to the moors for one more session with the black grouse. I decided to stay comfortably in bed, perhaps make a cup of tea later on, and work on the Pomotamus sock (hah, you thought there would be no knitting content in this post, didn't you?) So he went happily off, and I slid back into a relaxed doze...


Some time later, I was aware of quiet footsteps coming across the room. I drowsily thought it must be later than I'd realised and Richard was back. But he didn't announce his return as he would normally do. Then I thought (this is ridiculous I know, but it made sense at the time) that perhaps our landlord had heard Richard going out early, had wondered if we'd both flown the coop without paying, and was coming up to check. Now he was far too courteous a man to do any such thing, but that's what I thought, so I decided I'd better open an eye and reassure him.


Only there was no-one there. Surprised, I sat up, and looked around at the empty room. It was only then I realised that any visitor would have had to unlock and open the door, quite a noisy and creaky operation in a building like this. 'Funny', I thought, and, feeling sleepy, slid back down again under the covers.


Ten minutes later the same thing happened. Quiet footsteps crossing the room from the door to the window, past the foot of the bed. This time I jerked up in bed, muttering, 'For heaven's sake!' Only once more there was absolutely nobody there.


No, there was no sense of dread, no threat at all. No cold chills, no manic laughter. In fact it was oddly comforting, happy, just like it felt in the old churchyard. But nevertheless I got up, made a (strong) cup of tea, and had worked quite a few pattern repeats on Pomotamus before Richard came back.


That's all. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't imagination. I genuinely thought it was somebody coming into the room. Only whoever it was didn't use the door...


It was only afterwards that I read the history of the inn downstairs over breakfast. Apparently some people staying in that room a year or two before had woken in the night to see a monk kneeling in prayer near the bed. And they weren't frightened either, even reached out to touch him - and he disappeared.


Did I slip into another time? Or was I in a place that was so suffused with the spirit of the past that past and present exist side by side? If ghost it was, then all such experiences should be so happy and reassuring.

What A Wonderful Woolfest!

Back safely after a wonderful couple of days. Only across the Irish Sea in Northern England, but it was all so much fun and so full of lovely experiences that the memories will last for a long time. The trip around Northumberland and Durham deserves a posting to itself, so that will be kept for tomorrow. Tonight's is all about Woolfest, which was held at Cockermouth in Cumbria.




There were several delightful aspects to this event. In the first place, it was held in a huge and practical arena which probably serves as a cattle mart during the rest of the year. It was spacious, airy, and had a pleasant air of the muddy outdoors about it - as far removed as you could imagine from the stuffy claustrophobia of London events. Even the people attending were sensibly attired in outdoor gear, with not a pair of high heels in sight - not when I was there anyway. It was a pleasure to walk around with lots of fresh air and glimpses of blue sky at intervals, and to see live sheep penned in comfy stalls among the professional stands.


Secondly, it had the most marvellous range of things to see as well as to buy, with lots of people demonstrating how to make felt, peg rugs, knit socks, spin yarn, shear sheep - there was even a Norwegian demonstration of nalebinding or netting-knitting - that last is my term, not theirs, and apologies to those of you who know more about this ancient technique than do I. Got a leaflet on it, and will try, although I fear the intricacies of winding loops around your thumb are going to escape me when there isn't a kind instructor on hand.


And thirdly, and most amazingly for me, I met so many friends! People I've been corresponding with over the past year, people with whom I've exchanged so many confidences, swapped so many hints, but never seen in person until now.





One of the very first people I met was none other than Ambermoggie, dear Amber! It seemed as if we'd always known each other - indeed we recognised each other outside the building, on the way in! She's holding the most marvellous spirit figure which she had made and brought for me. How did she know the colours of the jacket I would be wearing that day? But then, I shouldn't have been surprised. These things come naturally to her. Amber, it was so lovely to meet and hug and talk. The first of many meetings.


And then I had to seek out the stand of someone with whom I've been exchanging frantic yarn-based emails for ages - the lovely Andy Hammand, probably the last supplier of undyed yarns in England.






Andy had brought along some amazing yarns to Woolfest, including a particularly nice wool/nylon sockweight which is a perfect match for any Opal pattern, as well as some divine rovings.

Right next door to Andy was the effervescent Jenni of Fyberspates (and how she creates those colourways in her yarns I will never know).

A few aisles over, I finally tracked down Natalie of The Yarn Yard. I was one of Natalie's first customers when she started selling her superb hand-dyed yarns on eBay, and we're firm emailing friends now, but we hadn't met until Woolfest.

Here she is, showing me her mouthwatering new range of organic hand-dyed yarns. These are so gorgeous you just can't resist them. Go look at her site and you'll see what I mean.

And I still wasn't done with meeting friends! Checking through the delectable glitter cones on the stand of my old acquaintances, Uppingham Yarns, I was hailed by none other than Jo - or, as I have to call her in the interests of clarity, UK Jo (that's why I now sign my comments Jo at Celtic Memory Yarns, so you won't confuse us).

Since we'd never met in real time before, I asked, somewhat bewildered, how on earth she had recognised me. Jo just laughed and said, 'For heaven's sake, there you were, standing with your arms full of yarn cones, just like in your blog picture - who else could it be?' Lovely girl - and do you see that great skull and crossbones, with a bell on it? Super-cool!

Oh the stands, and the stalls, and the sheep, the things to see and the THINGS TO BUY!

Rovings in every colour of the rainbow.

The most adorable tiny felted boots.

A full-sized yurt with felted panels (felt was really big in every way at Woolfest).

Remember the discussion on sock machines a few postings ago?

This wonderful gentleman collects them, mends them, advises on them, and generally keeps the craft alive and well in England (no, he wouldn't sell any of his, and I don't blame him. I wish he would, but I don't blame him).

Look at the great jackets these two stallholders are wearing?

and the amazing wallhanging made by Nickie Kirkby who keeps a flock of rare Gotland sheep.

I was fascinated by this method of making rugs with pegs, string and raw wool. Got to try that!

I met angora goats -

and a pair of ultra-dignified alpacas (wouldn't you just love to bury your hands in that coat?)

and even a very rare Manx Loghtan (presumably there are no narrow gateways or low washing lines on the Isle of Man).

Stayed far longer than I had intended, but eventually tore myself away to find Richard (who had retired to the nearest hill to search for birdlife) and head back to Northumberland.

What did I buy? Not all that much really. A few books - one on knitting ganseys, one on freeform knitting and crochet, one on feltmaking. A wraps-per-inch thingy - don't really need it, but it was so nice to see it freely available that I indulged. Some serious cones of merino-tencel sockweight from Andy Hammand.

And, as an extra treat, 100g of baby alpaca roving.

(As a postscript to this, when my bag was going through the security check at Newcastle Airport the next day, the woman watching the screen looked perplexed, hesitated, and then asked me, 'Is it loaves of bread you have in there?' I hastily explained that it was another essential of life, yarn, and she nodded. Doubtfully, but she nodded.)

It was definitely, far and away the nicest wool event ever. And we went on having a nice time for a whole second day before we had to catch the plane home. But no more tonight. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the wild splendour of the Durham moors, Hadrian's Wall in Northumberland, and a haunted inn where - but no. Wait until tomorrow!

To Woolfest, To Woolfest!

Thank you, thank you all for your kind words of solace and comfort. We are feeling a little better. Sitting up and taking nourishment. We will be brave, we will grow from this experience. And yes, we will try again. We will not give up. Another bag will be made (maybe not quite so huge this time, perhaps a tiny purse, and I don't mean purse in the American sense as in 'huge holdall' but the kind of ickle pritty thing you use to keep small coins in), and we might even try a spot of hand-felting in a bowl of very hot water, just to get a feel for the skill.


And the bag that was created is a beautiful bag. That has been decided. Those of you who called it a work of art, a superb example of shibori, a sculptured piece, you have my sincere thanks. Without your generosity, that bag might have gone out wretchedly into the night, thinking it was not fit to live. Instead it will be loved and cherished. And it will at some point be decorated with Celtic interlacements to make it even lovelier.

It's not white by the way, though it does look like that in the pictures. It's a very pale green, exactly the colour of glacier melt water. And it's a roving so soft that it separates if you glance sideways at it. (Boy, have I had some practice in fusing two broken ends together...)

Oh I solved the problem of unwinding it from the big ball, by the way. Apparently it is triple-plied. Darn, if I'd known that at the beginning, I could have made the bag much faster, with all three plies and a much bigger circular. Do they usually wind these rovings in triplicate?

Now, to progress. The self-designed smock-thingy is progressing finely. Finished the front this morning.




Even sewed the pocket flaps into place immediately, because that's one of those jobs you hate doing, isn't it? Thought I'd better get it out of the way pronto. Now galloping up Sleeve 1, so as not to run out of steam before the project is done. 3/4 length for the sleeves, with big moss stitch cuffs.


It's kind of fun making something exactly the way you want. Rather like building your own house, only I don't think I could ever decide where I really wanted each room, each corner, each door or window to be. I'd always be thinking afterwards that I could have done it differently. But with this sweater it should be OK. I worked out what was needed, and then put it into practice.

The next of these practical projects will concern a much-loved jacket bought decades ago and worn so much that it is now starting to fall apart. I'm simply going to copy it, dolman sleeves, amazing colour work and all. (Listen to her, confident isn't she? Oh she's riding for a fall....)

But no more of that for now. Tomorrow we dash over to merrie England so as to be at Woolfest in Cumbria when the doors open at 10 am on Friday. Hoping to meet Ambermoggie there, and maybe Anne as well. Richard is coming too, and we're going to take in Hadrian's Wall on the way, and on the way back, a haunted inn in a haunted village (those of you who live on the Durham/Northumberland border will know exactly where I'm talking about). Full report on ghosts seen or not seen when we get back on Saturday.


No, no, of course I'm not going to buy anything! I'm just going to look, OK? Just look. I can hold back, I can restrain myself. And anyway, we're travelling light with only cabin baggage, so I couldn't possibly...

Now - remember that time I asked DH to photograph a teeny tiny inscription on my lovely circular needle from Ed Jenkins? And he said it was no different to photographing ants? Well, since so many of you pleaded for this one, here, for your eyes only, is a rare glimpse of some French ants,busily engaged in milking aphids for their daily pinta.






There now. Doesn't that make your evening?

Later.

Quite forgot to say - as I was trying to watch Wimbledon today (rained off again, it must be late June), I thought to myself that this was a very good way to get some knitting done. And then I realised that that was the very thought with which I had commenced blogging! So it's almost my blogversary! Started on July 9 last year (the rain had extended Wimbledon into a third week then, will probably do so again this time round), so PRESENTS are going to be in order for some readers. Will think about it over the weekend and post some tempting details before the great day.

A year. Well, well well. What an amazing difference it has made. The friends found, the laughter shared, the information garnered. And twelve months ago we didn't know each other!

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did till we blogged?