Of Brigit's Cloak, An Ancient Yew Forest, Bee Judgements and Bould Actors

I should have thought of it sooner, of course. Isn't it always the way, that you have studied something for years, and yet you never apply its practicalities to your own life? That back of mine wasn't getting any better, and I was still unable to sit at the computer - or anywhere else for that matter - for more than two minutes at a time without discomfort. With time to think (a rare commodity), I remembered that the morrow was Feb 1, Brigit's Day, Candlemas, Imbolc, whatever you call it in your corner of the world. And that very day, a friendly woman who runs a great coffee house in Macroom town square, had said her family had always put out the 'Brat Bride' on the eve of her festival. I'd been checking for old customs and traditions as usual, for De Next Book, and noted this down carefully as evidence of the old ways still continuing in West Cork. Somewhere between twilight and dark, the rusty penny dropped in my own brain. Why not put out the Brat Bride myself, and see would it help the back any? (It's pronounced 'brah breed-eh' by the way.) This is a length of ribbon or cloth placed on a friendly bush on Brigit's Eve where the dew or rain can fall on it, and Brigit herself can confer power upon it as she passes. Next day it is brought back into the house, dried, and kept carefully for the year ahead, to apply to anyone suffering from pain or injury. What better to use than the Advent Lace Shawl I'd knitted along on with Zemy during December? Just the right sort of thing to appeal to Brigit, I felt.

Outside the front door it went, to be carefully draped around the bay tree which stands there in a pot. Didn't dare to place it any further afield, as the wild winds would certainly blow it to Tir na n'Og and I'd never see it again. Brought it in duly on February 1, dried it, and laid it across my bed that night. Possibly it was going to happen anyway, especially with the physiotherapy I'd been getting, but my back started to improve right away.

Now it's in a place of honour on the spinning chair, ready for the next emergency. Old ways are good.

So much recovered did I feel that we headed down to Killarney in search of a very ancient yew forest, the only one remaining in Ireland, and one of just three in Europe overall. It has all kinds of official protective status now, but for me the important thing was that it had been there back in the mists of time, when trees were highly valued and believed to be the holders of considerable magical powers. Oh of course we know better these days. How could a tree be stronger or better for us than a computer chip, for heaven's sake? What benefit could a bush possibly bestow that modern technology cannot?

Here's just a glimpse of the edge of that ancient wood, which was old when the Tuatha de Danann walked this land. You'll get more when we go back in brighter spring weather to do a serious photoshoot. But let me share with you a very very venerable quotation which I discovered recently while researching De Next Book. The speaker is Fintan the seer, who claims to his hearers that he survived the Deluge and has lived in Ireland ever since, seeing kings come and go, landscapes change, while he lives ever on. ‘One day I passed through a wood of West Munster in the west. I took away with me a red yew berry and I planted it in the garden of my court and it grew up…’ Now you can't get more west Munster than Killarney, and I think that Fintan is surely speaking here of this selfsame ancient yew wood of Reenadinna, now within Killarney National Park. It gives you a strange feeling to stand silently amid those trees and moss-covered rocks, and think how long this forest has been here. Of course the individual trees grow and die (though yew has a very long life, sometimes a thousand years), but new ones spring up from their roots or their fruit, and the forest continues in an unbroken tradition.

Here is Sophy looking suitably enigmatic, almost swallowed up in the thick moss which covers every rock and fallen branch in Reenadinna.

On the way back, called in at Muckross House where a craftsman was making the traditional straw hats for the Biddy Dancers.

Here are the Biddy Dancers themselves, executing a lively jig outside the house. They even had a brideog with them, the traditional figure which used to be carried around by children on Brigit's Day, while they begged for pennies. I should point out, in the interests of historical accuracy, that this version I saw at Muckross had been pretty well Christianised with a white dress and veil. The original type would have been roughly fashioned of straw and wrapped in a scrap of cloth. But she is holding Brigit's cross of rushes which is genuinely historic. It's not really a cross, but the very ancient symbol for the sun, used by the Sumerians among many other races. That the Irish would greet the coming of spring by making sun symbols of rushes is entirely appropriate. Now where was I? Oh yes, trees and their power. Did you know that the old Irish Brehon laws provided specially for the protection of trees? They most certainly did, and the modern Tree Preservation Order is but a poor copy. Seven species were classified as Nobles of the Wood, and to damage one of these in any way brought heavy fines. They were oak, hazel, holly, yew, ash, pine and apple. After that came the Commoners, the Lower Divisions, and the Bushes of the wood, all with their own legal protection. Heck, to remove one of the noble trees entirely brought a penalty of three milch cows with their calves. That would beggar you in ancient Ireland, and certainly make you think again about random acts of devastation. But the Brehon Laws were, above all, sensible, practical, and reflective of the life of the times. Wood was valuable, trees were important. So were bees, which provided the only source of sweetness before the coming of sugar. There was a special section of the laws known as the Bee Judgements. Isn't that nice? If you kept bees, you had to give a share of their honey every third year to your neighbours, since after all the bees had gathered pollen over their fields too. See what I mean? Practical and sensible. Enough. You're probably thoroughly sick of old Irish yew woods, not to mention the bees. On to more interesting topics. Like world famous actors, for instance.

The nice thing about pottering down by the seashore for an afternoon is that you simply never know who's going to happen by. Now you might not recognise this well-wrapped up gentleman on the skewbald, but think Brideshead Revisited, French Lieutenant's Woman, Betrayal, Lolita, The Merchant of Venice, or indeed the upcoming Borgias. Yes, it's Jeremy Irons, who lives not far away along the coast, when he has time to be in Ireland. Didn't get better pictures than this, because quite honestly, we both feel that when he's at home, he wants to be treated like one of the crowd, and that's what everyone does. Have to say though that he is an amazing rider, the best I think I've ever seen. Rides long, like an American, and stays simply glued to the saddle even at full gallop. Quite something to watch... and watch...

Knitting, knitting, knitting. Yes, it's been done - lots of it. Sock Madness is upon us once more, and so far two rounds have been completed.

Here are the Nornirs from Round Two. I love this brightly dyed yarn, a present from Zemy (she of the Advent Scarf KAL). It was perfect for the Nornirs.

And do you remember that nice Hitchhiker scarf I made some time back, in Wollmeise yarn? Well, we were dashing through Amsterdam airport a week or so ago, and I thought I saw something rather familiar just in front of me in the queue:

Look at that! What are the chances of finding two Hitchhiker scarves, both worked in Wollmeise, in the queue for the Cork flight? (The lady was a little taken aback by my enthusiasm, so I promised I wouldn't show faces, just her lovely pink version of the scarf.)

Managed to get a batch of dyeing done this weekend,

and the sun came out long enough to allow them to be photographed. You wouldn't believe how wet that grass is, and how drenched the branches above! When the next downpour came, retired to the study and put all the yarns up on eBay. Mostly merino/tencels, but a couple of merino/silks too.

Now that's it, I think. Oh no, no, I forgot! We have another sock machine! Yes, really. I know, I KNOW, but how could I pass this one by? Blessings on LizLimerick who alerted me to the devastating news that there was one for sale in Annascaul. Couldn't sleep that night! Kept waking up thinking, 'I can't, I can't. But - how can I not?'

This is when the true worth of the DH comes out. He could have said, 'You're joking!' He could have said, with truth, 'Don't you think you have enough already?' But he didn't. He hauled on his heavy coat (it was a freezing day) and went out to warm up the car. What a treasure.

And it was a freezing day. You wouldn't believe that we could get snow in March in West Cork, but we did.

It was quite eerie, driving through the tiny hamlet of Glenflesk with the grey winds whistling, and seeing the mountains towering up with their filmy white mantles.

Even the unicorn which rears up proudly on the border 'twixt Cork and Kerry had drifts of snow on his western flank, showing without doubt which way the wind was blowing.

Annascaul is the village that produced Antarctic explorer extraordinaire, Tom Crean, a mild-mannered, soft-voiced man who went out with several terrifying and fateful expeditions yet survived them all to come home, open a pub, and live peacefully ever after. What a man. Ni beidh a leitheidh aris ann.

But the sock machine, the sock machine, I hear you cry! Yes, here it is, just as I saw it first, when we arrived at the house where it was waiting.

Well could you have left that behind, turned your back and walked away? No, I thought not. The sheer weight of history (we won't talk about the weight of the machine, no, not, while my back is still delicate) would stop you in your tracks.

Almost the best thing was that Derek, here seen dismantling the stand for easier transportation to the car, actually knew its history, and had been involved in it. That makes the machine so much more intrinsically valuable. It had belonged, he explained, to an elderly lady called Hilda, who lived near them in London. She had been blind from teenage days, and had been taught by the Society for the Blind to operate this machine which they found for her. So adept did Hilda get at making socks (yes, even turning the heels, a procedure I myself haven't yet ventured to try on one of these babies) that the Society would take her to festivals and fairs to demonstrate. Isn't that something? Puts me to shame, it really does, with my pusillanimous efforts. As she became more elderly, though, Hilda's arthritis wouldn't permit her to work the machine any more, and rather than let it fall into disuse, standing ina corner of her flat, she offered it to Derek and his wife. They brought it over to Ireland, and now he wanted to sell it on to someone who would actually continue to use it.

Here is a picture of Hilda herself (who has since passed away). It's taken from Derek's computer screen, so it might look a little odd, but it's wonderful to see this courageous lady, all dressed up for a special occasion. A good life, well lived. That we may all learn from you, Hilda. And thank you, Derek, for passing on the trust.

Miraculously the cafe at Inch Strand (an amazingly long beach jutting out into the ocean for miles, they filmed the horse races for Playboy of the Western World there back in the late 50s) was open, not at all a common occurrence during a chilly Irish March, so we went in and had coffee and lemon cake. The management obligingly turned a blind eye to the fact that Sophy had come in too.

Oh the fun we had unpacking! Because not only was there the machine itself (a Harrison Sun by the way) and its mightily heavy stand (made, Derek told us, by the same Glaswegian firm that made stands for deck cannon, and I wouldn't be surprised), but several sacks of yarn cones, some beautiful antique wooden cones, set-up baskets, weights, spare ribbers, cams, and all kinds of other goodies. Look at these! Genuine old wooden stocking shapers. And sixty - yes sixty - steel DPNS, about size 2.25mm as far as I can ascertain. Yes, I'll be looking to dispose of some of the spares in due course, and will let you know. Need to work out how much yarn is on the cones, that sort of thing. But the machine works delightfully, even though it desperately needs a good clean to remove the oil and gunge of half a century or more. I think it's happy to be back in use again. They built these beauties to last, and more power to them.

Welcome to your new home, a chroi istig.

In Which Snow and Ice Cause Havoc, Malign Muscles Misbehave, But Joy Cometh When Dragons Are Discovered

Just because you haven't heard from me doesn't mean that nuthin's been happenin'. Au contraire, Blackadder, au contraire! These have been strange and tumultuous times chez Celtic Memory.


First of all there was the distinctly unseasonal ice and snow which hit West Cork in early December and, liking the area, refused to leave. Yes, the rest of Ireland got it too, but down here in the balmy southern regions, we're unused to Arctic visits at any time of the year, let alone early December. February maybe, but even then, just for a fleeting overnight. Not week after week after week.


Of course it took its toll. Roads were deathtraps, gardens were frozen solid (we'll have to wait some time to know what survived there) and travel suddenly became more of a trial than a jaunt. Celtic Memory survived until just before Christmas when the little jeep hit a patch of black ice, waltzed attractively several times, bounced off a fence or two, and ended up facing a phalanx of shocked motorists coming in the opposite direction, all of whom, mercifully, were able to stop in time.


Mercifully also, Celtic Memory was not even bruised or shaken. Not a hint of whiplash. Fortunate indeed. Just the poor little car looking the worse for wear and needing TLC fairly urgently.


Of course it was coming up to Christmas which meant that everything that hadn't already closed down was in the process of so doing. And thus it was early January before I could receive the glad news that in fact the little jeep was a write-off. Gone, kaput, nevermore.

How on earth can you call it a write-off when it's perfectly driveable, I demanded. (no, not immediately, this was after the sitting-on-the-floor-screaming-my-head-off in-tears-of-rage-stage). This is my much-loved and loyal companion you're dismissing so lightly! But apparently there are write-offs and write-offs, and mine was an economic w-o as opposed to a mechanical w-o. Not worth the trouble, you see. Unless some loving mechanic with time on his hands thought it worth while.


Which is what happened in the end. I now have a smart little (boring little?) economical and modern model, and Little Jeep has gone back to the garage from whence it originated, there to be worked on in Jim's spare time over the next year or so.


I'll get used to it. I am fortunate to have a nice little car that runs for ever on a teaspoon of petrol, falls into a very low road tax band, and could slip unnoticed into any parking lot without arousing attention. On reflection, I think it's probably that last fact that is niggling me. Little Jeep had a lot of character. But hey, couldn't it have been worse?


Getting used to this of course necessitated a great many more shiny new projects, among them the lovely Revontuli shawl which I started with some balls of Karaoke a week and a half back. This exciting new interest necessitated my crouching for several hours one night on a small and hard three-legged wooden stool under a good light while I worked out the set up rows. Well, you know how it is, once you're settled into something, you don't feel like stopping to rest or stretch, do you?


During the night I felt twinges in my leg and vaguely thought I should probably go see my Chinese acupuncturist again sometime soon. Towards morning the pain was becoming insistent and I decided to pop along to my local health store that day to see what they might suggest. Came the dawn, I leapt out of bed, and immediately collapsed on the floor in agony, shrieking for DH to get me to the nearest source of painkillers, pdq, and the heck with alternative treatments. The most appalling muscle spasms were making walking, even moving or standing, an impossibility.



There followed an unpleasant week of lying in bed, trying to relax, getting up at intervals only to collapse back, and generally raging at life. All this, by the way, while trying to sort out the insurance on Little Jeep and negotiate for a replacement.


It is quite possible to knit while lying on your back. Which can be a good thing. Needing a serious distraction from despair, grabbed a book of Japanese patterns which had hitherto appeared somewhat daunting, picked up pad and pencil, and started to map out the instructions for a rather nice crop cable and moss stitch jacket.



Got DH to bring me some recently frogged and reskeined charcoal Shetland (farewell, half-finished St Enda, the urge had gone), and started working. These Japanese patterns are actually quite achievable, even without a word (a symbol?) of the language, once you give your mind to it, since they provide excellent schematics and charts. Got both fronts done and had started on the back by the time I was taking tentative steps again. Now determined to get on to those cute bell-shaped sleeves.

Of course other WIPs got finished during the Week of Hades too. Not just one, but two shawls from one skein of Wollmeise, howzat?





The Hitchhiker Scarf, by Martina Behm, with its lovely dragon's tail,

and the Klamath, a clever crochet design by Sarah Kukuchek.

The Revontuli is lying quietly to one side, untouched since that unwisely long evening. Soon, maybe.

Not back to normal yet, not by a long chalk. Onset can be swift, but recovery is slow. In the meantime, it has been well-nigh impossible to do anything at all on the computer unless it can be achieved inside of ten seconds. It is difficult to sit, stand, crouch, stay in any one position for long without cramping up. Movement or lying immobile are the only options. And that's why you haven't heard from me in a while. 'Twasn't that I didn't love you.

This morning, in despair at the latest batch of kind queries, I set up a laptop on a high surface and am standing at it right now, taking ten minutes at a time to post, interspersed with balletic exercises and stretching moves. Also of course hopping up and down stairs to retrieve images from the main computer, without which Celtic Memory's blog would indeed be a sorry thing. Let's see if this works.

Now the sharp-eyed among you will have noticed that the car contretemps happened before Christmas and all this angst and agony happened in January. Well, we did the only sensible thing in between, and went off to explore a strange and little known region between Arizona, Mexico and California, where unusual birds and odd locations might be found. Circle a compass around El Centro and Yuma (remember that old classic, recently remade, 3.10 toYuma?) and you'll be in more or less the right area.

Around that natural oddity, the inland Salton Sea, huge flocks of snow geese drift overhead at dawn and dusk, uttering their wonderful wild cries. (One of my favourite children's books is The Grey Goose of Kilnevin, by Patricia Lynch, about a fat little grey farmyard goose who is warned by the wise old gander, 'When ye hear the wild geese flying overhead, don't look up! Don't look up!, in case she is seized with the desire to fly far away with them. Yes, of course she does. Wouldn't you?)

This little beauty, Costa's Humming Bird, was one DH particularly wanted to see. Just look at that violet-blue! Would that I could reproduce it on a silky yarn. Maybe one day.

The wildlife was less cooperative here, but on the right you can see one of the Celtic Memory Endless Sock inventions, where a cuff is handworked at each end of a machine-knit tube, then the waste yarn in the centre cut and toes added to each side; and finally afterthought heels worked. Good fun, and only slightly longer timespan than knitting the entire pair by hand, but the technique's the thing, right?

Do you know Yuma? It's kind of fun, not least because of its history - the only reliable crossing, throughout time, of the Colorado River. That's because there was solid rock here, not just sand.

And the trains still cross it, constantly, day and night, as they have done since the dawn of the railways.

They've put a huge old beauty right in the centre of the town, to honour the connection. Isn't this a magnificent specimen?

I loved that you were able to climb right up into the cab and play at being an engine driver. Who wouldn't want to try that?


We did, have a secret mission on this trip, one which had to be kept absolutely under wraps because we weren't certain it could be pulled off successfully. It involved a dash into the California interior, lots and lots of secret emails, and the brilliant cooperation of this lady:




Ruth (Grandy to her many Ravelry friends) and I had agreed to try to set up a surprise meeting with one of Ravelry's liveliest and most energetic members, the witty and entertaining DragonYady. Those of you who have participated in Sock Madness over the years will know how the irrepressible DragonYady was always to the fore, thinking up new daft ideas, throwing out suggestions, sending us all off on harebrained missions hither, thither and yon. All this while having more than enough on her plate to cope with in everyday life. Once I'd asked DragonYady (MaryAnn) what she'd like from Ireland, and she said, simply, 'Just a visit from you.' At that time it hadn't seemed even feasible, but now we looked at the map, thought about it, then emailed Ruth. After a day or two of frantic messaging, the mission was on!


We drove across desert landscapes to the assigned town, arriving in time to find Ruth and husband Ron waiting as arranged at Barnes & Noble.





Ron is a real jewel. He accepted calmly and placidly the fact that daft knitting women were running and messaging all over the place to set up a lunch date. He acted as go-between with his cellphone, organising and timing arrivals to perfection. You got a good one there, Ruth!


Ruth and Ron had persuaded MaryAnn to meet them for lunch, but there was still the risk that she mightn't be able to come, due to family commitments. We could well have been prevented too, by fire, flood, famine or other unforeseen conditions (there were storms aplenty in that corner of the world at the time, in fact, but fortunately they didn't affect us too much). Hence the secrecy. But it all worked out.


Ruth went ahead to check that MaryAnn had arrived, and confirmed to Ron by phone. He then led the way to the restaurant, and went ahead to the table, so we could see where it was. DH took over, arriving at the table with camera clicking, and asking where a certain MaryAnn might be, as he had a message from Ireland for her. That was my cue to approach from behind while she was distracted by DH.




'MaryAnn, also known as DragonYady...'



'guess who!'

We had the most wonderful lunchtime ever, all talking, laughing, exchanging reminiscences and experiences. The incredible thing about the knitting community and Ravelry, the thing that never ceases to amaze and enthral me, is that we can meet for the first time in real life and yet already be such close friends, knowing so much about each other. It was a lovely day.

Three happy friends going their separate ways, yet always linked by an unbreakable length of yarn and a computer keyboard.

Hopefully the next time you hear from me, I'll be back at my own normal keyboard and dancing Swan Lake in my spare time. Until then, limpingly yours. (All folk remedies welcomed)

St Agnes Eve... Ah bitter chill, it was...

In fact that feast isn't celebrated until January 21, but the way the weather has been behaving here lately, you'd be forgiven for thinking we'd jumped forward six weeks or so.



St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold.





We'd been trudging peacefully towards the end of the year, accepting the dark evenings and looking forward to the first signs of spring in January. Doesn't really get cold down here in West Cork, as I told one impending American visitor recently (I'm so sorry, I hope you did after all bring some warm clothing!). Yet one morning, we all woke up to below zero temperatures and - was it? Could it be? Snow?




This was the view from my study window last week, and it hasn't changed since. You can't see the tiny snowflakes falling, but believe me they're there. And that spidery little magnolia out there in the middle of the lawn has its buds on, silly thing. Tuck them away again, quick!

This is what it looked like from the sitting room window this morning. Beautiful, but freezing cold. The winds have been taking turns to come from Siberia and from the Arctic, turn and turn about, easterlies and northerlies. Oh for a beaker full of the warm South...



The birds have been frantic, and so have we, trying to ensure that not one little sparrow falls victim to the Big Chill. Now I realise that for many of you, minus five is no big deal at all, and unless you have to dig your way out from under a snowdrift, it's not worth putting on an extra woolly, but remember that our birds are no more used to this weather than we are. And so the fat balls and the crumbs, the halved apples and the muesli, have been in demand. Plus fresh warm water of course. They have nothing to drink when everything is frozen hard. I wondered why their nice fresh water was disappearing so rapidly, and then discovered that the dogs were pottering out to slurp from the handy bowls outside, since their favourite ponds were iced over. Now I've put the birds' water bowls up on flowerpots

I've even had the birds tapping at my study window, that one you can see in the top picture above. I'd started leaving seeds and crumbs there in the autumn, and each freezing morning the little fluffed-up creatures are there and waiting. Got it organised now, with a dish of supplies inside, so I can add more to the windowsill outside as and when required






This little robin looks quite plump and happy, but that's because he has all his feathers fluffed up for warmth. We've hung a couple of woven birdhouses in the porch, and are keeping fingers crossed that some of the birds use them at night

I've been re-reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter too. The frightening description of living through those prairie blizzards comes a lot closer to home when you're caught in the grip of this kind of weather

Doubtless it will lift soon and we'll be back to the customary damp mild Irish winter. It had better. We're nearly out of firewood. Not prepared, I tell you, not prepared!

There hasn't been much discussion of knitting matters lately, but that doesn't mean they haven't been happening. Quite a few projects even got finished. I experienced one of those blinding moments of self-realisation when I looked around and saw just how many weary WIPs there actually were in view, not to mention all of those tucked safely out of sight and out of mind. Nauseated by the sheer number of failures, I dived in and sorted out several.

This is the Victorian Shoulderette, worked in a nice variegated wool boucle. It sits superbly on the shoulders and doesn't slip off annoyingly just when you least want it to. It had been lying unfinished for almost a year because I couldn't face working the endless sideways lace edging. Solution? Don't work the edging. Fine as it is. Job done.




And this was a machine-knit project, essayed to see if I could manage to execute cables throughout a long piece of work. I could and I did, but then left it to one side because it needed a trim of some kind and I couldn't think of one. After a lapse of a month though, the ideal trim was obvious. Work three very long lengths of i-cord (only takes minutes on a machine) and plait (braid) them together, then sew around the fronts and neck. Excellent.

The Adam's Rib Vest, aka the Newfoundland Vest, because I think I was thereabouts when the project got started, is still not finished though, nor is the Pamuya Shawl, nor yet the Pogona Shawl. What possessed me to start yet another shawl when one is unfinished? Listen, you have no idea how many more there are tucked away in boxes and baskets. Don't ask.

So the one clear idea would have to be: do not under any circumstances start another project until all (or at least nearly all) of these are done, right?

Right...

Well... it is a pretty thing, no two ways about it. Which is presumably why the Yarn Harlot called it that. And it's a cowl, which is needed right now, to keep the Celtic Memory neck warm. And I had a ball of scrumptiously soft Italian merino mousse hand-dyed in my favourite violet shade, which was sitting there feeling unused and unwanted. And I was waiting for the next day's clue in the Advent Lace Scarf KAL.

What?

Oh, well it seemed like such a nice idea at the time. Tricia started this with her local knitting group at her yarn store, and asked if I'd like to join in, never mind that I'm several thousand miles away across the herring pond on Tuesday nights which is when they get together usually. So I did. And I am. Each morning another little pdf arrives plunk in my mailbox, and I keep the knitting next to the screen so I can start immediately.

Up to Day Five now, and every day different. It's enormous fun, and also excellent practice at lacework, because there are only 54 stitches to get wrong instead of the hundreds you might have on a shawl. And Celtic Memory is pretty good at getting it wrong, mainly due to the fact that she won't read a pattern slowly and carefully but plunges right in and gets going. Only to find it necessary to frog back after Row One. Again. You'd think I'd have learned by this time, wouldn't you?

Awoke this morning to the shocked realisation that Christmas was approaching with the speed of an express train, and I hadn't fulfilled my promise of putting some yummy yarns up on eBay to enable others, more organised than I, to get their gift lists sorted. So the brief period of sunshine was put to good use in photographing tempting skeins.

Felt more like Scrooge than a joyous, open-handed yarn seller when putting these beauties out. This is (peal of bells) brushed Suri alpaca, almost weightless, soft as a fairy's touch, with a loft which would put it in the bulky category if that wouldn't be an insult to something so delicate. I love it, love every cone of it, you hear? You don't deserve it. Especially the natural soft white one. I want to keep all of that for myself. Might pull it from eBay yet.

And these are laceweight kid mohairs for shawls. A pale lavender and a hand-dyed violet to match.

Put up lots more - alpaca/silk fingering, some merino/silk, more kid mohairs. But you don't want to see them all. I mean, how boring can pictures of yarn be?

Now listen. I've had some lovely comments on various postings over the past while, and several times I've wanted to reply directly to the commenters. But I COULDN'T BECAUSE THERE WAS NO WAY OF CONTACTING THEM. You haven't enabled access on your Blogger profile, so you haven't! Elaine, who told me, wonderfully, that her husband's grandfather actually owned Rabbit Island (you remember, that gorgeous little Roan Inish lookalike down in West Cork?), I want to TALK to you. And Sharon, who remembered singing a May Day carol in her youth, CONTACT me. There is a link to my email on this page, for heaven's sake. Don't go round muttering 'that Celtic Memory, thinks she's somebody or what, never bothers to answer, why do I take the time to comment...' If your own Blogger ID has not been enabled for contact, then make the effort, enable it, and after that, do still please make contact with me directly. I LOVE talking to people (as most of you already know!) I'm wallowing in ancient customs, traditions, songs and music right now, and need all the help I can get.

In Which Publishers Are Visited, And the Ancient Magic of Trees Rediscovered

Good morning to you! We have endured several days of wretched chilly rain and grey clouds here, days where it was almost as dark at midday as it was at midnight, and all you wanted to do was crawl back into bed and pull the patchwork quilt over your head. Spent the time skeining up Shetland yarns for eager customers (gosh, maybe it is time to start the gift knitting, do you think? Clearly some of you already have!) and trying to find where I put the half-finished Pamuya shawl so I could get ON with it.

But today - ah today is one of those for which you forgive Ireland everything! The sun is beaming in a cloudless blue sky, the fallen leaves are crisp underfoot, and there is a glittering layer of frost on everything. Distinctly chilly - I'm wearing a sheepskin jerkin I bought in the Carpathians years ago, rather too long, but I'm glad for that right now - and the dogs are coming back in after their morning beating of the bounds somewhat quicker than usual. The most basic of checks for strange intruding cats or the path a hedgehog took last night (I know, hedgehogs should be asleep by this time, but in West Cork they often potter around all year, depending on the temperature) and the dogs are gratefully back snoozing by the window in patches of sunshine

We went up to Dublin the other day, and paid a long overdue visit to this charming Georgian residence. Despite De Book, this was actually my first ever meeting with the legendary head of the publishing house, Michael O'Brien, although Richard has known him for years. We'd been emailing back and forth constantly of course (and you of all people don't need to be told how well you can get to know someone online, do you?) but now I was going to meet him in person. Loved his initial greeting:

'How do you do. I'm your publisher.'

I mean, how many times do you hear that line in your life? That's the wonderful Ide on the right, our editor on De Book. She was the most amazing combination of nanny and sergeant major, able to tell from the slightest changed note in your voice whether you needed comforting and encouraging or barked orders to Get On With It. A rare blend of qualities, but essential for a good editor, and Ide's one of the best.

We went out to the local pub for a sandwich en masse, and had a great time chatting about everything and anything, and then Richard and I called into Claire's office to talk about all the signed copies being posted out to Furrin Parts. (Did I tell you how delighted and entranced they are at all the requests for personally inscribed copies for America, Canada, the UK, France, Sweden and beyond? Normally they'd have to wait for one of the giant behemoths like Amazon.com to wake up and agree to put the title into their listings, and that probably won't happen until Tibb's Eve. So, it's delighted and entranced they are and send you their love.)

And here is the very girl who gets your online orders and sends out the books. She liaises with me on a daily basis to check for individual inscriptions, and somehow brings it all together. Claire never loses her calm, no matter how many times I bombard her with queries and forwarded questions from yourselves. Isn't it nice to see the face of the girl who sent out your copy?

She does, however, get a little worried if a book doesn't turn up on time, as happened with one or two orders. She got on to their Irish shippers, who in turn got on to the American onward deliverers, who eventually admitted that they'd had a bit of a log jam which was now being sorted out. So don't worry, yours will be there soon. We picked up another box of books to bring home, so that we can sign any new requests as they come in, and get them back to Dublin in short order. Just make sure you email or PM me when you place the order, won't you? Otherwise I just might not know, and I'd hate that.

Then it was time for Michael O'Brien and myself to have a serious discussion about De Next Book which is, as you know, to be on our ancient Irish beliefs, customs and traditions. I'd had to send in a sample chapter for discussion at the editorial meeting which finished just as we arrived. Fortunately everyone had liked the details on the Banshee and the surprising number of actual live evidence I'd managed to garner simply by going into the little market town of Macroom and asking around. (There's more coming up on that - an old gentleman has been located who has himself heard the banshee in recent times, and an elderly lady wants to talk to me about the Little People - you'll get all the inside story here first, don't worry

The trouble with Michael is that he is so knowledgeable and so interested in everything that you can quite easily spend a couple of hours going off after one fascinating side road or another. 'Enough!', I had to cry in the end. 'We can't possibly fit all this in! 'But we must!' insisted Michael. 'It's so interesting, and readers would love it.'

A topic on which we agreed wholeheartedly was that of trees, and the magical powers associated with them from time immemorial. And that's going to be one of the first areas to be explored more fully over the next few months. Of course in this part of the world you grow up knowing that rowans possess powerful magic, as do apple trees, hawthorn, yew and ash. When you start looking into the old books and documents, though, you discover wonderful details which somehow ring absolutely true in your mind. Do you know that feeling? You read something and immediately recognise it - as if it were something you had always known but had forgotten? That's old memory or folk memory working. We tend not to exercise this faculty too often these days, bombarded as we are with information that various monsters of communication think we ought to hear, but if we can get away to a silent place and look into the old sources, we can revive the skill

But the trees. The rowan or mountain ash is one of my favourites.

It's as happy hiding in the deep forest, among vaster leafy monarchs

as it is clinging to a rocky mountainside. Wherever it is to be found, it's good magic. We have strong young rowan trees encircling our land, to ward off evil. Wands of rowan were used by Druids, and the berries were considered a powerful antidote against sickness and old age (you can make a rowan jelly which is excellent with meat, but I haven't tried it yet. The blackbirds get to our berries long before I do.)

And then there is the apple. Which is the lovelier or more satisfying

the heartrending innocence of its blossom in May?

or the promise of jellies, pies and preserves contained in the glowing fruit of autumn? Apple is another powerful tree which protects and shelters, and it's always a good idea to have at least one by your home, even if it's only a miniature in a pot. If you have space, then plant an orchard. And while you're at it, try to source some of the old varieties, that are in danger of dying out through the inroads of computerised, controlled, oversprayed, overdesigned, all-of-a-size shiny products you see six-packed in supermarkets. Those abominations simply do not taste the same.

Oh, and while I think of it, I wanted to tell you that Ireland has its very own native apple type, and it's a tip rooter! That means the branches curve to the ground and take root there, just like the bramble does! That is very rare indeed. Nearly every apple tree today is propagated by grafting on to a sturdy rootstock. I must get one or two of those tip-rooters from the lovely people in the Midlands who are tracing and saving all the ancient varieties. Irish Seed Savers, that's the place.

And no, I hadn't forgotten the hawthorn, the quickthorn, the Fairy Thorn, that twisted, gnarled, indomitable survivor, bent double with the sweeping winds, yet defiantly displaying its pink or white spring blossoms and its ruby red berries of autumn. How could I?

All night around the thorn tree,

The Little People play

And men and women passing

Will turn their heads away.

But if your heart's a child's heart

And if your eyes are clean

You need never fear the thorn tree

That grows beyond Clogheen.

Up to very recent times, you would see branches of blossoming hawthorn placed over cowshed and barn doors on May Day (Beltane), and even little sprigs tucked into horses' harness, to ward off evil spirits and bring a good and fruitful year ahead. It's often said to mark the entrance to a fairy fort and it's considered sheer folly to dig one up in case you offend the Good People. Indeed, you'll still see wide fields in the Irish countryside, beautifully ploughed and tilled, with one twisted thorn tree sticking out in the middle. No sensible farmer would remove it. I like that.

The ancient Greeks considered man to be at the very top of the developed world, and animals and trees way down the list. The Celts, in contrast, saw spiritual power in all things. I think they had the right of it, myself.