A House of Dreams And A Little Forgotten Treasure

No sooner are the Ravelympics out of the way than lo and behold, an Elsebeth Lavold KAL is starting. Tomorrow, September 1, to be precise, and me with not a dog in the house washed! I have had my suspicions for some time, but now it is become blindingly apparent that Ravelry expands effortlessly to fill every available moment and quite a few moments you don't have. It is fun though. And I can give it up any time I like... really.


(Yesterday I met the receptionist who I had introduced to the joys of surfing on the Net while sitting primly at her counter, so nobody would be any the wiser, bosses can be such killjoys, and she asked if I knew of any nice patterns for bazaar or gift items. Whoo hoo, another novitiate for Ravelry! Gave her a quick glance at the possibilities, and she signed up for the waiting list on the spot, saying amazedly, 'you mean I can just type in the sort of thing I want to make and it shows me everything that's been made already? I can't believe this!...' Neither can the rest of us really, can we? I mean - look back at your hobby habits five years ago and look at them now.)


But the Lavold KAL. I had started Ragna absolutely ages ago then left it to one side because it was looking a bit big and bulky (not to mention warm) for my lifestyle here in Ireland where it doesn't usually get very cold. I still loved the idea of those medieval tabs, though, so I'm thinking about making an open-fronted jacket or cardigan with a high neck. Will post pictures when there is something to see. Still in the brain at the moment.


The Rivendell socks are progressing again, having been unceremoniously dumped for Estrid during the Ravelympics.






This is a really lovely design, and I'm enjoying it so much I might just continue the little diamonds down the instep. The stitches are so tiny, though, that a cable needle (well, a very fine darning needle really) is necessary to avoid catastrophes.


In the small window of opportunity 'twixt the ending of the Ravelympics and the intrusion of real life, managed to dye up a whole new lot of sock yarns.





These are up on eBay now - about half and half merino/tencel and merino/bamboo, to suit all tastes. Must start making up special packs soon too, with a mix of all kinds of different textures and colours and fibres, for those who are thinking of making any of Jane Thornley's gorgeous designs either for themselves or as seasonal gifts.



Speaking of whom, have you seen this latest amazing design from Jane?








The Roving Moss Cardigan.



What that woman can do with colour and texture is incredible. This I have to make. Hope you don't mind my showing your picture, Jane - it's so lovely I wanted everyone to fall for it as much as I did.

Gosh, it's almost September and that means I-Knit Day in London! Squeeeee! Who else is going to this next Saturday? I'll be there, with bells on. Let's meet up. It will be crowded, it will be exhausting, it will be hell on wheels, and none of us would miss it for the world. Yarn Harlot, see you on Saturday!


Now - I ran out of time last posting and promised to tell you about Prince Edward Island this time round.


I fell for that gentle lovely little island big time -





- from the moment I caught a glimpse of the little lighthouse and the characteristic red earth of the cliffs, as we came in on the ferry.


Of course it's famous for Lucy Maud Montgomery and her wonderful creation Anne of Green Gables. Must have read every single one of her books a hundred times over the years, and loved every one of them, but wasn't quite sure what to expect on PEI - total tourism perhaps, the sort of over-commercialisation that you get in other places. But the Island does it so very well, and with such an evident sense of caring and thoughtfulness, that you never feel you're being manipulated or fleeced - not ever. Even driving to Charlottetown the apartness of this place was palpable. Cottage gardens filled with old fashioned flowers, rolling fields of grain, traditional wooden barns beautifully maintained, a sense of earlier times - it was so restful. It's not so much that they play the part of the island described so lovingly in Montgomery's books, it's that PEI simply doesn't appear to have changed that much since the early 20th century.






Well of course we went to Green Gables! Did you think we wouldn't?


(Mind you, DH had to be given a very quick run-down on the books, the characters, the plots, the places, the best bits, the next best bits, the absolute favourite bits, while driving over to Cavendish, where Green Gables is located, but to give him credit, he took it all very well, only occasionally looking at me with puzzlement as if to ask, 'Does a children's book really matter all that much?' Actually they weren't written particularly for children - Montgomery just wrote them for anyone, and myself I still happily re-read them with no problem at all.)


The house has been really lovingly restored - I keep on using that term, but it honestly is the one which applies most appropriately to PEI - such care is taken with their tourist sights that other places really should go there for lessons on how to do it RIGHT.






I mean - just look at this. Anne's bedroom. Now you know and I know that Anne was just a character created by Lucy Maud, but to most of us she is as real as a sister, and they realise that at Green Gables. All her girlish things are here, all the memories of growing up, including even the cracked slate which she broke over Gilbert Blythe's head for calling her 'Carrots'. It really makes you feel choky inside when you look at the detail in that room - and at the narrow little staircase down which she went on her wedding morning to Gilbert waiting at the foot.


And yes, the orchard is there, and they have a wonderful vegetable plot with all the lettuces and tomatoes and carrots well tended. And roses and hollyhocks, and the path leading down to the little footbridge into the Haunted Wood, just as there should be. You feel you're walking through Anne's life when you're there, just as you read it in childhood.





Look at this little girl being photographed in the garden proudly wearing her Anne hat.

Apparently it's a very popular location for getting married too - some brides even dyeing their hair bright red for the occasion. Laugh if you like, but I must admit that I went into the bookshop later on and re-read that chapter, where Anne and Gilbert pledge their vows under the old apple trees.


We had a wonderful time just relaxing and wandering around the island for a few days, not rushing, going where the little winding roads took us, and DH patiently putting up with my, 'Oh there's the old Silverbush farm! Look, that's the Lake of Shining Waters! Gosh, that's the village hall where Ruby Gillis -' and so on.


One place I was determined to find was Anne's House of Dreams. This was always my favourite - the story where she comes as a young bride to an idyllic little cottage in a seaside hamlet, the dreams she weaves there, the sorrows and joys she encounters. Had some difficulty establishing which area had given Montgomery her basis for Four Winds Point and Glen River. Staff at Green Gables, though ready with every detail on their farm, the outbuildings, and anything connected with the tourist centre, were unsure; but eventually tireless persistence paid off, and we were directed to New London.


Only it couldn't be New London. It didn't look right at all. 'It has to have a promontory, and a lighthouse for the old captain,' I exclaimed crossly, banging on the dashboard of the car and rattling the map yet again (it occurs to me that there may be some reading this who have never actually read the Anne stories. If so, you have my apologies. No you don't. You have my sympathy. Stop reading this right NOW, go find the first in the series, and don't come back until you've read them ALL. They are not SO just for children. They're for anyone who appreciates good writing).


We drove on, along ever-narrower roads, on some red earth dirt tracks even, until at last I knew we'd found it. This had to be it. French River.






There are trees behind the bay, there is a beach on which Anne could dance by moonlight, and there is a path winding up to the clifftop and the tiny old lighthouse. Yes, I'd found the right location. There was even a darling little house tucked way back into the trees which could well be the original inspiration, but it didn't have the stream that Anne's house did. Ah well, maybe every author is entitled to some license in making the perfect house of dreams. (I'd show you that little house, I would, really, but it's currently in the limbo of being put on CDs by DH along with thousands of others, so it will have to wait. Remind me if I forget.)


This wasn't all the joy that Prince Edward Island gave. It had a secret gift waiting for me. We were coming back from the House of Dreams hunt and stopped to look at a tempting roadside junkshop - you know the kind, with old armchairs out on the roadside and stuffed moose teetering by the door. Wandered up and down the dusty aisles, noting the surprising number of spinning wheels on offer here on PEI, including great or walking wheels as well as the smaller type (how come there are so many, and that they're not all snapped up, spinners among you, head for PEI NOW, they're quite reasonably priced). Niddy noddies too, both elegant and very evidently home-made, but rather too large to fit in a suitcase.



Just about to leave, decided to wander down the last aisle, checking if anything was hidden underneath the display tables (I'm always on the lookout for a teeny tiny folding table, the kind that looks like a footstool when folded, and can fit behind the armchair, but makes a nice little coffee table when opened up.)


Then, quite suddenly, I saw - this.






Only a handle, poking out of a box that was pushed right under a shelf, but it was enough. I tried to call DH but only a strangled croak came out. 'Twas enough for him to detect the emergency though, because he was at my side in an instant.

'Is - is it?'


'It can't be. I don't believe it.'


'Neither do I.'


But it was. And five minutes later we had loaded it into the car and were heading back to our hotel at full speed. At last we could unload the full contents on to a handy newspaper and examine our find.








Now what, would you say, are the chances, within a couple of months of being reunited with the most wonderful and precious family heirloom, of finding just another such? On Prince Edward Island? With a sock still in the cylinder? No, coincidence won't wash this time. That little machine was waiting for me and I was led to that dark aisle in that junkshop. No question.





All the bits were in the box which was the original packing case in which the machine arrived. I know that because of the envelope you can see on top in the picture there. We carefully, oh-so-carefully unfolded it, held it up to the light, and tried to read the address. Eventually DH photographed it at high resolution, and then enlarged it on screen.







You might not be able to read the address here, but you can probably see it comes from the Dundas Knitting Machine Co. in Dundas, Ontario. And can you see the lovely engraving of a knitting machine in the top left hand corner?



The little Dundas was bought, it appears, by a Mr. Arsene Gallant of Miscouche, Prince Edward Island. Thank heaven for in-room wi-fi! We searched for M. Gallant and found one in Miscouche who lived between 1860 and 1940. His wife (who died in 1948) was called Sophie. Of course she was! Now we had a name for our new treasure. And the makings of a perfectly lovely story in the future - the Tale of A Sock Machine.



Heavens above, Lucy Maud Montgomery might have known the Gallants. She might have seen Sophie working on it. The possibilities of her story are endless.



She is really tiny in sock terms this little Sophie - the cylinder has only 32 slots, which means a 32 stitch sock, while the ribber has just 16. Perhaps it was intended for children's wear, although you could perhaps get an adult size with thicker yarn. Time will tell.



So now my own beloved Maman machine has a little daughter machine, Sophie, to keep her company. Some day soon they will crank side by side. Sophie Gallant, wherever you sleep on the island of red earth and winding lanes, know that your treasured machine is safe in Ireland and being well cared for.



And thank you, Prince Edward Island. I truly did not expect such a gift, but I am so grateful you thought me worthy of it.

Meanderings With Moose And Efforts With Estrid!

There hasn't been a second to waste. There ISN'T a second to waste. I don't even have time to apologise for the long lapse since my last posting. Ravelympics are here and I have until August 25 (I think) to reach the finishing line on my marathon events, viz the Cable Steeplechase and the Sweater Sprint. For both of these I have entered the lovely but demanding Estrid out of the Elsebeth Lavold stable.




Here is the front, completed and blocking. Have just got to the armhole shaping on the back and laid it down to bring you this posting - hope you appreciate the sacrifice. No, the original didn't have armhole shaping, but I thought it would look more elegant, less bulky, with set-in sleeves. It's Lavold's own Silky Wool in Midnight or Navy or some such description of dark blue - colour 46 if you're besotted - and I'm working it on a 3.5mm circular - can you believe the insanity? Seventeen days, seventy million stitches on a thin little toothpick, and I chose to enter Ravelympics. Nobody forced me.

Actually the reasoning was that this particular design has been in the queue for quite some time and something as time-constrained as the Ravelympics might just make me finish it rather than starting, losing enthusiasm, and consigning Estrid to the ever-growing pile of WIPs hibernating in the stash room.

We got back from a travel job in Nova Scotia just before the start of Ravelympics. That was a good trip and one article has already been accepted for publication, while DH's pictures are on their way to Lonely Planet. Gosh Nova Scotia is beautiful.




This is the switchbacking coastal road along Cape Breton in the mists of early morning. You can spot pilot whales out in the waves as you drive by -





- but it's not that good an idea to take your eyes off the road, even for a second, as you never know who is going to appear, wandering peacefully on your side of the carriageway.

The most engaging thing about Cape Breton was the fact that the eastern side was totally Celtic, with signs in Gaelic, a College of Piping (bagpipes, bagpipes, not plumbing!), ceilis held in the evenings, and a general air of familiarity. The western side, in contrast, was totally French, with signs in the Gallic language, shops selling French patisserie, everyone speaking in Canadian French (not as easy to understand as the European version) and a completely different atmosphere in every way. Great fun.

Getting up early in the morning was a good idea as you often found the wildlife ambling around and willing to be photographed during breakfast (theirs, not ours).




Took this picture myself, I did, I did, with my own camera!



- and if you don't believe me, here's proof - the wildlife photographer in action, unaware that he himself is being tracked by a lens. Isn't it nice to see a moose against the dawn sky on a coastal headland with the sea below? By 8 am, he had ambled away into thick woodland cover where he would remain until after dusk (no, no, the moose, not DH, do pay attention).

Cheticamp, where we met the moose, is famed for its hooked rugs and naturally I fell totally for these.




I love the primitive style of this one, seen in a wayside cafe,





and the effect of this one, seen in a tourist information centre, is spectacular. Memo to self: when oh when are you going to do some rug hooking? Are you waiting to be asked or something?

River John, which produces those cunning Swing needles, had to be visited:





It's based within the Lismore Sheep Farm Wool Shop, seen here, and the lovely, touchable, hand-made wooden needles are marvellous.



Of course a pair of the Swing needles had to be bought - you don't turn the work, you slip the knob off the end of the needle and start again with a second ball of yarn. Gives most unusual results.

So why haven't I got a picture of the Swing needles? Because I can't find where I put them when I got home, that's why. Will post them another day.

Yes there was yarn - and yarn designers too. Gosh, isn't Nova Scotia amazing for producing such luminaries? Fleece Artist, Lucy Neatby, Ilga Leja, Jane Thornley, believe it or not, all live within hailing distance of each other. Although on reflection, that might be self-explanatory when you think about it. Encouragement and inspiration maybe? Hadn't intended to call in on any of them, since they probably get quite enough unwanted visitors dropping by without my adding to their number, but by happy chance, when I was passing through White Point on the south coast, guess who just happened to be holding a week-long workshop there...




- and she didn't mind my dropping in at all!





Jane Thornley and I have been corresponding for some time (don't be too surprised if there is an Irish workshop on the horizon...), but this was the first occasion we had met in reality. She was teaching this amazing course on how to knit your very own beach.




You should see the prototype vest she'd created. Beautiful! Jane has that enviable skill of seeing no limits, no constraints, no boundaries to creativity. She calls this kind of work Evocative Knitting, and to sit in, if only for a short time, and listen and learn, was quite an experience.





The students had walked the beaches at White Point, looking, seeing, visualising, and then, with all their yarns spread around them, were recreating all the different aspects of a beach, from sand to shells, foam to seaweed, ocean waves to shoreline grass. Absolutely anything goes as far as Jane is concerned, and her constant theme was to push the boundaries, go for what you see in your mind's eye and recreate it in texture, in colour, in stitch and shape. Wonderful!





This is lovely Maggie who prefers to sit on the floor with all her yarns and needles and hooks around her to create her one-of-a-kind projects. Maggie is another one of those great people who can do absolutely anything - show her an idea and she just runs with it. Her rendering of the Knit A Beach vest was going to incorporate lovely v-shaped godets in the back of the jacket. When I asked about an interesting way of edging a cuff, she whipped up a crochet hook and some yarn and showed me how to do it, right there and then.

And she has the warmest, friendliest hug I've ever experienced. So happy to have met you, Maggie!


Everybody at the session, from seasoned knitters to semi-beginners, was enthused and energetic, and they were all so welcoming to this unexpected visitor. One lady (I thought I had a note of your name, I'm so sorry, if you see this, do leave a comment!), upon my admiring a beautiful ball of yarn in her stash, just upped and gave it to me! Just like that!





This is Mitsuri, mostly cotton with a little wool, and it was completely new to me. I hadn't even suspected its existence until I saw it there.


It soon had companions on the trip of course. You can't go to Nova Scotia, and not call in to Baadeck Yarns on Cape Breton.






Isn't this the sweetest little place? Look at that Great Wheel mounted on the wall? OK, OK, you want to go inside. Your wish is my command.





It was a treasure trove. Kathryn (Fleece Artist) dyes colourways especially for Baadeck Yarns, most notably the beautifully misty Cape Breton Highlands in shades of lavenders and greens. Had to send DH outside to work on his pictures on the laptop while I wandered around hyperventilating at the sight of so much Fleece Artist and HandMaiden in one place.

But yarn and patterns and books were to be had everywhere. Oh Mother Ireland, what is wrong with you that the far-off colonies where your children settled treasure the old ways while you're trying to forget them? The people of Nova Scotia are extremely proud of their traditions and even during a thunderstorm there was always a yarn haven at the end of the road -














Lorraine has a wonderfully old fashioned and sensible shop, jammed to the rafters with good honest yarn and healthy sweaters and socks. Yes, she knitted them herself. Yes, she could do a pair of socks in a day (Lorraine, I'm getting back to you in time for next year's Sock Madness!) No, she wasn't a slave to the place, she shut when she felt like it, and she also did the paper round at 5 am every morning. Great girl!

(DH may not have realised that he had captured himself in that full-length mirror when he was photographing us. Always avoids being photographed, does DH.)

Perhaps my favourite shop of the entire trip though was Gaspereau Valley Fibres up at Wolfville. And we so nearly didn't make it. It was a Sunday and the last chance we would have to be in that corner of Nova Scotia. The shop shut at 4pm. It took a long time to get there (we were watching the famed Fundy tidal bore back near Truro). Got lost in the admittedly tiny town of Wolfville where nobody seemed to know the whereabouts of the shop. Finally rocketed to a stop outside the door of the old wooden farm building at two minutes past four, just as Jali was taking down the banner, signifying that they were all closed up until Tuesday (they don't open on Mondays). Brenda, the owner, was, as it happened, away visiting relatives that weekend and neighbour and fellow fibre enthusiast Jali was doing the Sunday shift for her.


Well heaven bless you, Jali! You went right back to the house and retrieved the keys, and then opened up for me again (you must have wondered if all Irish women were as breathless and hysterical and hyperventilating as this). And what a gorgeous place it is!





So old-fashioned and homely, with wooden floors and vintage shelving, creaky doors and mysterious corners. And the fibre, oh heavens!





Silky rovings all colours of the rainbow. Skeins and cones that would challenge an angel's restraint. Books, patterns, needles, notions, spinning wheels - I wanted to sit right down and stay there. On my own. All night. I would have pillowed my head on Fleece Artist and tucked my toes into HandMaiden to keep them warm. Oh my. Treble oh my. And Jali was laughing and amused and helpful and chatty and I stayed far too long. Brenda, you've got a treasure there!


Even on the morning of our departure, there was still time to check out The Loop Craft Cafe in Halifax, where another blogging friend was encountered, the lovely Shari.






It is so amazing to meet in real time with people you've chatted to over the airwaves for so long. Shari had brought along her son, Mackenzie who seemed to think that travelling and taking pictures or writing articles for a living seemed like a pretty good career option. Not all the time, Mackenzie, not all the time! Shari was moving house that week - hope it went OK, and that you kept the yarn where you could find it!



Here is the compulsory picture of stash obtained on the trip. Not huge, but then, there is some pretty high-grade ore in there:




Taking centre stage is a new (to me) sock yarn from Lang, 55% wool, 20% silk, and 25% nylon. Above it are two skeins of Elsebeth Lavold's Silky Wool in periwinkle; to the left, Fleece Artist Merino in Carnival (I think), and on the right, the same artist's Sea Wool in Blueberries. Left front is a little skein of Tilli Thomas Beaded Lace Silk in the Peace colourway (no excuse but lust), with HandMaiden SeaSilk next to that (more lust). On the right an exquisite HandMaiden Silk & Cashmere, and finally two skeins of laceweight pure bamboo from Kamboo, which I found on a stall at a Saturday Farmers' Market. I just love a country that sells yarn at an open-air country market.


Enough for now. I have to get back to Estrid. There is more to tell you about - we did take a side trip to the most enchanting place ever, Prince Edward Island, where I positively bathed in the Anne of Green Gables atmosphere, but that can wait for the next posting. The Ravelympics can't!

Merrily We Crank Along...

Who would have thought that one small century-old machine could occupy so much of one's time? Since my last posting, almost every waking minute has been spent working on that little survivor and by now Celtic Memory knows every nut and bolt, every spring, every millimetre of its surface.





And eventually, hard work paid off, and it was set up. A few false starts, but at long last -







- it was knitting! Not without the occasional catch, a dropped stitch here and there, but, after fifty years of lying hidden and unused, it was working! It felt like magic, and perhaps it was magic in a way.


I know I've said before what a great crowd of friends bloggers, Ravelers and knitters in general all are, but I'm saying it again now. I joined the Ravelry Circular Sock Machine group, asked for help, and down it came from all sides! Eirual spotted I needed a vital part known as a cylinder ring, and sent one from her own collection. Civilgrrl offered to make me a set up bonnet - another vital accessory. Pat at Angora Valley sent me an order of needles so quickly they almost got here before I'd hit the 'Order' button. Bonnie Smola did likewise with my order for an instruction DVD - and then, when I discovered she'd sent a more advanced one than I could use at this stage, said no problem, send it back and she'd replace it. Laura of Handwerks got a yarn mast and topper to me in double-quick time. And absolutely everybody piled in with advice, guidance, encouragement, help, even detailed pictures. What a lovely lot you all are!

Of course there are still hassles and difficulties and some days it seems like one baby step forward, one speed train backwards, but slowly, slowly progress is being made. When things get really difficult, and the same operation crashes for the seventeenth time, recourse is made to Little Barbie - a good name for the small toy machine, which has proved surprisingly effective and well behaved in cranking out nice narrow silky tube scarves. You have to keep a close eye on it for the first few rounds, often lifting the thread over the hook to assist the mechanism, but after that it works away very well.





Ten minutes or so of soothing handle-turning on that, and I'm ready to go back and tackle Madame Defarge. (Probably won't go on calling her that - but today it did seem to suit her rather. Don't ask about trying to make a selvedge at the top of a sock, just don't ask!)

As a result of all this light engineering, progress has been slow on The Summer of Socks.





The Koigus are getting towards the cuff, thanks be, and there is a determined effort to get them finished, out of the way, tucked in the sock drawer, within the next day or two.


Even took them to Cahirmee Horse Fair (nearly typed 'Sock Fair' there, honestly!) so as not to lose a minute.
Cahirmee is one of the oldest fairs in the country and still takes place in the main street of Buttevant in North Cork.







There are horses everywhere, big, small, piebald, skewbald, roan, bay, black, grey. Donkeys too, aplenty. You have to be careful where you walk, and also watch what is coming up behind you at a wild gallop.






The main purpose of the day is horse trading, and it's taken very seriously indeed.





...with the finer points of the animal being discussed in great detail before the ritual handslapping and handing over of wads of cash (it is customary for the vendor to hand back a note or two for good luck).





For some younger traders, having had to get up before dawn to travel to the fair was just too much.





- and the cafe was doing a roaring trade in pots of strong tea and full Irish breakfasts. So much so indeed that the landlord had to guard the half-door so that it didn't get too overcrowded inside. The queuers didn't mind - there was plenty to look at in the streets.








Isn't that a fine sock now? I wonder would ye make a set of four for meself, to go over the hooves? They'd be fine for a ceili, so they would.



It is really heartening to see these fairs continuing to be held as they have always been, on the streets of the little towns of Ireland. In so many places, complaints about nuisance and lack of hygiene and perceived risks to life and limb have resulted in such events being forcibly moved to a purpose-built, clean, empty site well away from human habitation. That almost always spells death to the ancient tradition. These fairs belong in the streets that gave them birth, and long may they remain there.



Actually managed to stay away from the sock machine the other day long enough to get a new batch of sock yarns dyed and painted up and hung out to dry.





It was about time I got round to it. Trying a new blend this time - 80% superwash merino, 20% bamboo - as well as the 50% superwash merino/50% tencel I usually work with. The bamboo blend gives a generous 400m to 100g which is good news for people who like more yarn to play with; it's also very soft and pleasant to the touch. The tencel blend gives 360m, but also has that added sheen which looks so nice knitted up. These have now been listed on eBay but only for a three-day duration, since workloads towards the end of the week will mean no time for packing and posting - got to clear them by midweek. You'll find them by putting Celtic Memory into the search box.



Woke up in the early hours this morning, feverishly wondering just how many WIPs there were lurking around the house (it's not a very good thing to think about in the early hours, be warned). Could only get back to sleep by deciding firmly that the top six would be assembled and worked on, in the order of closest to finishing downwards, and No More Would Be Started Until They Were Done. The So Near To Finishing Six are:

1. The red Koigu socks. Almost up to the cuff ribbing on both. What's keeping you?



2. Hug-me-tight seamless cardi in soft blue mousse yarn, worked in the Elizabeth Zimmermann style upwards to the neck. At the armholes on main body and both sleeves, so the careful decreasing starts now. Just sort out the math, OK?



3. The Norwegian grey socks for DH. One almost at the heel-turn, the other some way behind. Doesn't he deserve them?



4. The Trip To Oslo socks. Well sock really, since only one has been started. The fun bit of the decorative cuff has been done, in natural and red; now the long slow march down to the foot awaits. Do cast on the second sock immediately - you don't want SSS do you?



5. The Laminaria Shawl. This one has suffered more frogging than a large nature pond in the tadpole season. Advance two rows, frog one. Advance five at a gallop, frog four. Why can't you get your increases right?



6. The St. Enda jacket. No, you didn't know about this one, I was keeping it for a surprise. I'm starting St. Enda in charcoal Shetland, conveniently forgetting about the version in cream cashmere/silk which is currently dozing in its private, curtained, basket. Currently a couple of repeats up the back. Get on with it!



Feel so much better now that list has been compiled and published. Will have to progress them after that - won't I?



To my great surprise, GrannySu informs me that she has considered me worthy of the Arte y Pico award! I am touched and honoured, GrannySu. Thank you very much indeed.



Now - back to Madame Defarge. If I leave her alone too long, she might start bullying Little Barbie.

A Very Special Discovery

You'd think I'd had enough of good luck with Little Yellow Suitcase eventually tiring of its travels and returning home, but I had another smile from the goddess a few days ago, and this time involving something very very special indeed to me. In fact I'd given up hope of it ever happening.

But let's get the housework out of the way first. It's been utterly wretched weather here (in sympathy with friends across the Atlantic I imagine, since yours hasn't exactly been great either). I'm sorry for our visitors who are faced with day after day of windy, rainy, cloudy greyness.

This is the typical view through the windscreen as you drive over the Cork-Kerry border towards Killarney, - swathes of drifting grey clouds encircling the mountain tops. Of course the tradition is that when the Good People are on their travels, out for a Wild Hunt perhaps, or on their way to a party at another rath, they bring down the clouds so that human eyes will not see them. Well if that's the case, they're having one heck of a summer up there, the little folk, with parties going on all day and night, if the mist is anything to judge by.

Here;s another view, this time on the road to Killorglin, where Puck Fair is held every August. Hope it clears up for that. Hope it clears up for the McMurtrie clan visiting West Cork from the States next week - Deb and family, I'll look up my book of spells and see what I can do, promise!

Of course there is always a good side to gloomy weather, like actually getting some knitting done.

Here are the alpaca/silks, demonstrating that yes, it is indeed possible to make a very pleasant pair of average adult sized socks with just one skein of c. 280 yds. As alpaca always bulks out a bit, especially when washed, I used a slightly larger needle and a 48-st round; in retrospect, I think perhaps four or six more stitches would have given it a more relaxed feel, but there was plenty, as you see, to make a decent cuff length. Do not adjust your monitor, I dip-dyed them after completion. Might give them another bath in violet.

By the way, I found that all the circulars I thought were US size 1 were in fact US size 2, or else I've got mixed up in my conversions from metric to whatever-it-is-you-use-in-the-States (which wouldn't be surprising). Size 0 is 2mm, right? Then 1 seems to be 2.5mm. Is there a 2.25mm? Why am I asking this? What was the original query? What day of the week is it? Does it matter? Should I only knit on days of the week that have an 'r' in them? Or is that oysters?

Anyway, these bamboo/cotton socks also got finished. This is yarn from Guichard Laines in Landevant, nabbed during the Brittany trip last year. I think it's Katia. I thought that two balls would be insufficient for a pair of socks, so got three balls of each colour for safety, but in fact these again came out just fine with two balls. Used the same baby cable pattern as on the alpaca/silk, because bamboo/cotton doesn't have much bounce and you need a fair bit of strong texture to stop them becoming unintended slouch socks.

OK, I can't put it off any longer. Curiously reluctant to start posting about this, because, perhaps, it matters so much personally and you might think it's a lot of fuss about nothing.

It's the story of a very old and rather small machine. A sock knitting machine. I have childhood memories of long winter evenings in the huge cosy kitchen, with the range glowing warmly and my mother bending over this machine, which was sturdily clamped to the table, constantly adjusting a needle here, the tension of the yarn there. I remember the steady sound of the wheel being cranked as she turned out socks and stockings for all five of us. Of course as a very small child I was most unthankful for warm knitted stockings. I wanted trendy nylon kneesocks like other girls wore to school on the coldest wettest days. And I didn't want knitted ankle socks either, especially not in the dreary school colours of green and fawn. We're like that as kids, aren't we?

The machine was old when she got it, from a maiden aunt who by then had arthritis and could no longer use it (although this aunt, my great-aunt, still made the most exquisite crochet up to the day she died). I haven't been able to find out yet where this relative originally got the machine, or indeed why. It was not the easiest of things to master, and my mother had never seen one before, but she persevered, poring over the manual of instructions night after night and experimenting until she finally got it to work. Then she went out hunting for coned yarns. Fifty or more years ago, it was a lot easier to source these from friendly mills - we had Blarney, Dripsey, Kerry and more all quite willing to part with a few to a friendly lady with a sweet smile. My mother had a pretty respectable (for 'respectable', read 'frightening' if you're not a knitter) yarn stash way back before anyone even coined the term. My earliest memories are of playing with unsortable tangles of pink wool on the floor of her knitting room, and later of winding little balls of it from between the knots, and starting my own experiments with needle or hook.

Time went by, we all left home. My mother died. Far too soon, far before she should have, but isn't that the case for everyone? It's never the right time to lose someone unutterably dear. I shut a cast-iron door on that part of my life and resolutely refused to open it again. You do that if the pain goes too deep. You blot out the memories of a magical garden, a large warm home, a front door always open, most of all of a stone-flagged kitchen with a glowing range and a dear person waiting with open arms.

But last year, wandering through one of those cheap everything-shops, I came across this, if you remember.

I stared, perplexed at its odd familiarity. Then all at once a curtain was lifted and I remembered that machine from so long ago. I bought this, told you all about it in delight, intended to try experiments on it. I recalled for you some memories of the old sock machine from my childhood. Enough years had passed for it to be safe to remember crafting details if the personal were still kept well under control.

It was Angeluna who emailed me instantly, telling me that these were collectors' items and I had to find that old machine NOW. As in THIS MINUTE. All of a sudden it became vitally urgent to locate it, get in touch with the past. You didn't exactly unlock the door, dear Angeluna - in your wonderful style you wrenched it open, shoved me through with a determined 'GO!'

But the machine could not be found. My brother, who still lives in the somewhat battered family home, trying to keep it upright against the ravages of time, searched but said it had probably been given away. I was heartbroken. Didn't expect to be, but was. Now that I'd remembered it, and especially now that blogging and Ravelry make such a family of us all, I wanted to bring this into the new world and share it with everyone. Well, if it was gone, it was gone, and that was an end to it. I tucked the new little plastic thingy on a shelf and didn't do anything with it. Didn't feel like it.

But it wasn't the end of it. Do you ever have those situations where you simply can't accept that something has happened? Where you just don't want to believe it, keep on hoping that somehow all will come right?

When my brother phoned a few days ago and said, 'You'll never guess what I've found', my throat dried and I was afraid to answer him. I was afraid he'd say, 'Oh no, not that, that's well gone.' But he didn't. It was true. The old sock machine had been found wedged behind the door in a small room full of rubbish. It was there, it was intact, it was dry.

It was eleven o'clock at night but I was ready to leave that instant. However, my brother wanted to have it to himself for a few hours, 'to see it's running smoothly, oil it a bit for you,' as he put it. I think he had a few ghosts to face up to as well, so I left it. Until the earliest possible moment next morning, that was, when I was pounding on the gates with my heart thumping. And he put it into my hands.

It doesn't look too bad after lying hidden for more than thirty years, does it? Dust, a bit of surface rust, no more. A few chips in the enamelwork probably occurred during its busy working career.

Here is the faded gold lettering from which I was able to establish that it's an AutoKnitter.

- and here, miraculously, is the instruction book, discovered a day later by my wonderful brother.

It's going to take a lot of loving attention to get this little survivor up and working again, but happily the Net and Ravelry are going to be of immense help. I've already ordered needles for it from Angora Valley - can you believe that these are still being made? You Americans are wonderful!

I hesitated before posting this last picture. But I think you will want to see it.

The Last Sock.

That little sock machine had been lying there for so many years, hidden and forgotten, the last sock still on its needles, waiting to be finished. It must have wondered if anyone was ever coming back to take it out, clamp it to the table once more, turn its handle, praise it for making such beautiful work. And at last, one day, someone did.

To get back a part of the past, something that you thought had gone for ever, is no small thing. And it matters more than can be expressed in words. I'm no technical whiz, and part of my heart fails me at the thought of trying to get to grips with working this little machine. But with everyone's help, I will. I can feel an encouraging hand on my shoulder as I type this, a hand I thought I would not feel in this life again. And yes, the first pair for my brother.