Concerning Secrets of Speed Knitting, Supremely Sensible Supermarkets, and The Fox That Yearned For Kneesocks

I said I was going to track down the secrets of super-speedy knitting and that's exactly what I did. Got on a flight to furthest Norway (Finnmark to be precise) and went a-looking. Of course there were other aspects to the trip too. Wildife, for one thing.







The reindeer were everywhere, their big eyes reproachful as they lumbered out of our way. My landscape, not yours, they seemed to say. Take that noisy vehicle away.





This little stoat whisked across in front of us out on the Hamningberg peninsula, a place that deserves the title of The End of the World if anywhere does.




He even posed for a closeup, unable to resist the flattering temptation of a master photographer (no, no, not me, DH!)





The violet kneesocks really came into their own up there. (Jenny Lee's you may remember, from this year's Sock Madness). They were warm and fortunately so. Late May it might be in southern Europe (even Ireland) but it was still winter on the fells above Batsfjord.







This fox was totally enraptured by the same socks. 'I wonder now', he asked politely, 'would there be any chance of you making a set for myself? They would be ideal for the cold weather.' Three points here. Firstly, it is interesting he didn't consider the current icy conditions to be genuinely cold weather. Secondly, his words may have suffered a little in translation to Irish/English, for which blame this writer, not the Norwegian fox. Thirdly, if you are planning to make socks for a fox (or indeed a dog, cat, rabbit, reindeer) you need to think four, not two. And possibly adjust the toe shaping, if they're for a cat or dog rather than a fox. Just alerting you.




There were tantalising glimpses too of beautiful Lappish traditional dress dashing past in a snowy wood (I think she was shy).


The thing about this part of the world is that knitting is totally part of everyday life, and a necessary part at that, not an occupation for idle moments of amusement.






Look at this supermarket aisle in Ivalo, the northern Finnish town into which we flew before driving on into Norway. See that aisle on the left, where the woman is wheeling her trolley? Yarn, needles, and fixings, right in there with other household essentials.





And this? Now here we have a very small general store on the Finnish/Norwegian border at Utsjoki. Only the bare necessities. Which of course includes yarn. There on the right, opposite the fruit. Don't you just love these supremely sensible supermarkets? A pound of apples, two bottles of lemonade, and four balls of sock yarn, please. Certainly madam. Oh and I might as well take one of those 3mm wooden circulars too. Wouldn't want to run out.

Kirkenes is the place I remembered and shamelessly cajoled DH into revisiting. I said, wide-eyed, that it was for the scenery and the birdlife, but truthfully it was for this.






I would emphasise that this is a huge general store-cum-supermarket, selling food and drink, thermal underwear and diving gear, books and magazines, gardening equipment and spare tyres for 4 wheel drives. And it has a complete wall of yarn at one end. A whole wall!


If any of you are planning to visit Kirkenes (you might, if you're on a Midnight Sun cruise) then be warned - there is a very charming souvenir shop in the centre of the town which sells yarn as well as national dress and linen items and so on. But their yarn prices are two to three times as high as those of the Spar supermarket down on the quayside, for the same labels. I paid the equivalent of €1.40 to €1.50 each for most of the sock yarns and baby wools I bought here at Spar. That's about $1.50-$2 or thereabouts. The baby wools are almost nicer than the sock yarns - no sickly pastels for Norwegian babies, but bright vibrant primary shades, easy to see against the snow or fir trees. Yo for bright babies!


No, I hadn't forgotten. Speed knitting. This hunt was of course created by this year's Sock Madness where the Norwegian participants easily outdistanced the rest of us. I wanted to know why. And so I visited lots of yarn shops and watched and spied and asked discreet questions. Actually they were quite pleased to share their secrets and show me how they knitted.





This lady in Vadso was working on a complicated colourwork sweater for her granddaughter, and doing it at a frightening speed. She showed me. Ah, as I thought. Continental style, the yarn held over the left forefinger, not the right. Picking, not throwing. I can't do it. But yes, you can. Try again. See? But how do I purl? Like this. Like that? No, no, put the needle behind the yarn. Now! Good!


I bought one ball of really inexpensive thick yarn and a suitable circular (isn't it lovely, they have their own brand of bamboo circulars up there, appropriately named the Viking range) and worked for three days solid on mastering this new (to me) technique. Finally I thought I had it, and to celebrate cast on for a tie shawl which would be made entirely by the picking rather than the throwing technique.


In the meantime, I had packed every available corner of the car with spare yarn (well, you never know, and I did score a few balls of rare Faroese sock wool) and we had headed reluctantly back for Ivalo and home. But at the airport, what should I see in the souvenir shop?






This lady was knitting ribbed baby socks and although I had seen some speedy knitters up in Norway, this Finnish technique was supersonic! Her fingers simply flashed around the sock.






We hauled her up and made her pose in front of the shelves of tiny socks, felted boots, mittens, headbands and caps that she made for visitors to buy on their way home. Isn't that the best thing ever? To stock your shop not with mass-produced souvenirs, but your own handwork?


Huh? Oh yes, of course she was knitting by the Continental method. But so fast, so fast. And I did learn something new yet again. This is where it gets technical, so those who aren't really into knitting technique, skip the next bit. Generally when you purl, you put the yarn over the needle and then bring it in and through to make the stitch. Where she was working the purl stitches, she was bringing the yarn in from below, which is much faster - that is, bringing it under and up, not over and down, if you get me. And yes, that does create a knit stitch facing the other way if you're doing back and forth knitting rather than in the round, but so what? Knit it in the back. No worries. As long as you have uncrossed stitches, where's the problem?

OK, technical bit over. You can come back now.





The tie shawl a-la-Continental turned out superbly. It's in Knit Picks Andean Silk by the way, about a 5 or 6mm needle, I forget which. (And that cunning crochet two-colour twisted edging comes from the Traditional Danish Tie Shawl by Dorothea Fischer.) I was so pleased with it, especially as knitting it was fun and fast. And do you know something? It's wonderful to wear too. Tie it on whenever you feel the need, and you're warm without being smothered.





If you get hot, take it off or let it hang loose. Great. I love it! Consequently felt impelled to make several more by the same method, and thought I ought to share this with other knitters too, so listed a whole bundle of ideal yarns on eBay, trawled from the gigantic Celtic Memory stash.






These are the lovely homespun-style ones. They're on cones I sourced from a secret location, still with much of the original lanolin and factory dressing on them, but they're pure gold. Well, pure wool actually. They remind me most of Rowan Tweed. But nicer. Natural, denim blue, and a heathery lavender, all flecked with tiny lights of other colours, three different thicknesses, in that order, thickest to thinnest. The heathery one is about light worsted and the others go up from there.






And these are the beautiful Italian boucles. What I love about these is that the yarn and its colours do all the work. You can just whip off a quick garter stitch shawl in the simplest shape and it will look wonderful.







And finally of course the sock yarns some of which I am tempted to take off sale again and use for my own pleasure, to make little lacy shoulder shawls, to spice up whatever I'm wearing and suit the mood of the moment. If I haven't taken them off, you'll find them over on eBay. If the tweedy ones (ID 170506217549) have all gone, contact me and I might be able to skein some up for you.


The main purpose of this posting though is to alert you to several important points:


One. Never, but never neglect a close examination of Scandinavian supermarkets. Scan every shelf with a keen eye. You never know what you might find amidst the buns and the broccoli.



Two. If you want to improve your knitting speed, go Continental. Don't give me that 'Oh I couldn't possibly' defeatist line. You can, and you will. NOW!


Three. Start making shawls immediately. It could possibly become an addiction as serious as socks. And that's saying something.

Roan Inish Rediscovered

Yes, we finally got there. At last the weather relented, and blue skies plus calm seas meant we were able, at long last, to set foot on the enchanted island.

Hang on, let's get a few knitting matters out of the way first, though, just to ensure that those who log on here solely and only for matters fibrous and looped will not be disappointed.

Sock Madness continued to an exciting finish, with the final winner being Erica from Oslo. Strewth that girl can tackle a pair of entrelac socks (yep, entrelac, no kidding) between breakfast and lunch, and still have time to look after the family, weed the garden, whip up something pleasant in the kitchen, and probably write out a detailed plan for world peace for all I know. I forthwith determined to learn Norwegian speed knitting and you'll hear more about that in my next posting.

This was where I called it a day. Full length, fully-fashioned knee socks, no less, with Celtic motifs on the sides and a most cunning sideways slip on the foot. They were designed by Jenny Lee, and I don't mind admitting that they nearly sent me over the edge. Gorgeous stockings, and I'm thrilled to have them to show off on state occasions, but millions of stitches, thousands of rows... it was a marathon and no mistake.


So what does one do when finally it all comes to an end for this year? Why immediately cast on another pair of socks, of course. OK, so it's an addiction. Maybe I like addiction.



These are the Rigel design from Anna Zilboorg's Socks for Sandals and Clogs. I love the way you have a plain and demure sock from the front, and then turn round and ZA-ZOOM! I added the fuchsia toe myself, thinking it gave just that extra touch of je-ne-sais-quoi. Didn't have the right yarn in the stash (do I ever?) so plied some angora-blend twice and some Shetland three times to get the two colours.



Even found time to dye up some new sock yarns but still haven't found a window of opportunity in which to list them on eBay. Tonight, tonight, I must do it. No point having all that yarn hanging around when there are eager knitters out there clamouring for it. Merino/tencel and merino/bamboo, nestling on the buttercups and daisies of an Irish June. We've waited long enough for the weather to get better here, but finally it has. Which is why we decided to try again for that elusive island.

It was a beautiful morning when we drove down yet again to the remote stretch of coastline beyond Glandore and Union Hall, hoping to find someone who would rent us a currach or kayak. Nobody around though. And no kayaks lying invitingly on the shoreline either which one might borrow casually for an hour or two.





It was so frustrating to sit on the cliffs and look across at that little silver beach and those ivy-clad ruins, so near and yet so far. It was almost close enough to swim, but that really wouldn't be advisable with the undercurrents you get on this stretch of coast. Was it going to be yet another day of disappointment?

Somewhat downhearted, we got back in the car and made the long detour inland and out again to get to Squince Harbour (it's only about half a mile if you traipse over the rocks and cliffs) and here our luck changed. DH leaned over the sea wall and saw a fisherman loading gear into his boat. Casual pleasantries were exchanged, and then DH very casually let drop how much we wanted to visit the little island. 'Sure, come along with me and I'll drop ye off on my way out to check the pots,' said the fisherman genially. 'I can pick ye up on the way back, in a couple of hours, if that would suit.'

Would it suit? Would it? We were down on the shore and in that boat before you could blink.




And so at last we came to Roan Inish. Yes, yes, yes, it's called Rabbit Island on the large scale ordnance survey map, but you can't tell me that isn't Roan Inish.




Look, even the guardian seals and the all-knowing gulls were there, watching us, ensuring we were kindred spirits and not likely to break the peace of this place.



The feeling of actually landing at last on that silver strand, of waving goodbye to the friendly fisherman, and then climbing a steep track to the grassy top of the island, knowing we were the only people there, was indescribable. A lost world, with the sea breezes blowing over it, bluebells and buttercups growing rampantly in the unmown grass. Of course we headed first for the old ruined cottages - wouldn't you? Oh, I forgot, I'm taking you along on this trip, so that's what you wanted to do too. Look, you're there, right now. Climb into the pictures, relax, breathe deeply. Now, don't you hear the gulls crying, and get the scent of the salt air?



You couldn't really see it from the shore, but from this vantage it's much clearer that there were once at least two and possibly more cottages here, facing each other across a green lane and built sideways on to the sea (as all sensible seaside cottages were until the trendy days of double glazing and superstrength picture windows). Totally quiet and peaceful now, can't your imagination just see and hear what was once there? Children shouting at play, women's voices calling, the cluck of hens and the mooing of a cow waiting to be milked. The grating sound of a currach being pulled up on the beach. The whirring of a spinning wheel at a cottage door. There was a whole community living here for centuries. Now they're gone, but the landscape is still imbued with their presence.



From the cliffs on the seaward side it's easier to see that this is actually quite a big small island, if that doesn't sound too contradictory. You could spend a good afternoon following its indented coastline. See that tiny beach up there at the top of the picture? The one that looks totally deserted?

Not deserted now. Just one castaway Celtic Memory. Wonder how many islanders came down here after a storm to search for timber, firewood, anything useful washed from a ship's deck? All islanders are natural foragers and it's not unusual to find furniture, doors, windows, even carts, fashioned from wood picked up on the shoreline.

In places the thick grass, prickly furze, and wiry heather made walking quite difficult, especially if your four little legs were rather short. Someone got rather tired and appreciated a bit of a lift now and again.




Fortunately we found a stream trickling down a gully in the cliffs and Sophy was able to clamber down the rocks and have a large and lengthy drink. Trouble was, she then decided that it was rather nice in there in the shadowy cool, and just lay down and refused to move. Now you will appreciate that when a small dog stirs up a small pool, a great deal of mud is the result. And furthermore, when said small dog is disinclined to bestir herself for the homeward journey, anyone seeking to assist in such bestirring is likely to acquire quite a bit of said mud. As was indeed the case in this instance.




The Roan Inish imagery was everywhere. You could just see Fiona picking bunches of these bluebells. I expected to see baby Jamie pushing off his coracle from a dozen tiny hidden coves we chanced upon.




And what better place to fall asleep and dream on a sunny day? The feeling everywhere was - how can I describe it - like a long-ago afternoon is the best I can do. You know that feeling?


It was very hard to leave. Those cottages cried out to be lived in once more, to be whitewashed and tidy, with sturdy thatched roofs and geraniums in the windows. The little overgrown fields wanted to be tended and dug, and planted with potatoes. The island wanted voices again, laughter and busy movement and a way of life that had endured for centuries. But our fisherman was hailing us cheerfully from the beach, and we had to go.

We'll be back, though. We'll return to you, Roan Inish, one day very soon. Promise.

A Cold Spring, Warm Socks, And Yes, That Lost Island

It has indeed been some six weeks since you last heard from me. Those involved in Sock Madness won't ask why - it's been a busy time on the knitting front, involving many late-night sessions and all-too-frequent callings on the heavens to enquire why one had been so insane as to get tied up in this annual survival course yet again.







There were rather unusual Side to Side socks to be made, the brainchild of MtMom, which really challenged one's concept of how a sock is constructed, since these were made flat with a provisional cast-on and then grafted so that the toe, heel and cuff could be worked in the round. Learned quite a bit from that one.






And some challenging colourwork in the shape of Cool Beans, shown here in organic Irish fingering weight and thus (of course) christened Organic Irish Coffee. That design was created by Heatherly, aka YarnYenta, and really gave the fingers some exercise in alternating those yarns.







In between these rounds, somehow found time to dye up some new sock yarns, as well as create a new Designer Shawl Kit, this time in the Wild Roses colourway. I like these kits - everything tucked into one bag, ready for your inner designer to run wild and whip up a unique item. They take time to get ready though, and the antique brass skein winder was kept pretty busy.




The most recent round of Sock Madness brought a really delightful pattern from Taya, christened GAMS, not, as you might think, in reference to the shapely legs which they would subsequently decorate, but as an acronym for Girls Are Meaner Sometimes. (I wonder about that girl, I really do...)




Took those out to Gougane Barra in an early stage of their creation one sunny although chilly, afternoon, since they deserved a nice place for their progress picture. Here they are, resting on the thick moss which envelops everything here.





And just to show you what a wonderful, cathedral-like place these woods are, here is the entire scene, the one they didn't get to see on the Sock Madness page. You can just see the socks resting on the tree root in the foreground, dwarfed by the shadowy green immensity of the old forest.



We went up to the Poll, that remote rugged glen high up behind Gougane Barra, where once an ancient road led over the mountains to Kerry.



This old track was much used by pilgrims, pedlars, and those fleeing from pursuit, over the centuries, but now there is a safer track winding at a lower level, well away from these challenging rocks. Me, I'd take the old road any time, and if it means climbing like a monkey, well that would be good too. It was chilly out there, though, with an easterly wind funnelling up the valley - cold enough to haul out the ski headband, and find it difficult to work the stitches with frozen fingers.

Now, I hadn't forgotten. I was going to tell you this time round about that wonderful little lost island, and I will. I've been delaying, because I was hoping that I could actually get out to it first, and show you pictures of what it's like there. However, the weather has been harsh this spring in West Cork, a most unusual occurrence, and sea voyages in a kayak, no matter how short the distance, have been considered inadvisable. So I looked at it this way, to console myself. You can share the waiting, impatient time with me, know why it is we must go there, and then, when the right day dawns, we'll make that trip together. OK with you? Yes, that's the way I'd like it to happen too.

I first discovered this place when my editor suggested that one particular area was a bit vague in the book and asked for some more information. It was in fact a region I didn't know particularly well, so on a quiet day, when DH was busy elsewhere, I headed off with only Sophy Wackles for company, to explore. Down to Glandore and Union Hall and then, in the best traditions of seeking adventure, just take the by roads, keep in the general direction of the sea, and wait for what happens next.

It's a quiet, unfrequented part of West Cork, well away from the well-trodden tourist routes, with dusty laneways and plenty of grass growing in the middle of them, which is always a good sign.




We passed this old-fashioned farmyard with hens clucking outside the whitewashed shed. That simple scene is something you don't see everywhere these days, although it was common enough in my childhood. I was able to capture it just by leaning out of the car window on the way past.





Then we started to descend down towards the sea. A glittering blue sea, but don't let that deceive you, the wind chill made it feel like the North Pole. Down, down, the lane looping peacefully to cope with the gradient. Sophy Wackles was clinging to her seat resentfully, and I was feeling an increasing sense of excitement that we were coming to somewhere very special.



And then I saw it in full. A lovely little lost island, waiting there for us.

Will you look at that beach? Nobody there, deserted and empty. But at night, surely, the seals come to sing there, and the sea birds make their nests undisturbed and safe.

The lane ended in a little stone pier where we could look across to the island and see that there were ruins on it.

This is the best I was able to do with my own meagre photographic skills. Next time I'll bring DH, I promise. But look at those ruins. What are they? Who lived there?


I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to get out to that island, wander all over it, talk to it, discover its secrets. But there was a reasonable stretch of deep, icy water between us, and I have more sense than to borrow a boat (if there were one) and set out alone with nobody knowing where I was. So I had to possess my soul in patience and try to find out more

It's called Rabbit Island. A bit prosaic, but probably accurate. Back home, couldn't find anything more than that in all my archaeological and historical texts, so did a bit of telephoning round and found a man who used to live near Union Hall in childhood. He knew the island well. 'One family was still there right up into the 1970s,' he told me. 'Three brothers there were, and they made their living by fishing mostly.' When they grew older though, the brothers decided to make the move to the mainland, and left their island home. And so it has remained ever since.

Now there is a little village some two or three miles down the coast (that's as the crow flies - by road it takes about fifteen miles and a great many inland-and-out-again little lanes) which hires out kayaks in summer. Rest assured that when the weather conditions are safer, Celtic Memory will be out there like a flash. They may call it Rabbit Island on the OS maps, but we know better, don't we? It's Roan Inish, isn't it? It's a magical island

We'll go there soon, I promise. You can't want it more than I do.

Of Ravelympics, Country Buses, And A Lost Island

Been too busy lately. Honestly, what did we all do before Ravelry? Got a lot more done that isn't being done now, that's for sure. As soon as one special event or contest finishes, another seems to start, and we're all in a constant whirlwind, saying to ourselves, 'When all this is over, I'm really going to...' Think about it. Haven't you said that lately?

I'm getting worried that there never is going to be a time when it's all sorted and there is plenty of space to catch up.

The Ravelympics, of course, took up a fair bit of time. Frogged some Rivendell socks which were going to be far too small, and also a Dogi vest (from Vicki Square's Knit Kimono) which would never have suited me anyway.

Made these Turquoise Gull Wing socks from some Lorna's Laces Shepherd Sock yarn, using a gusset heel from Wendy Johnson's Toe Up book, and seriously adapting a Faux Gull Wing stitch pattern from Barbara Walker. The gusset heel is a bit fiddly to work from the toe up, but fits beautifully when it's done.

And at long last the Conwy socks got finished. About time too. These were started at the UK Ravelry Day last June for heaven's sake!

Didn't succeed in finishing the Anny Blatt jacket nor yet the Espresso jacket, but it was daft to take on so much anyway. Have sense, do! (Celtic Memory is not renowned for her sense, especially where starting new projects is concerned. Optimism triumphs over practicality every time.)

And if further proof were needed, we are now waiting for Sock Madness to start. More days of frantic hysteria! Getting fidgety in the waiting though (it tends to be that way when there is even a tiny break between high-pressure events - are we becoming hooked on pressure? Don't answer that.) Began a little neckwarmer scarf in a complicated Aran pattern just yesterday, but got totally tempted this morning by the Travelling Woman Shawl (that was your fault, Angeluna, for telling me about it, you know it was), and cast on for that this afternoon. See? no sense.

Managed to find time to dye up some new sock yarns, and get them listed on eBay (the listing takes almost as much time as the dyeing).

Merino/silks here, as well as merino/tencel and some rather nice lambswool/angora in a laceweight which would make divinely warm little neckwarmers, cowls, shawls.

I'd like to share a recent heartwarming trip with you. DH was given the job of shadowing a country bus driver on his very last trip before retirement. Jim has driven the Cork-Tralee route for forty-three years and is well known and well loved everywhere along the route.

The day started early, with a Full Irish at the bus station in Cork. (Those with high cholesterol, don't even think of enquiring about the nature of a Full Irish, ok? On this occasion it was something of a rite of passage, with extra black pudding and rashers and things like that.)

The route took them past the end of our road, so I came down to the crossroads and hopped on to share this special last day too.

You wouldn't believe the places he had to stop to allow old ladies to push packets of sandwiches or bags of biscuits through the window, friends to climb into the bus briefly to shake hands, other bus drivers to block all the traffic while they exchanged good wishes through their respective windows. One very silent woman on the bus from Macroom to Millstreet got up to leave and suddenly produced two Mars bars from her bag, putting them wordlessly down on the seat next to Jim. That brought a lump to my throat and, I imagine, to his as well.

In Millstreet town, as in several others, there was a reception committee of wellwishers, taking pictures and pressing little gifts on him.

This flag-waving friend on the Cork/Kerry border must have been watching from his window for the bus to appear round the corner. He dashed out, brandishing the Kerry colours wildly, and cheering Jim on his last run.

After forty-three years, Jim knows absolutely everybody. Even this farmer driving a slow and battered tractor in front of us. 'That's Neily,' he cried in delight, drawing abreast of the cab and slowing to hold a shouted conversation. It could only happen on these quiet country roads.

And that's not the half nor the quarter of it. The sheer number of people coming out to celebrate his last day driving the Cork-Tralee bus speaks volumes for the man and the affection he has engendered over the years.

We came down through the hills to Killarney, where fresh snow was lying on Magillicuddy's Reeks - a view that Jim has enjoyed every day of his working life.

At Killarney, sons, daughters, grandchildren were waiting, and a few got on the bus to keep him company for the last leg to Tralee.

This is one grandson squeezing out a lively tune for the end of the road to keep his grandfather cheerful (not surprisingly, Jim was getting a little choked up by this time).

He even got a police escort for the last leg, I kid you not! Flashing lights and all.

At the end of the road, Jim's wife wanted to see what I had been knitting on so busily during the bus trip. 'Well I've never seen socks done on circular needles before,' she observed in puzzlement. I told her where she could buy some, and I hope she does.

No time to tell you just now about this enchanted little lost island. I promise I'll give you all the details in the next posting. Do you know the film, Secret of Roan Inish? Well that might have been set in Donegal, but this place is an absolute dead ringer for it. Read the next instalment...