Bounty of Autumn, A Buttercup Bear, and Beliefs of the Banshee

It's Hallow E'en or Samhain this night, October 31. All over the countryside children will be dressing up as ghosts and witches and wandering around from one neighbouring house to another, wailing blood-curdlingly as they go. It's a nice custom in many ways, and although much altered by modern commercialism and international influences, it is still the acknowledgement of the Celtic New Year's Eve, when the veil between the Otherworld and ours is very thin indeed, and spirits walk abroad. That's where the original custom of dressing up as ghosts, or carving frightening faces to put in the window, came from - the reasoning was that if the real spirits passed by, they would see the lighted turnip grimaces, or notice a white wraith flitting past a front door, and leave those houses alone, since they were clearly already being dealt with.




Here is a nice picture by Daniel Maclise of Hallow E'en celebrations at Blarney in the 1830s. Some are bobbing for apples in tubs of water, some are scrying for the future, others are cracking nuts or enjoying a jig. I remember Snapapple myself - extraordinarily difficult to take a bite of a fruit that is dangling and swaying at the end of a string, especially with both hands held firmly behind your back. But if you did get a bite, that ensured good luck for the year ahead.

We loved the barm brack too - that round traditional fruit bread with special charms baked into it. The ring was the most prized, never mind that we were all far too young to consider marrying in the next twelve months. The pea, bean, stick and rag were received with laughter, but not taken very seriously. Today, unfortunately, doubtless due to health and safety regulations, only the ring remains, carefully wrapped in layers of paper, so it's immediately evident on slicing into the brack. Ah well...



Most of the orchard didn't do too well this year - we had an extraordinarily cold spring and then the driest summer on record, so the venerable trees took a year off, and why not? But this little crabapple excelled itself, the thin branches bent almost to the ground under the weight of tiny scarlet fruits


When the winds started to howl yesterday, though, and the leaves were flying everywhere, it was time to pick the bounty of autumn and see if just one little pot of spiced apple butter could not be made. Every time it's opened, that brave little tree will be celebrated.

It's time to share bounty with others too, open up the stash and let other people have a chance to work with some of the beautiful stuff I've been storing. I've been harangued by many of you about Shetland yarns, and now that we're moving inexorably towards the gift giving season, and you're all starting to get into the mood to make this a handknit year, it was decided that really some of the Shetland should be skeined up and put on eBay.

When you come to skeining them up of course, very few are exactly the same thickness.

Here, for example, are a lovely deep green, a natural white, and a rich blue, all 2/9ths which is almost fingering weight. I'd use this for socks, only I wouldn't because it might not wear that well. Better to use a Shetland/nylon blend for the knee-length kilt hose and there is plenty of that in the stash. These are better suited to lovely light but cosy winter shawls, or those divine sweaters with Fair Isle yokes.

Really fond of these two subtle tweedy Shetlands. The one above is Pine, with Maelstrom below. Finer - let me just check - yes, 2/16ths (I can't remember what that means either, did know once, but forgot - the main thing to remember is that 2/9ths is the thickest and the higher the number goes, the finer the yarn. Doesn't it have to do with dividing the 2 into the 16, which gives you 8 metres to the gram - or something? That would make sense.) Anyway these would be exquisite for traditional shawls. Even if I sell lots, I will still have enough left for myself to double up and make sweaters. One done in wide bands of each of the two shades would be good - they're close enough to make it very effective.

And this pairing is my absolute favourite - two 2/17ths Shetlands in Mist (above) and Persian (below). It will break my heart to part with even an inch of yarn from these two cones, but I can't use it all. So skeins are going up on eBay tonight or tomorrow, whenever there's a minute. Now that I think about it, it will be tomorrow, because of the night that's in it.

Now the other day I went down to Gougane to say goodbye to everyone at the cafe and hotel as they closed up for the winter. It's a strange year they work down there - non-stop round the clock from spring to autumn, and then total quiet in the darker months. That's when they catch up on everything else that had to be put on hold when all the visitors were streaming in. May you enjoy your time of leisure and sitting by the fireside!

Afterwards, Sophy Wackles and I crossed the stream on the old clapper bridge,

and went up the hillside to enjoy the beautiful clear afternoon air. Can you see the old green lane down there on the left hand side of the picture, winding away into the Back of Beyond?

The holly berries are ripening fast and were gleaming beautifully against the clear blue sky. It did your heart good to see them.

We met this splendid ram by a ford. Will you look at the style of him, with one short horn and one dramatic show-off?

And finally we came back down to the secret lake as the sun was setting over the mountains to the west.

Now this next bit may be a little too much for those allergic to cutesy stories or saccharine, so if one of those you be, then look away for the following couple of paragraphs, OK?

We went to the recycling centre yesterday (yes, after I picked the crabapples, sharp-eyed, aren't you? Doesn't take all day to strip one tiny tree). The howling winds and driving rain ceased temporarily to allow us to rush from container to container, dropping off the different items. And then, I glanced at the huge skip for total rubbish, the unreclaimable, unrecyclable kind. It was full of sodden soggy stuff as usual. But perched on top was - of all things - a small, buttercup-yellow teddy bear. All on its own. Wearing a tiny red shirt and no more against the elements.

The rain was threatening once more, and the winds were picking up again. What would you have done? Bless DH, he ran with me, and held the back of my jacket as I leaned out precariously over the drop and just managed to snatch the little creature as the clouds delightedly opened their floodgates. As we rushed back to the car, I noticed that the little fellow wasn't even wet yet. He must have been thrown there in the previous five minutes or so.

When we got home, and had regained our breath (and DH had finished making gentle fun of me), I sat him on a mossy little wall to take his picture. Then I noticed that there were some slight marks of paint or something similar on one furry foot. Otherwise he was totally new. Even the shop tag was still attached, for heaven's sake.

Call me hopelessly sentimental (don't all shout at once, I knew it already) but what kind of person throws out a buttercup-yellow teddy bear just because they spilled something on his fat little leg? Who could abandon such a jolly little fellow on top of a huge skip of rubbish? What would have happened if I hadn't come along? What would that little bear have been thinking? OK, OK, this has gone far enough, back to sensible reality.

Yes, of course there is no doubt whatsoever as to the next step. A lovely Aran sweater in warm soft wool. Mini-sized. What else would one do? But what colour, what colour, what colour? Help!

Oh, De Book, De Book! Happy to relate, it is selling extraordinarily well, and the O'Brien Press are enchanted that so many of you in other lands are ordering it too. You're petkins, the lot of you! Anybody experiencing delay in receiving their specially signed copies, I've been checking on a daily basis with the nice girl at O'Brien's. The books are sent out via DHL, a most reputable company, but delays can occur in the best regulated organisations. Rest assured that if yours really doesn't turn up, Richard and I will sign fresh copies and get them on their way. And, as usual, if anybody else wants a personally inscribed copy, make sure you let me know, with the name and address used to order, at the same time you put in the order to O'Brien's. That way I can tell them to hold that book until we can sign it for you. If you don't let me know, they might just send it out unpersonalised, and I'd hate that!

And, I'm utterly thrilled (if a little daunted) to say, it looks as though that new book, on Irish folklore and traditions, may well be in the offing. The publishers have asked for a sample few pages by next week, and I've decided to write them on the banshee.

She's a strange enigma, the banshee (bean sidhe, or fairy woman). Every single man, woman and child in Ireland knows of her, and you don't have to go very far into the countryside to find someone who either has heard her chilling wail or knows someone who has. She's been around as long as our folklore has been recorded, and probably a long time before that. Yet throughout the ages, she has totally resisted change, the kind of alteration gradually forced on, for example, the goddesses Brigit and Danu, or the ancient spirit wells by more modern religions. The banshee remains determinedly, unalterably of the Otherworld, and calls to our deepest instincts.

Just to test the water, so to speak, I started asking around in neighbouring villages over the past few days, and was astounded to find how many people who, once they were sure I wasn't trying to make fun of them, admitted to family experiences of hearing the banshee. In one rare case, the girl told me that her father in law, who was at the time in the army, was driving back from manouevres in the early hours of the morning with the rest of his battalion, in an army truck. He was at the wheel, and as they came to the outskirts of the town, he saw something strange fluttering in front of an upstairs window in a tall house. At first, he thought it was a sheet left out by accident - and it was only as they drew nearer he could see it was the shape of a wraithlike woman, all blowing robes and long hair. The lorry windows were shut, so he didn't hear anything, but drove frantically on to the barracks where his men, who hadn't seen anything, had to help him down, he was so shaken. The next morning he checked, and of course discovered that a woman had died in that house in the early hours of the morning.

It is very unusual to hear of an actual sighting, since most records are of hearing the long-drawn-out keening wail which is said to raise the hairs on the back of the neck instinctively.

I hold no personal belief one way or another on banshees, but what exasperates me beyond measure is the smug and instant solution offered by non-believers that the country folk must have heard a fox vixen wailing or a barn owl screeching. Do they really have the nerve to claim that those who live in the countryside, close to nature in all its forms, would not recognise the bark of a fox or the cry of an owl? To my mind, the hairs rising on the back of the neck is telling evidence. That can't be brought on by ordinary sounds (I remember well the same instinctive reaction happening to me one night, many many years ago, in Transylvania, sleeping in a tiny tent and hearing the howl of wolves in the next valley. It was a strange sensation to feel the hair prickling.)

Best image I can find for you (yes, it's the one from Darby O'Gill, but I think it's a pretty good representation, going on the evidence).

What is or was the banshee? And why is she as powerful an image in modern Ireland as she was in ancient times? Not (and this is the odd thing) as a sort of bogey with which to threaten children, but almost as part of everyday life, part of the family as it were. And why is it heard as often (if not more so) by complete strangers as it is by members of the family where someone is about to pass on?

Celebrate Samhain, the Celtic New Year tonight. Build up the fire, put candles in the windows, and leave out some food for beloved departed relatives. And try a game of Snapapple too. May the year ahead be full of good things for you.

Concerning An Ancient Way Over The Hills, And Cunning Transportation of De Book

Well what a lot of fun we've had with the book signings! The O'Brien Press simply could not believe that so many people in America, Canada, Australia and other far off lands wanted personally signed copies. This before De Book has even reached Amazon.com! I don't think it had ever happened to them before, and they are thinking that clearly they need to pay a lot more attention to abstruse topics like 'blogging', 'knitting', 'Ravelry' and the like.




Sarah came down from Dublin with two boxloads and as we signed, I carefully ticked each one off the list I'd been keeping. (We had to have that double check, because O'Briens wouldn't know who wanted the personal inscription unless you'd told me as well.) Then we put a sticky note inside each individual copy so that there was no chance of one going to the wrong address.



Of course even as Sarah headed off again, more emails were coming in with requests from more lovely people who had ordered from the publishers but wanted an inscription too. We actually chased after her, and signed another one as she got a puncture fixed at the local garage, and the garage staff were all delighted. But then she was definitely gone (I know you think Ireland is so tiny that Cork and Dublin are only a hop, skip and jump apart, but believe me it's a good three hours' drive and that's before you hit the Dublin traffic, so it's not to be undertaken lightly). For the next batch we had to think of something else.



Enter Tall Fair Sitar Player, who happened to be coming down from Dublin on the Tuesday and going back up again on the Wednesday. I'm not giving you his real name because he might be embarrassed, but he is sort of part of the publishing family. And yes, he does both teach and play the sitar. Sigh...





Look, we can't just sign all these on the back of the car outside this locked car park, can we? Yes we can, there are no traffic wardens about.


(The Music Department of Cork University is situated in the delightfully-named area of Sunday's Well, but the narrow roads were never intended for heavy traffic and parking here is really at a premium.)


Settle down, settle down. I'll convey your good wishes to him, right? But he's spoken for, he's spoken for...

Anyway, we have now set up one of those particularly Irish arrangments known as 'going with the milk and coming back with the bread', ie that whoever is coming south from Dublin will bring additional supplies, and whoever is going back will take the personally signed books. In the meantime, I email their very helpful girl in charge of sending out orders, so that she knows to hold one until the properly ascribed text arrives. So if anybody else wants to order an individually inscribed copy for someone's Christmas present, make sure to tell me as well, so that I can set the wonderfully circumlocutory mechanism in motion. No, we haven't tried a donkey and cart yet, but I would love to. The next batch is heading up to the capital city with our editor tomorrow (Wednesday) morning. MaryJo, Kira, your copies are in there, so they should be on their way to you soon!


That's quite enough about De Book. Let's have some knitting content. Knitting has been continuing - in fact it was ideal for picking up and putting down while all this was going on.




Here's a little vest made on the knitting machine with Noro Silk Garden Sock. Two strips, joined together at the back, some little buttons for fun, and a stockinet strip (the machine won't do i-cord, but the strip curls under just fine) to finish it off. Good use for the long colour changes of Noro.


Fell madly in love with Thu's Kimono Vest when I saw it on Ravelry and determined to make it myself forthwith. As in, bought the pattern there and then, downloaded, printed out, found the yarn and needles, and cast on. All this at midnight!

Worked obsessively on it for two days and nights, in the intervals of book signings, and Sophy Wackles got a bit upset (she was upset anyway at all this to-ing and fro-ing of book reps and sitar players, but my attention being focused on something else was the final straw).



She had been sitting moodily on DH's lap, watching me work on the by now cumbersome project, and then, determinedly, climbed up on to the table, shuffled across, and lay down right on top of the knitting. Isn't that exactly like a cat? They can't stand your attention being diverted from them for a moment, but I hadn't known a dog show this annoyance before. I remonstrated, and said I couldn't really work double moss stitch with a heavy lump of fur lying on top of the piece.

Don't care. Staying here till things get back to normal.

Managed to finish the vest anyway. Isn't it delightfully simple and chic? Can't think why everyone isn't making this one.

With the onset of autumn, vests are definitely on the knitting agenda. Two down, and several more in the planning process. The Jane Thornley group on Ravelry are having an Autumn KAL on any one of her patterns, and I'm going to do a variation of the Sunset Bolero.

I've been making up some new Samhain kits for those who requested them, and will use one of them myself for the new JT vest.

This is the Samhain one, in the traditional fall colours, which would do just fine for the vest, but my mind right now is running on deep green woods and mosses, so I think I'll go for the Secret Forest colourway.



Can't wait for October 1 to start knitting this.

Yes, I'm getting to the ancient way over the hills right now! And it's all linked in together really, now that I think about it - De Book, and the green secret forest places and the old traditions and everything. Because the publishers have tentatively suggested the possibility of another book, this time on the old Irish faery traditions. Not just looking at the stories as we know them now, but going behind them to see where they really might have originated, how perceptions and attitudes changed over the centuries, and how today's funny Little People might once have been the ancient gods and goddesses of the landscape. A fair bit of research in there, but can't think of a nicer subject, can you?

And it so happened that last weekend was Gougane Sunday, the late September day when, for hundreds, probably thousands of years, people gather at the lake in Gougane Barra. Originally I suspect they came to venerate the spirits peopling the source of the mighty river Lee in this strange cirque or bowl in the hills, but in later time Christianity took over, and now Mass is celebrated in the little church on the island. What interested us though was the fact that as well as jamming the one narrow roadway into the hidden valley, people traditionally come in by the old routes over the hills and mountains. These are the paths and tracks that have been used since prehistory, and on this one day they are used again. Suddenly we needed to be there. And early was a good idea, not just for parking, but (whisper it) to enjoy some of the cafe's legendary baking as well.

We were tucked up comfortably in the old bar, enjoying coffee and freshly baked scones, when one of the family came in and pointed to one of the mountain crests towering high over the lake.

The first pilgrims had reached the top already! They would have left the valleys of Kerry several exhausting hours earlier. Refreshments forgotten, we dashed out and up a rough side road where we knew they would come in.


DH found a useful gate to lean the camera on while waiting for them to come into view.

I don't know why it should be so moving, to see those tiny figures in the wild landscape, making their way down the old mountainside route, but it was. I felt very strange indeed, witnessing an age-old tradition still reverenced today.

Sure 'twas only a bit of a stretch of the legs, said Timothy, from whose farm this group had set off. And 'twasn't too bad on the top, although you'd have to watch your footing. And then he was off again, heading down the road to Journey's End with his travelling companions.

They would all have dearly liked a sup of something, I would think, after that gruelling trek, but custom is custom, and Mass came first.

The tiny church on the island isn't very old, but there are ruins of a 17th century monastery with monks' cells there too. However, people have been coming to this hidden valley and mysterious lake around the time of the autumn equinox since back in the mists of history, to venerate far more ancient spirits. I'm glad we were there to see it still happening in today's world.

This is far older than Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, than Santiago de Compostela. This is older than time.

Of Bright Mornings, Blasket Islands, and (of course) De Book

Honestly, what a lovely lovely lot of people you all are! I never expected such an outpouring of good wishes on the publication of De Book. I knew that we were a strong circle of friends, reaching out to each other from around the globe, but the friendliness and very evident delight you felt in its publication warmed my heart. And yes, brought tears to my eyes. DH, accustomed though he is to the camaraderie and close-knit ties of the blogging world, was taken aback - and as for the publishers, O'Brien Press, they were flabbergasted. I think they're going to have to take the world of blogging a little more seriously from now on.


Listen now, those of you who have ordered directly from O'Brien Press, this is for YOU. I've asked them to hold all your orders until a bundle of books can be delivered down to us for personal inscriptions thereon, which should be within the next few days. BUT - and again, BUT - they don't know which orders those are, so you will have to tell me as quickly as possible. Email, private message on Ravelry, carrier pigeon (as long as it's the Concorde species) or runner and cleft stick (Olympic standard only), as long as you let me know. WITH the name and address given on the order, since sometimes I only know you by your blog name. Oh, and if you want it dedicated to someone other than yourself, tell me that too. And anyone else thinking of having your copy sent from Ireland, and wanting it signed, do it now and let me know. I would simply hate for someone to be expecting a signed copy and not get it. (Jeanne, and Sally, I have you on the list, never fear!)

It's nice to order direct from the publisher. Not only does it support a small independent house in a world that is increasingly run by gigantic conglomerates, it also makes Ireland feel important and loved. I know they won't overcharge on international posting. (In fact I think it's usually far less expensive to send something from here to the Far Beyond than it is in the opposite direction. We go strictly by weight, whilst the rest of you tend to have basic charges, whether it's a fallen leaf or a gold ingot that's being posted.)


Angeluna was the first to post a review on Amazon! Way to go, you can tell that woman's a professional! Mind you, she'd advance ordered from O'Briens before the ink was even dry on the books. Clearly carries a field marshal's baton in her knapsack. She tells me the most ooh'd and ah'd over pictures among her friends were of the pathway through the cornfield to Kilcrea Castle and the old forgotten road through the Gearagh.



We went down to that exact spot early the other morning, to tell it all about the book and how it had a starring role therein. It was quietly pleased, and whispers rustled up and down the old road all the time we were passing underneath the interlacing branches of hazel and willow. 'Did you hear? Did you hear? We're in a book. Yes, the old road and the old ways, and everything. We're not forgotten at all, so we're not. Everyone will know about us now.'




It was a beautiful, quiet early morning. A flock of Connemaras (well, most of them were dapple grey, although I see now that none of those in this picture are) were grazing in some rough pasture by the water. Just look at this pony's perfect reflection. You can see his muzzle hasn't touched the surface yet, can't you - there isn't a ripple.

The mute swans were floating serenely among the ancient tree roots, only clue to the lost riverine forest that once shaded this whole area, making it a place of mystery and magic (OK, yes, and moonshine-making too).

Even Sophy Wackles wanted to sit there for the day, and watch the mist rise over the reedsBut there was work to do, and it's been a busy few days. So much so that on Sunday, DH being out on a job, I called a rest break and took the selfsame Sophy down to the far far west, to visit one of our absolute favourite cafes. You could well call it the Cafe at the End of the World, since it's right out on Slea Head, beyond Dingle.



Getting there is definitely half the fun. The road gets narrower and narrower, and you'll find sheep wandering along the verges, taking their own sweet time, while you keep one eye out for the first glimpse of the legendary Blasket Islands on the horizon.





I love the poignant history enshrined in these old grey drystone walls, winding right up to the top of the high hills. They hold the memory of pre-Famine times when the population of Ireland was far higher than it is now, and every scrap of land, however poor, was desperately needed to grow food. Today the people have gone, but the walls still remain, echoes of the past.

There was no time to visit the prehistoric beehive huts, nor yet the newly restored Famine Cottages. They will have to wait for another day. We finally got to Dunquin and Sophy had a little walk down the lane before I headed into the Pottery for that long-awaited coffee and fresh scone.

Here's the view from the window. A little oddly-tinted perhaps (the window glass has to withstand some pretty strong storms in winter) but you can see why it has to be a top contender for the Coffee-With-A-View award, don't you? That's The Bishop lying there in state on the right out in the Atlantic, also known as Inis Tuaisceart, one of the smaller Blaskets.

Wasn't time for a trip out to the islands either, though their lure was as irresistible as always, but in any case there was a strong wind getting up, and you do not, repeat, do not try going out to the Blaskets when the wind is up. Bad idea. And the tide was really really low too.

The small bit of road you can see in the foreground twists down to the tiny pier where you embark for the islands. But on Sunday the tide had gone so far out that the entire beach was exposed. The clear colour of the sand shows that this doesn't happen every day. I couldn't tell if that group by the water were waiting hopefully for a curragh or holding a secret ceremony. They were a long way down and ours was a long road home.


Here is the driver's view going the other way on Slea Head. In fact I took this picture from the window as I waited in a lay-by for another car to get by. It doesn't do to be in too much of a hurry when you're out at the end of the world.

Edited, later in the day, to add: Hey, the O'Brien Press have added an interactive link on the web page, so you can browse the first few pages of De Book, and, and, AND -

Through the Cornfield to Kilcrea Castle is there! Go look!

Aren't they poppets? Oh, and they've posted your review from Amazon on their page too, Angeluna! I think they simply couldn't resist such a lovely piece.

De Book Is Published, De Book is HE-E-E-E-RE!

At last, the happy occasion! Oh frabjous day, callooh, callay indeed! West Cork: A Place Apart, comes into the world today, September 6, 2010.




We are so proud, you wouldn't believe it. Yes, we've both had literary children elsewhere in times past, but this is our very first one together, and it couldn't be more welcomed and loved. There is something very special about working on a book together, each knowing exactly what the other means, what he or she is aiming for. Mind you, there were plenty of 'Oh no, I don't like the way you've written that at all', and 'No, no, I wanted the landscape to say this, not say that!', but overall there were very few difficulties. And we had a really superb publishing house in O'Brien Press who kept us going when we lost confidence, didn't feel like it, were sick of the whole long drawn out process. 'It'll be beautiful,' they said calmly and confidently, and weren't they right?


Here's a bit of truth behind the picture on the bookflap, just for you, because I know you enjoy insider information.




The general brown tinge to the landscape might hint that it wasn't exactly midsummer when we took this, but in fact it was an utterly freezing day at the beginning of February last. We'd been told we simply had to get the author shots in right away, so down to our favourite place in the world we went, Brow Head, overlooking the Crookhaven peninsula. (This was where Richard lived when he first came to Ireland from France at the age of 16, it was here we met, here our parents, now no longer with us, got to know each other, here many of our fondest memories are placed. Who would have thought that after all the intervening years, all the different corners of the world, we would after all find ourselves here again where we started, publishing our first book together?)

Oh but it was a gaspingly cold day, with a wind that would take the horns off a goat. The kind of day that froze your face the second you got out of the car. And we (because DH is a perfectionist) had to crash our way through gorse bushes and brambles, lugging tripods and lenses, until we found the perfect spot.


No, of course we didn't bring another cameraman. You think DH would allow someone else to take his picture? Look more closely. His right hand is holding a camera, his left is pressing a remote control. Cool, huh?


Trouble was, he wasn't prepared to doff his heavy coat for the picture, no matter how much I nagged. 'Quick', I cried through chattering teeth. Just take it off, throw it out of the frame, and it will all be done in a second. But he refused. Me, I got acute hypothermia during the few seconds it took to capture the picture. There are a heavy padded gilet, a thick jacket, a woolly doubleknit hat and a scarf all out of sight there, and they went on again, double quick.


All your favourite places (as I know from your lovely comments on this weblog) are in the book, and a few you haven't discovered yet, whether in person or from the comfort of your armchair, wherever you are.




The cool green woodlands of Glengarriff, where you can wander for hours amidst moss and ferns and ancient trees, meeting only the spirits that protect such a lovely place.

Galley Head on its dramatic promontory, again with a guardian spirit in the shape of that black cat watching the camera so keenly. This was considered for a cover shot, but in the end it was thought that it looked too posed. Cat owners, can you imagine a feline agreeing to pose obligingly for a photoshoot? No way. That moggie was there because it was his territory and we were the intruders.

And of course the strange unearthly Cailleach Beara herself, the old Hag who stands on a lonely peninsula beyond Castletownbere, forever watching and waiting for her lover to return from the sea. She's the subject of a very famous ancient Irish poem - here's a scrap from the translation by Lady Gregory in 1919:

It is of Corca Dubhine she was, and she had her youth seven times over,and every man that had lived with her died of old age, and her grandsons and great-grandsons were tribes and races. And through a hundred years she wore upon her head the veil Cuimire had blessed. Then age and weakness came upon her and it is what she said:

It is riches you are loving now, it is not men; it was men we loved in the time we were living... When my arms are seen it is long and thin they are; once they used to be fondling, they used to be around great kings...

Whatever time of year you visit the Cailleach, you will find little scraps of heather, twisted wreaths of reeds, coins, beads, placed in and around her enigmatic presence. People from all over the world come here, sometimes perhaps simply to see a tourist sight, but almost inevitably finding themselves drawn to leaving a gift, a sign, a token. The old ways are still very strong in this part of the world.

I hope people will love this book as much as we loved creating it. Oh I'm so thrilled. I keep looking it up again, on Amazon.com, on other sites, trying to imagine I'm somebody else discovering it quite by chance. What an idiot! You'd think it was the first baby ever born, wouldn't you?

Listen, if I don't catch up on Knit Nation and tell you about the fun we had there, I'll never do it. It was way back at the end of July, for heaven's sake, and here we are in September!

The next few pictures were taken on a tiny little camera because of weight issues on flights, so please forgive if they are not up to the usual standard.

I met up with Ros and Linda, two old friends from Sock Madness. Linda and I have met at several events before now, but it was the first time ever coming face to face with Ros in real time. Isn't it funny how blogging and Ravelry can make you such close friends when you've never actually met?

And Chrispindle and I had a wonderful night wandering through the deserted streets of Kensington hunting for a restaurant. No, really, it was wonderful, although we didn't realise it at first. Long quiet roads, only the swish of expensive cars passing by. Trees rustling gently. The Albert Memorial by moonlight. The Albert Hall all lit up for performance, with just a few black-tied ushers hovering in the foyer. A splendid palace-like town house with Rolls Royces pulling up outside and footmen ushering in elegantly clad guests. And us pottering happily along the pavement talking of everything under the sun. Yes, we did find a lovely little French restaurant eventually, and had a very nice time there. But the whole evening was part of the experience.

Took a lace class with Anne Hanson and that was wonderful too. Anne is another old friend from early on in blogging, and it was simply great to meet her in person. She's a pretty fine teacher, making everything seem so simple and obvious, even down to the difference the placing of a yarnover can make in a design. Learned a lot during that hot morning session (wouldn't you know there was a heatwave in London that weekend). And Anne, it was lovely to meet you. (I was the troublesome one out there on the periphery who kept talking.)


There were some wonderful stands at Knit Nation, selling all kinds of desirables, but the queues outside the door at eleven each morning had only one preliminary goal in mind - the Wollmeise stall at the furthest end of the hall. When the door was finally opened, there was a stampede - only word for it, and I should know, I was there - all the way down those resounding wooden floors, until a hundred or more eager yarnhunters arrived panting at the Wollmeise stand.



Bless her, she had brought absolutely tons of stuff over from Germany, and the overall effect was one of dazzlement, of confusion, of total inability to choose. You found yourself darting from the blues and greens to the scarlets and oranges, from laceweights to sockweights, and back again. All around were sighs and oohs and clamberings and pilings into arms... we were very courteously offered carrier bags to stockpile our choices.


In the end, the choice was too much. I limited myself to just four. No, don't chorus in horror, honestly, if you'd been there you'd have been confuzzled too. (I'm not going to tell you how much I paid later on for a skein of Fleece Artist Seasilk.)

These ladies didn't have any such confusion issues. They were having a wonderful time, going over their purchases and making sure they hadn't missed out on any utterly unmissable colourways before finally heading off.

My good friend Sarah from Babylonglegs was there, with her divinely dyed fibres and yarns. 'Why don't you have these for sale online?' I demanded. And of course she does. Has had for ages. Why don't I check these things instead of jumping to conclusions?

The adorable Andy from Bluefaced.com was sharing a stall with Jeni of Fyberspates (the only person I know who can master a sock knitting machine just by looking at it sternly). She was happily getting on with some knitting in between hordes of customers for her gorgeous hand-dyed yarns.

Bought several pairs of very good bamboo circulars in the smaller sizes, at exceptionally good prices, from Atomic Knitting. And one of those extended crochet hooks (Tunisian?) with a cable to it, just in case I feel like refreshing my memory on that technique sometime. I shall definitely get more supplies from her online - the bamboo has been tested and come out with flying colours. Finally fell for the siren song of The Enchanted Sole - who could resist a book which shows pearl-decorated socks on the cover? - and darling darling Sandy, who had used the excuse of Knit Nation to take a whole week away from Sweden, actually gave me her copy of The Intentional Spinner. Sandy, your sock machine awaits. We just need to be on the same land mass at the same time with motorised vehicles, right?

When the credit card refused to come out for even one more airing, I called it a day and set off for a little place I know down near Covent Garden.

Now there aren't that many little places down near Covent Garden. Most places there are large and brash and designed to separate tourists from their money. But Treadwells of Tavistock Street is a delightful little anachronism - or, rather, it's a delightful little relic of former days in old London, when small independent shops were the norm, not the exception.

It's a magical bookshop - that is, it exists to supply the practitioners of magic, Wicca, what you will - and surely must have provided some of the inspiration for Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter books. Dark, mysterious, peaceful and utterly welcoming, it positively invites you to browse, relax on a battered old sofa or armchair, read this ancient text, discover the latest research on that topic, even stock up on herbs, frankincense, oils, get a new set of rune stones... I spent hours here. Outside the roar of central London on a broiling Saturday, inside, the calm of the old ways. Gave me the energy I needed to face the Tube, the train, the airport security, before at last, thankfully, arriving home to the welcoming trees and green seclusion of Inshinashingane.

What, no knitting, you cry? Well, with all this going on you'd have forgiven me for not working a single stitch, but in fact it's been busy on that front too. With The Enchanted Sole, a skein of Seasilk, and an Atomic Knitting bamboo circular to hand, I cast on for the Tristan und Isolde socks before even leaving Knit Nation. The original pattern doesn't have pearls on it, but that was clearly an oversight. Celtic Memory is into pearls at the moment and they are going on everything. Pictures when there is something worth showing.

So why, given that Knit Nation was at the end of July, and this is early September, are the socks not completed? Well, shawl-mania hit this corner of West Cork rather hard recently. Blame the Ravelers who run 10 Shawls in 2010, Small Shawl Lovers, Folklore and Fairytales, and other irresistible groups. At the moment, can't seem to stop making shawls.

Here is Shaelyn, helping me to pick blackberries, as befits a sensible shoulder shawl worked in Shetland yarn.

Here is Annis, in a heavy silk which I overdyed with blues from the original basic turquoise.

And here is Pamuya in progress. Using my own hand-dyed merino/tencel fingering weight for this, and the sampler-style stitchery is a delight to work. At least another dozen patterns waiting in the wings. When shawl mania strikes, it strikes hard. Already I have ideas for some new shawl kits to tempt those not already struck down...

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go coo over a little bookbaby cot.