Why Did The Cows Cross The Road?

Had a flying visit to London last week on business and found time to get down to Stash Yarns in Putney as a treat. Been meaning to visit this little treasure house for ages, mostly because its website shows that it stocks a whole lot of rare and unusual yarns that aren't normally found at ALL this side of the Atlantic. Dream in Color Smooshy, Shibui, Koigu - and those heartstopping names that make you forget everything else and head right there - Fleece Artist and Handmaiden. With temptations like that, what chance did business meetings have?






Here is a tempting glimpse of just one corner




and here is owner, Michelle (originally from Connecticut), showing me even more temptations. This picture is a little blurred because I hadn't taken my camera to London, in the interests of travelling light, and have borrowed this from Michelle's blog. Indeed, if she hadn't been kind enough to send me on that top picture of her shop, you wouldn't have had one at all, so thanks, Michelle!

But I was able to take pictures of the little luxuries I acquired, once I got home.






Stash from Stash Yarns, indeed. Two skeins of utterly irresistible Shibui sock yarn, in the Seaweed colourway, and two skeins of Koigu ditto, in a rich poppy red. I also picked up the Twisted Sisters Sweater book, which has that wonderful top-down Aran in it. Pretty restrained I know (had to turn away from the Seasilk in case my resolve weakened) but the determination to restrict stash enhancement stayed fairly well in place. Sock yarn doesn't count, right?


While enjoying a leisurely browse at Stash (with the mobile phone turned off in case anyone tried to find me) I chatted with Ali, who works there a couple of days a week. She is a pretty nifty knitter - she was working that morning on a pair of entrelac socks and assured me that they were really quite easy to do. Looked wonderfully complicated to me! Go and check out her blog to see them, and also for the most delightful account of a slumberknit party which I wish I had been at.


Places like Stash Yarns are so worth visiting. If it were not for them, those of us on this side of the herring pond would never get a chance to fondle divine yarns like these, up close and personal. Any of you visiting London in the next while, make a point of popping in and saying hallo - as well as drooling over the Adirondack and the Smooshy and the Lornas Laces and the Mission Falls and the Blue Sky... who would have thought that one small shop would have such rarities in it? (OK, New World dwellers, you might have them on your doorstep, but for a UK shop to order and stock them is pretty unusual, I can tell you. I don't know a single other place I could find these without making a long distance flight.) I'm certainly going back when I'm in London again for IKnit in September.


Oh I almost forgot. More goodies for UK and western European knitters. Ali reminded me about The Inside Loop , a new UK online knitting magazine. Issue 2 is out today, so go look at it.


Goodies arrived by post recently. I'd been waiting absolutely ages for books from the Needle Arts Bookshop and at last they arrived. Not the shop's fault in any way - since they were heavy, I'd opted for camel train and slow boat via China rather than priority posting, so I was fortunate to receive them in slightly less than the anticipated six weeks.




Doesn't Marsha at Needle Arts make up the most beautiful packages? Lovingly wrapped, beribboned, and with a bookmark and bookplates tucked in as extra gifts. And do you see that poem, The Prayse Of The Needle, printed on the back of the invoice? A pleasure to do business with someone like that.





Here's one of the books I got from Needle Arts - the Japanese publication 1000 Stitches. This tome contains every pattern you could ever possibly want, and quite a few you wouldn't have believed possible. Easy to work out too, with plenty of charts. I think Marsha offers a free translating leaflet on her website as well, if I'm not mistaken, that you can print out and refer to as necessary. I've joined the Japanese knitting group on Ravelry, which is very helpful for anyone working from the beautiful books they produce over there.


I also got two of Annie Maloney's books from Needle Arts, the cable one and the lace one. Looking forward to trying some ideas from those as well.

You may remember that we have been leaving the back gardens strictly alone for the past few weeks, because of nesting birds. This led to the front driveway being festooned with not only drying handknit socks but also drying hand-dyed yarn skeins. These are the ones currently listed on eBay - that listing ends tonight, as far as I remember, so I'll have to start on a new lot.






I confess that I rather like having colourful skeins blowing in the breeze as I drive in or out, but when it comes to getting sheets and other laundry dried, the airing racks in the utility room do not give at all the same fresh clean scent that outdoor drying does.






And so I was heartily relieved to discover that at last the blackbird nesting right by the back door (so close that to open the door meant shaking the nest) was feeding well-grown young.


There was still the mistle thrush to consider, though. She nested very late this year (normally their young are up and active before ever a blackbird starts building) and she took her own sweet time hatching them too. 'Get on with it!' I was shouting exasperatedly through the window as she sat peacefully gazing into space, day after day, week after week, in the tree that supports the washing line. But at last ...








Once the young have hatched, you could hold a garden party underneath the nest and the parents won't desert. It's only in the earlier stages that it's unwise to hang around too much.




Yay, at last we can mow the lawn, tidy up the flowerbeds, get into the conservatory again to rescue the neglected pot plants!


Or so I thought. Coming downstairs in the morning, I glanced through the hall window into the conservatory and saw that we had yet another squatter...





That isn't a particularly huge blue pot. But that is a very very small bunny. For heaven's sake, am I to be barred yet again? If you frighten them too much at that age, you see, as, for example by rushing in shrieking, 'What the blue b-z-s are you doing there, get OUT!', they just up and die on you, from shock. Or spite. Didn't want that on my conscience. Fortunately, although it hid behind some sacks when I went in first, it took my gentle preliminary disturbance as the notice to quit that I intended it to be, and left later on. Let's hope we have a critter-free garden for a while. Until I can water the poor neglected greenhouse plants at least!


When I headed off to Bandon this morning though, somehow I wasn't surprised when all the traffic on a narrow twisting country lane came to an abrupt stop.




I suppose I wouldn't really want to live somewhere that didn't have these little interruptions to a smooth and uneventful existence.

Cretan Shepherds, Sundried Socks, And Knitting Missions

OK, OK already! For all those of you who demanded it in no uncertain terms, here is that Cretan shepherd, up close and personal.








He may look as though he's posing for a statue of The Discus Thrower but, he's actually pegging stones at his flock which had just turned sideways into someone's nice green vineyard. Fair bit of muscle power there, wouldn't you say?


Gosh it's been a frantic week and socks are responsible for most of that. Honestly, don't you sometimes wonder what you did before knitting and the Net met up?



The dip-dye socks from Round 4 of Sock Madness (Something's Shady) were finally finished.







Maple Leaf Rag Socks.


These were the ones where you worked an afterthought heel - well, afterwards! It's a very entertaining variation and very easy to do, but it did cause a rather hard line where heel met body, in too much contrast to the rest of the sock which is in graduating colours, so a little more handpainting was needed to blur the distinction. Pretty pleased with them. Will certainly try the dip-dye technique again on finished socks as opposed to pre-dyeing the yarn.







Photographing the Maple Leaf Rags meant removing the Leafy Green socks I was wearing. Muffy the Yarnslayer thought the patterning on those was very nice indeed -








- and was somewhat disinclined to let them out of her paws when I wanted to put them back on.



NO! MY socks! ME to wear. ME to take to my bed and sleep on!

The Sock Madness round were coming thick and fast upon each other by now, as the fastest knitters in each division competed to see who could finish almost before the latest pattern had even been downloaded by the rest of us.





These are Technoknitter's Eyelet and Lattice Cable, worked here in Fleece Artist merino sock yarn in the Jester colourway. Lovely detail in the pattern, not the fastest to work certainly, but hugely rewarding.



But they hadn't got any further than the picture shows when Mt Mom's Godmother Socks were released, and I just had to rush off and work on those:






The yarn is Opal Royal, which has a hint of silver Lurex in it. Mt. Mom certainly deserves the prize for clear helpful patterns. She thinks of every little problem or query you might have, and addresses it before you've even thought of it. Forethought Patterning perhaps? It's a nice easy rib stitch up to the cuff , and you then work a spectacular lace edging. My plan is to take these to knee length when the cuff can fall gracefully over boot tops. Not a short project but exciting.



At this rate every circular in the house will be in use. That didn't stop me though from casting on for a new project - a jacket in Noro Kureyon. I had started one of these a few months back but didn't like the pattern or what it was doing to the yarn, so frogged and went back to the Noro book stash for a better one.









The design here calls for bands of horizontal moss stitch to alternate with the upwards knit. Here you see the back with the top strip of sideways moss stitch ready to be grafted on. At least it keeps things interesting.



Was well pleased that the very last issue of Ireland of the Welcomes is running a feature DH and I did on the woollen industry in Cork and Kerry. (The magazine has been sold, so may well reappear, but this is the last from the old editorial team who have become good friends of ours over the years.) A lot of acquaintances familiar from the postings on this blog are in it - Andrew Eadie of Kerry Woollen Mills of course, Jo and Jean from Spin a Yarn in Kenmare, the Kissanes, sheep farmers of Moll's Gap, and of course Daniel P. Buckley the wool factor. If you happen to be passing the magazine racks in a large Borders or Barnes & Noble, have a glance at it. It's our tribute to those who continue this timeless process in increasingly difficult times.



Now - several people have inquired anxiously about the Little Sisters of the Wool and their vital missionary work in the benighted regions of Ireland (Denise, I know you in particular are waiting for an update, and quite right too). I am happy to report that the Missionary Project is progressing well. Here are some recent heartwarmers:


An elegantly-dressed lady in a large shopping centre, sitting at a nearby table while I had coffee and knitted socks. From her raised eyebrows and slight smile I anticipated a comment of the 'Oh I would never have time to do that' variety. Not so. She came over and said nervously, 'Excuse me, but I haven't seen anyone knitting in so long - it's lovely!' We fell into talk and she mentioned how difficult it was to find patterns these days. Oh, the rush of excitement! The thrill of knowing one stray lamb is so close to the door of the fold!


Are you on the Internet at home?

Of course - but what has that to do with knitting?

What has that to do with - ? Well - type in knitting pattern - or free knitting pattern if you like - and see what happens.

A puzzled stare, followed, so slowly, by dawning light.

You mean - I can find patterns on the Web?

Not only patterns. Yarn, needles, stitch markers, like-minded people...

I never saw such a change in anybody. She positively ran off, chattering that she couldn't wait to get home and log on immediately. Ah, the happiness of introducing one new soul to the delights of the Net (yes, of course I told her about Ravelry. She didn't understand it fully - did you understand what Ravelry could mean when you first heard about it? - but she knows the name, she has the bit between her teeth, and from now on it's upwards!)

Then there was the elderly lady behind me in a very slow queue at the supermarket. I had pulled out the socks and started knitting while the checkout girl wandered off to price some article or other, and this lady was unashamedly watching.

I used to make socks all the time when I was young. Made them for my father, for my brothers. And then I made them for my husband as well. Never saw a needle like that though.

I explained the principle of the circular and Magic Loop and she got it immediately. Then she told me she used to make gloves too.

I remember well making this pair for a friend for Christmas. I made the backs in bright green and the fronts in bright red, so she could change them round and have a different pair on different days! Made them flat, you see, and sewed them together afterwards. Oh they did look smart!

What a good idea. I told her so and she looked pleased. I might just take it up again now that I've seen you at it.

The girl who mans the reception area in the newspaper building is bored no longer since she was alerted to the plethora of crochet shawl patterns freely available on the Net. And a neighbour at the end of her tether with a crusty bedridden relative reported calm and quiet since I handed on some skeins of rough, tough, manly sock yarn, like they used to make it, none of this modern nonsense.

So the Little Sisters of the Wool are alive and well, and their missionary work prospering. They would love to hear of similar tales of happy success in other corners of the world too, just to reassure themselves that they are not alone.

Haven't been able to hang out the washing in the back garden for weeks because of the blackbird nesting in the trellis right by the back door.

It's that bundle of moss and twigs in the middle, with the door on the right of the picture. Every time we opened the door she would go into frantic hysterics and fly off, not returning for hours, so in the interests of preserving the young, we thought we'd better leave the door alone.

Could still have hung out the washing by going around the long way, but -

- a mistle thrush decided to start building in the very tree which supports the clothesline. Now it's late for a mistle thrush and we had thought they weren't returning this year, so we were very happy to see them. It's worth the inconvenience of hanging the washing indoors on ceiling airers. Today, the blackbird and her mate are frantically feeding the ravenous youngsters while the mistle thrush is sitting very quietly, keeping the as yet unhatched eggs warm.

But I do like to hang my handwashed handknits out in the fresh air to dry, so lately the front driveway has looked like the gate to a Tibetan temple with prayer socks fluttering in the breeze.

Can you make out three pairs here? Mad Cow Mk II on the left, Mad Dance in the centre, and -

Leafy Green Socks merging beautifully into their background.

It's rather nice to work with nature rather than against it when you can.

Of Timeless Villages, Thyme Honey and Tryingly Tenuous Technological Threads

It's no good, something's going to have to give around here. Can't possibly stretch the 24-hour day any wider. Life was busy enough before the Internet became an obsession. Then blogging made surfing the Net seem like the carefree hours of childhood. Then Ravelry started and the meaning of black holes became a lot clearer. Now we have online competitions, events and KALs, which occupy every waking moment and, on all too many occasions, eat into sleep time too.



Yep, housework is definitely going to have to go. It's a waste of time anyway, isn't it? I mean, you dust the house and sweep the floors and tomorrow it all has to be done again. Or next week. Whatever.


Got back from Crete more than a week ago but catching up with the backlog of work took some time. That, and Rounds 4 and 5 of Sock Madness which followed each other with breakneck speed. I'm out of the front line contest now, which is a relief, but still knitting happily along with each new pattern, discovering strange techniques and ideas every time and liking at least some of them.


Getting to Crete outside the official summer season isn't all that easy. Come the end of May through to September, any travel agent will find you a nice package holiday to an over-developed tourist resort. That, however, means the searing soaring temperatures that you get so far south, and the arid, exhausted landscape that goes with it. We wanted to see Crete in spring, with all the wild flowers, but it took some searching and finagling on the Internet before we finally managed to organise a flight via Amsterdam.



Which meant getting up very early indeed on the morning of departure. Fortunately not earlier than the release of Pattern 3 in Sock Madness which popped into my mailbox a whole eight minutes before we had to leave for the airport. Had already thought to pack the wooden circulars, so knitted all the way to Amsterdam -




knitted on those moving trackways...




- and took advantage of a brief wi-fi link to post the requisite progress pic.


Didn't realise that was the last we would see of modern technology for quite some time...



Knitted all the next day as we drove through the beautiful Cretan mountains, through timeless whitewashed villages, along twisty roads through olive groves, over hump-backed bridges -





- past ruined churches -




with fragments of ancient frescoes still to be glimpsed on their ceilings.


A lovely and totally unexpected thing happened as I sat on a grassy bank in the late afternoon knitting busily while DH photographed birds coming down to drink at a tiny stream. A man drove up in a dusty little truck and nodded to me as he passed up the lane on the way to his fields. Concentrating on the stitches I heard him opening his gate, the clang as it hit against the stone wall, then the truck starting up again and moving through. The silence returned, with only the murmuring of bees collecting pollen from the wild thyme as background. Then I heard returning footsteps. Oh heck, we were blocking his access in some way. I mentally rehearsed apologies in my rudimentary Greek as they came closer. They stopped. I looked up.



He was standing there with a bunch of freshly-picked roses in his tanned fist. He held them out. 'For you', he said simply. Then he bowed, smiled, and went back up the lane and into his fields, out of sight.






I was totally taken aback. What a lovely, lovely, courteous gesture from a complete stranger.


The northern coast of Crete is pretty well developed now, with extensive tourist resorts reaching out their neon and plastic claws towards each other, but once you head into the hills and down towards the south, you enter another, timeless world, where modern life doesn't seem to have intruded at all.




This old man, his tanned face creased into a thousand wrinkles, was peacefully riding back to his home somewhere in the hills, the plastic bag containing his few groceries slung on the antique pack saddle. It probably took him half the day to get down to the nearest village, and the other half to get back. That was all right. It was his day for going to town.



And in every village you saw the black-garbed women, dignified, expressionless, but bending their heads in acknowledgement of your wave, your smile, as you passed.






Or you saw them toiling along the roadside with bundles of freshly-cut green herbage which they were taking home as fodder for their animals.


I wondered about those women. Oh you saw the young ones too, in the larger villages - slim, dark-eyed girls with long hair and seductive glances at the Adonis-like young males who roared past on their motorcycles. But when, I wondered, did one become the other? Was it on marriage? Did a young vibrant girl, full of the joys of life and fond of fun, marry a man from an outlying village and thereafter have to dress in unrelieved black, take her place in the strict code of an older world? Did she ever look back longingly to a time when she wore bright light colours and danced for sheer exuberance?



In these villages, there are always cafes, tavernas, but you never see the women sitting at the tables. Always the men, the older men, brushed and combed, their moustaches perfectly arranged (they favour moustaches on Crete). They often spend the entire day and most of the night there. I asked the man of one house where we stayed why the women didn't go to the cafes or tavernas.


'They do not like to be seen there', he said firmly. 'They have their own meeting places.' His wife, busying herself around the kitchen while he sat and talked, didn't even look up. She didn't have time.



I worked on those Round 3 socks like fury, and by Sunday afternoon - a hot, breathless afternoon, with nothing stirring in the remote mountain valley where we had stopped under the shade of some olive trees - they were done, finished, toes grafted, the lot.







DH ceremoniously took the requisite picture amid wild orchids.


Then for the first time, I wondered just exactly how the picture was going to be sent. For Sock Madness you have to post the finished socks on Flickr, then email the moderators with a link to that. Time is of the essence. We didn't have a cable to use the mobile phone, and even if we had, there was absolutely no reception amid those mountains. So where was the nearest Internet cafe?



A very good question. And one which would be posed again at increasingly frantic intervals.



Evening was falling. We drove onwards, and finally found one of those typical Cretan villages with its traditional stone-built houses. One had a sign offering rooms to rent. The black-clad lady smiled, nodded, and showed us to a scrupulously clean, whitewashed little room with threadbare but spotlessly clean linen sheets. Diffidently I asked about Internet access. She looked puzzled. I showed her my laptop. She gave a bewildered smile. In desperation I asked about television (the word does come from the Greek after all). She beamed, bustled out, and returned with two saucers of thick Greek yoghurt with honey on top.


Well the yogurt was delectable. And by the time we went down to the local taverna for souvlaki grilled over charcoal with wild herbs sprinkled on top, I had almost recovered my sense of humour. Tomorrow, I said, I would post the picture. Who knows, perhaps my fellow-competitors were having a slow day. I might still make it through.


The next day we drove right to the south coast, to Plakias, which is a fairly thriving tourist resort in summer but now was shuttered and asleep. Certainly no Internet cafes. Too late to drive further, but next day (Tuesday at this point), got as far as -






- the delightful fishing village of Aghia Galini, near the ancient Minoan site of Phaistos.


AHA! LOOKATDATWILLYA!





Don't know if you can read those signs, but one of them says Internet. Information. Wireless Lan. Just what we needed! They were closed, of course, as it was the middle of the day, but we were assured by a woman shaking a carpet out of a window that they would open again in the evening. In jubilation, we found a marvellous little hotel built into the side of the steep cliffs, run by a gentle East German couple with a passion for Sixties music. As soon as dusk fell, rushed back to the Zanzibar clutching my laptop.




The bartender spread his hands in gentle apology. Ah if only they did have Internet access. It would be so good for business, so popular with visitors. Perhaps this year they would get the connection. It had been applied for some time ago, some years now. They even had the signs ready - perhaps we had noticed them outside, admired how well they looked? But alas, no connection. Not even a little one.


After three chilled Mythos beers, despite myself I started grinning, and by the fourth both DH and I were laughing like idiots. What did it matter after all, when the main course was pork grilled with honey and there was more of that delectable yoghurt for dessert?



The next morning, we actually found another Internet cafe, at the other side of the town, and one that really did appear to function as such.







Appear is the term advisedly used, since, despite the fact that they advertised breakfast from 7 am, they were not open at 10 am to eager Irish travellers bearing laptops. 'Perhaps later,' said the man selling wooden toys across the street. 'He was here very late last night, Christos was.'


Eventually Christos did turn up, I did get online, posted my picture, and found, as I had expected, that the divisions had closed long since. But I didn't mind. Well - not really. Not all that much. At least I could now go back to enjoying Crete.

And there was plenty to enjoy. The flowers - ah the wild flowers of Crete in spring.




Fields of poppies like a 19th century painting.





Delicate gladioli vying for space with brilliant white and yellow marguerites.






And the orchids - dear heaven, the orchids! Shy and retiring, they remained invisible until you actually walked across a stony little field, sat down on a rock to rest. Only then did you see the delicate little bloom right at your feet.




There were so many different kinds that we were hard put to identify them all.

Oh hang on - almost forgot. Would you like to see me modelling my Sock Madness Round 3s for a group of Cretan naked men?

Thought you might.




I had every intention of posting this picture on the Sock Madness site, and calling it Cavorting With Cretan Naked Men In My Round 3 Socks , but thought that the moderators might object.

That is the correct name of this orchid, though, The Naked Man.




DH thoughtfully took this closeup so you could see why it got that name.

One aspect of life, however, which I had very much hoped to find but which, sadly, was not in evidence, was yarncraft of any kind. Spinning, weaving, knitting - nowhere was anyone practising these age-old arts. I know they were doing them in the mid-20th century - Angeluna particularly warned me to look out for spindles and distaffs - but they appear to have gone forever.





The only spindles I saw were in a museum case. I saw another set displayed in the same way in another museum, which makes me conclude that all the old traditional implements were simply gathered up and preserved behind glass forever. Not the life any self-respecting spindle would want, do you think?

More worryingly, the waitress in one restaurant was fascinated by my knitting, to the extent of coming over and touching the fabric in puzzlement. She was about forty, I would say, and simply did not know what knitting was. She knew how to crochet - I gathered that much - 'but this, what is this?' I didn't expect that total lack of recognition. Didn't take long for the knowledge to disappear, did it?

But everything else was delightful, especially the cats, which of course were everywhere. Well fed and happy, too, and clearly much loved.




This marmalade mouser was fascinated by the Addi Turbos and felt sure he could do a pretty competent job on the heel of the Falling Rain socks if I would only let him.

There were nimble-footed goats on every cliff and ravine, and great flocks of sheep moving across the landscape wherever you looked.




The young man with this flock could have posed for any of the friezes on the Parthenon. (No, I deliberately didn't show you a close-up, I have to think of your blood pressure.)



It was rather endearing that this elderly shepherd, plying a timeless occupation in a timeless landscape, should have condescended to adopt at least one modern convenience. Maybe he was making arrangements for the get together at the taverna that evening.



Yes, we did leave enough time (just) to visit Crete's greatest archaeological treasure, last vestige of the fabulous Minoan culture.





It really is rather breathtaking. My own personal opinion is that Sir Arthur Evans did us a great service by recreating parts of it as he thought it must have looked in ancient Minoan times. It gives you a real feeling for the place.







Peering into these dim interiors, you wondered how many whispered assignations, how many intrigues, how many tiptoeing feet and gasps of terror are held within their memory. I felt like trying one of those dowsing techniques - you know, the one with a ring or an amulet on a fine hair which you let hang and see which way it describes a circle - just to see what I could pick up.

OK, here it is. This is the picture we had to take. It meant nipping over a few barriers and being quick about shedding the shoes before we were caught, but here, especially for you, fellow fibre fiends is -





What else?



KNITTING AT KNOSSOS!

Socks With A View

I find it difficult to believe now that back in the early days of blogging I demanded severely what on earth was so interesting about knitting socks. I didn't get it, I said. What was the draw, the attraction that created such obsessive behaviour among my fellow-bloggers?

Ah well, we all grow and look back on our childish foibles with amusement.

This is by way of reassuring you that Sock Madness is still very much on the go. As I write, there are about three and half hours to go to the first possible time for release of Pattern 3. Back in those early foolish days I simply would not have believed that knitters all over the world - hi Snidknits in Bangalore, hi Linnakat in Kenya, hi Norway Kate! - could or would be poised at their computers, yarn wound, needles at the ready, waiting for the moment that the pattern dropped into their email boxes. But they are, we are, and the pressure and tension and excitement that the whole thing generates has to be experienced to be fully comprehended.

It's going to be laceweight this time round, and Celtic Memory is ready - well, as ready as she'll ever be.

Here are eight tiny balls of cobweb-weight yarn wound and eager for the start. It's going to be one of those multi-stranded patterns, we think, where you move gradually from one colourway to the next by changing one fine strand at a time. We think. We don't know until we SEE THAT PATTERN.

Which should be here any time from 3 hrs 20 minutes on.

Celtic Memory has to fly off somewhere tomorrow morning extremely early - so early in fact, that it is a matter of some conjecture whether the pattern will arrive in time. Extreme gloom will result if it does not, especially as it passeth man's knowledge when said pattern's and Celtic Memory's paths will cross again for a few days. Enough time for everybody else to have passed her out on the racetrack and crossed the finishing line in the meantime. Ah well, let's be philosophical. No, let's not. GIMME THAT PATTERN RIGHT NOW, Y'HEAR?

The weather has returned to winter here in West Cork with shockingly unseasonable ice, sleet and even, on one occasion, a veritable blizzard.

The dogs have been much disinclined to venture forth, preferring instead to watch the antics of birds and baby rabbits from the comfort of the rocking chair.

Oh I have to tell you something so exciting about the nesting birds! Don't have a picture of this one, because it really was so unexpected and to have picked up a camera would have shattered the moment, but just listen to this.

We had, as you know, put out lots of dog hair for the birds to take for lining their nests. This little coal tit - don't know what you'd call him in America, but he's one of the smaller chickadees - had come in to get a bundle. I noticed that he was taking ages tugging at the hair and wondered what he was doing. Do you know what he WAS doing? He was standing on a small pile of it, holding it firmly underneath one claw on the branch, while with the other claw he pulled out long fine strands. When he'd got a fine strand, he took it carefully in his beak, keeping it at full length, and went back to pulling out more. Eventually he had a whole light as air bundle of finely combed wool, and he flew busily off with it, well content with his work.

That coal tit was carding the wool! He was doing exactly what I do with my carding combs, only he was using the two claws nature gave him and making an excellent job of it. Why take home a big hard lump of fur when you could please your mate mightily by bringing soft lofty batting? I was so thrilled to have seen it, I had tears in my eyes. Of course the chance of seeing him doing it again is slight, but we're ready with cameras if he does.

Have you ever seen a bird doing that? If you have, tell me all about it. I love to see that instinctive behaviour which we had to learn painstakingly.

When the weather did improve slightly, took the in-progress Falling Rain socks out for a drive and thought I'd give you some Socks With A View.

Here is one of them sitting happily on the dashboard, looking down at Upper Lake, Killarney.

and here is the other reclining on the moss further down the road. I realise it's rather small in the picture but I thought you'd appreciate the background rather more.

You can't see them in this picture because they're in my hands. I was wandering back across the lane from admiring some lambs in a field, and saw this adorable little ruined cottage absolutely begging for a kind owner.

And here they are back home again, somewhat more progressed. Isn't this a lovely pattern?

Enough. Celtic Memory is off to bed, to rise again at the ungodly hour of 3.45 am. The email will be checked before she has to leave for the airport. Here's hoping that pattern is there. (If I got up at 2 am, it just might have arrived...)

The Long Dark Night Of The Garter-Stitch Sole

No you haven't heard from me in a while. Well what did you expect? Sock Madness is a pretty demanding taskmaster, you know. And for this second round we were all thrown into discombobulated confusion by an April Fool's joke played wittily on us by the moderators - they released the pattern a day early! There we all were, getting work out of the way, winding up yarns, peacefully discussing possibilities, when WHAM - the pattern dropped into our mailboxes.

Ah then was mounting in hot haste - the steed
The mustering squadron and the clattering car
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war!

Not a peep was heard out of anyone for hours.

It was a demanding pattern this time round - entitled Reversai, it was a particularly lovely and intricate Guernsey pattern from Janine le Cras, but with the added demands (for Celtic Memory at any rate) of a pretty high stitch count and a lot of garter stitch on heel, sole and toe. Working garter stitch in the round is a bit like walking across a ploughed field - you should be getting along quickly but instead you're trudging slower and slower and eventually stop in vexation to wonder what's taking you so long. These socks took FOREVER.






As you can see, they're a bit generously sized on me, but that will be sorted. Lovely pattern, isn't it? The reason for the title is that they are totally reversible, with the same patterning on both sides. Clever!

Took three days instead of two, but the relief of finishing was huge. How did Celtic Memory celebrate? How do you think? By immediately casting on for The Yarnarian's Falling Rain socks. You may recall I made her Leafy Greens in between the first and second round, to stop fidgeting hands, and this time didn't even hesitate, but went for the lovely new pattern.





(That's Yarnarian's pic, not mine, by the way. Thought she wouldn't mind my sharing its beauty with you.) Don't you love the way the raindrops trickle down the leg and end in tiny droplets on the foot?

And spring has sprung in West Cork! We've had three whole days of soft fine weather with a breeze blowing and that certain something in the air which makes you forget all deadlines and head for the garden with rake and shears. We're scheduled for a return to icy northern winds tonight or thereabouts, but right now it's spring and we are giving due thanks for it.

Very VERY good news! Remember that little cock wren who built a tiny home in a creeper outside the kitchen window, and then went out socialising to see if he could pick up a mate? Well he DID! The other morning we glanced out to see how the little bunches of combed dog fur were doing in the bushes by the pond (we always put them there at this time of year, as nesting material) and what did we see?





The little lady had inspected the mossy cottage, pronounced it just right, and immediately sallied forth to choose bedlinen and curtains.

She wasn't the only one rushing around the drapery department that morning.




This bluetit was yanking out great beaksful of fur and flying off with them like a mobile Father Christmas to an as yet secret destination. We usually find where most of the nests are once they start feeding young, but at this stage we don't like disturbing them too much in case it puts them off the location ('gosh, nosy neighbours, let's go somewhere else, shall we?') There is an early robin sitting on eggs in a pampas bush in the orchard, and a blackbird with more enthusiasm than sense in a dangerously open spot in the hedge, but that's all we've seen so far.



I am so happy Jenny Wren liked the nest. Now we can boast the By Royal Appointment logo, since the wren is the king of all birds. Pictures of eager young being fed in due course if all goes well (the nest is ideally placed for snapping from the car window). As always, loving thanks to DH for taking these shots - he possesses both more knowhow and more patience than ever I will.

Our neighbouring organic farmer clearly scented the spring too. He was up bright and early this morning, ploughing the field behind our house.







We're very lucky to have Patrick next door. Farmers who use chemical pesticides are no fun as neighbours.



Now that Round 2 of Sock Madness is out of the way for Celtic Memory at any rate (it's still progressing, though, and will be for a few days yet), it's about time some more hand-dyed yarns got listed on eBay. Simply didn't have the chance with the frantic knitting.





Couldn't do other than go for spring themes this time round: from left to right here, Irish Moss, Daffodil, Bluebell and Wild Rose. Going to list them as soon as I've posted this. For those who enquired, no, I don't have an eBay shop - that demands constant attention and presence, neither of which I can spare - but I will always tell you here when I'm going to list them. I'll come back and put in an ID number for one of them later maybe, since somebody said she couldn't find them, but in the meantime, if you go to the Handpainted Yarns category and put Celtic Memory into the search box, they'll pop up quickly enough.



Off to enjoy spring in West Cork!



UPDATE, some hours later...



OK, the yarns are up on eBay now. This is the item ID for Irish Moss:

170207972903



and you should be able to track the others from there. All nice subtle semi-solids this time, nothing too ferociously contrasting. Ideal for complex patterning (like Reversia!)