Of Coventry, A Cuddly Lamb, and A Secret Clapper Bridge

Went to Coventry last week for the first ever UK Ravelry Day. The weather could hardly have been worse - downpours, black clouds, shivery temperatures - but we had fun nevertheless. I met up with Sandy, a fellow Sock Madnesser, who had flown in from Sweden and shanghaied an innocent businessmanfrom her flight into escorting her to the hotel (I heard him later on explaining on the phone to his wife that he'd met this woman on the plane from Sweden and could she please pick him up at said woman's hotel - I wonder what kind of evening they had when he got home?)


But it was great to meet Sandy in person after sharing so much terror and pressure and stress and all the other joys of Sock Madness via Ravelry. And as is usual with knitters and bloggers, we felt we knew each other pretty well already. She brought me some gorgeous yarn from Sweden and I gave her some Irish skeins in exchange so we were both well content.

I have to say that spirits were high at the event, despite the wretched weather.



I don't know if this is Sarah or Gemma from Brownberry Yarns, but she was smiling even while drips were falling from the inadequate tarpaulin right on her koala bear's head. Oh wait, Gemma's KraftyKoala, isn't she, on the Web, so maybe it's Gemma.





These alpacas were behaving beautifully, though they must have been feeling rather damp. You can't see how hard it's raining, which is perhaps just as well.

Indoors things were very crowded, since nobody who could avoid it wanted to stay outside very long, but it was all very jolly.



There were workshops, all extremely well attended,



there were knitters in every available space,



Medecins Sans Frontieres were there, a sight to gladden the heart of our own dear Yarn Harlot,



there were spinners




and of course there were lots and lots of stalls, both inside and out. I bought two pairs of Holz & Stein circulars in ebony from the lovely Frangipani or Guernsey Wool, I don't know by which title they prefer to be known, but they were exceptionally helpful and nice, again despite the rain which must have affected their sales. Bought far too much from the lovely Andy as usual - a big cone of gorgeous fingering weight merino in natural, two balls of Noro Silk Garden Sock, Cookie A's new sock book, and the new Noro Mini Knits 2 for good measure (and good weight, the rucksack was getting heavy by this time). On somebody else's stall I found the highly entertaining Crazy Zauberball yarn and bought one in red and one in blue.

If you look at that last picture above, you might see a lady at her spinning wheel. That's Kirstie Buckland from the Knitting History Forum. It's worth seeing her glorious outfit close up:




Every little detail correct. I must join the Knitting History Forum, really I must. It's fascinating to learn as much as possible about the craft.

Took a class in machine knitting with Jane, who made it all seem so simple - it's never as easy as that when you get home though, is it? Went to Meg Swansen's talk and met up with LilyMarlene, another of my old Sock Madness friends. We had so much to talk about that, after we'd enjoyed Meg's talk and queued up to look more closely at her superbly chic Ribwarmer Vest, we went out to a local Viennese cafe for coffee and cakes and a really good gossip before she had to leave to drive back to the Isle of Wight.

Met up with quite a few Irish knitters too, in the pub that night, as well as discovering a perfect treasure of a medieval drinking house, thanks to Jane who told me where to find it. These ancient buildings are wonderful, all creaky stairs and low ceilings and odd corners and angles. I sat in a tiny dark inglenook all by myself for half an hour with a glass of Old Peculiar or something, and fancied myself back in the Middle Ages.

But cities are not really Celtic Memory's thing, and I was very grateful to get back finally to the green fields and peaceful woodlands of West Cork where we had summer for a whole week while England grew steadily more sodden. The garden of course is totally untamable now, and it's difficult to find your way through the jungle without a machete, while the dogs never go out without their GPSs and whistles. I opened the window the other morning to see DH in the corner of what was once the rose garden (and could be again if I could stop knitting and get some serious pruning done), surrounded by tripods and lenses and wires -




It transpired he was photographing a particular form of fungus with the exceptionally attractive name of Stinkhorn.




Not a particularly good picture - I blew it up from a section of the previous image - but you can probably see where it got its name. Did I mention it smells as though something very dead is lying close by?

Went down to Gougane Barra a few days ago to see a new addition to the Lucey family.





Ali says she had always wanted a pet lamb, so although she was sorry that Lucky's mother had died, she was thrilled to have a little creature of her own to look after.




I tell you, he really butts at that bottle, sucking and thrusting until every drop is gone. I love his rich black coat with touches of white and have already tried to lay claim to the first fleece, but they assure me that it will change to a duller brown within the year. What a pity.


When we were leaving the valley, we headed off up a narrow side boreen on a whim, and followed its potholed and bumpy surface for a mile or so until we ended in the rocky yard of an old abandoned farmhouse. It was a fine afternoon so we went wandering down the old laneways which would once have led to the infield, the outfield, the river.

And, coming down to the bottom of the lane, where we could hear water running (you're never very far from a stream anywhere in Ireland), we turned the corner by the blackberry bush and what did we find.




A totally unsuspected, unknown, undiscovered, secret clapper bridge. A little one, all by itself, crossing a small stream in the middle of nowhere.

Built anything up to ten centuries ago or more, clapper bridges aren't uncommon in this part of Ireland, and in fact there are two well known ones within five or ten miles of this spot, but we had no idea this one was here. It certainly isn't marked on any of the ordnance survey maps and isn't listed in my archaeological reference books. It is just possible that it has escaped being recorded, being so very out of the way.

It was the perfect end to a beautiful day. Dear little bridge.


Inevitably came back from Coventry with so many creative ideas that nothing would suffice but to start several new projects all at once.





As I said, Meg Swansen looked so confoundedly elegant in her Ribwarmer that I had to try again (did try before, if you remember, using the wrong yarn and the wrong size needles, so it's hardly surprising that it turned out a total disaster). Must say this is great fun to work, especially those short rows which bring it round the corner and up the back. Using Icelandic unspun I think - bought it in Finland though, so it may be the Finnish version of that super-delicate, super-light yarn. If you even let a loop of it fall around your knee, you've had it - it separates at the slightest pressure. However, since Celtic Memory has always been known as a loose knitter, she is delighted to discover that her style is entirely suited to working with unspun. No yarns tightly wound around several fingers for her. No steely maintaining of gauge. Just throwing the yarn in the general direction of the needle and then easing it through the stitch, is all that is required. So far I've only broken the yarn twice, which isn't bad going. Yay, the ugly duckling has found the right pond! At last I'm not an outsider, mocked as a 'loosey goosey', I can do this!





Decided that the Conwy Socks from Nancy Bush's Knitting On The Road were just right for the Crazy Zauberball I scooped at UK Ravelry Day. Yes, you're right, Celtic Memory has made an inexplicable slide sideways and is actually using red and brown rather than her usual blues, turquoises and violets. Blame it on the English weather - I'll be back to normal soon. It just seemed right at the time...







Sock Madness may have ended for this year, but the fun goes on in the group. The latest idea is to create new ideas to use up all those itty bitty leftover yarn balls you tend to accumulate. Here I'm trying to make a patchwork project bag - that's one of four projected panels you can see there, and the pointed bit will become a quarter of the bottom, so it will sit flat. I think it's a bit loose on tension though, so might try with a smaller needle. A project bag needs to be fairly firm.








This is the See You Later sock, the final pattern in Sock Madness. I was working on that at Coventry. Highly entertaining, with all those wraps and loopings - you never get bored. Koigu KPPPM - or is that KKKPM? Or KPMMM? Well, Koigu yarn anyway.







Even the Seahorse Socks got finished at long last. These were made, you may recall, by first working two tubes on the old sock machine, and then working toes and cuffs before bravely snipping a thread on each tube (having carefully measured first) and unpicking stitches to make the afterthought heels. They turned out very nicely indeed. Wonder if there would be a market for Save Your Sanity And Spare Time kits, where all the boring legwork was done, and you could play round with the tops and tails?



OK, OK, this isn't the way to finish the posting, I know. You want to see the bridge again. So do I.




I wonder how many footsteps have passed over it throughout the centuries since it was first laboriously constructed? Heavy hobnailed boots going to a day's hard work; light bare feet of a girl running to a lover's tryst in the fields at evening; faltering steps of emigrants; cattle, sheep, geese being driven to market; and maybe, just maybe, in the silent dew-drenched hours before dawn, even the silver slippers of the Good People .

A Runaway Bag and a Russian River

You wouldn't think it could happen twice, could you? Should have known that I was asking for trouble, taking Little Yellow Suitcase right back to Helsinki where it occurred last time. But I felt that as we were heading out, not home, and that there was no new stash loot, just WIPs in the checked bag, all would be well. Ha!




At least I'd been working on the Evelyn Clark Flower Basket Shawl on the flight, so had that to keep me occupied.



In the event, it just meant that we had to spend the night in Ivalo, northern Finland, instead of driving into Norway straight away, but that was OK, since it meant reindeer stew with lingonberries for me, and a happy encounter for DH before breakfast next morning:









The next flight up from Helsinki didn't get in until noon, so we went wandering on a nearby moor, and my lovely pink Talia's Wings socks, designed by YarnYenta for this year's Sock Madness, had their first look at a frozen lake.





Since these were the only socks I had with me, pending the arrival of Little Yellow Suitcase, they'd already had a quick overnight wash and dry, courtesy of competent Finnish hotel bathroom heating, but took to the busy life with great aplomb and kept the Celtic Memory feet cosy and warm throughout the morning. Lovely design, Heatherley, one of my favourites!


Wandered back to the sleepy little airport at noon, and saw the plane touch down amid the fir trees. Nice to be at a small country airstrip with no hassle, security, pressure or crowds whatever, just the wind blowing through the birches and the sun warming your back pleasantly while you waited.








Can you see a flash of defiant yellow on that unloading trolley?






I tell you, I gave it a good scolding. I see it all now. That first time of getting lost in Helsinki, it met up with a hunky travel bag - probably from Germany - and plans were laid to meet again the very next opportunity they got. What do I do? Change bags? Revert to cabin baggage only? (If I but could - you just try travelling with a professional photographer!)

It was high time to get going, since it's a long way, not only to Tipperary, but to Varangerfjord. Stopped for coffee just south of the Finnish/Norwegian border, and what did we find?





I'd actually seen this truck parked by our hotel in Ivalo the night before, and it had set off early, but here it was, open for business in the car park by the coffee shop. You'll never guess -





It was a mobile LYS!

It also had rolls of fabric, needles, thread, everything the competent housewife could desire. Isn't that the most marvellous idea? I want to fit out a little green van right this minute and set off around Ireland with it, taking thread to Thurles, wool to Wexford, needles to Newbridge, sock yarn to Sligo, quilting fabric to - where else - Quilty (yes, it does exist, honestly) and generally spreading joy and happiness around the land. Wouldn't even mind if much didn't get sold - it would be the spirit of the thing.

The Sunday, as it happened, was Norway National Day, and every little town and village was en fete, with people in the most beautiful traditional costumes.




Look at these gorgeous girls hurrying to shelter through an icy wind in Vardo. The embroidery on those woollen bodices and skirts was exquisite. And on that point, I found some wonderful pattern books in local shops, giving knitted designs for all kinds of Norwegian traditional dress. They were for children, but you could easily adapt those waistcoats and skirts and socks and caps for adult use. I'll put up some pictures when I get a chance. Oh hang on, I'll go try to take a shot or two now. Wait there.





Done it. Not a very good shot, took it quickly, but you get the idea? Why oh why don't we have lovely books available like this in our shops? Norway has a great pride in its traditional crafts.


The Flower Basket Shawl, made in some silk I'd hand-dyed, worked out quite well. I think it's the first lace piece I've completed, and again thanks to efficient hotel heating, managed to block and dry on a towel before taking it, with all due ceremony to that wonderful stone circle out on Varangerfjord for its christening.




I can tell you it was well cold enough to tuck that shawl inside the neck of my jacket. Had about fifteen layers on, and the wind singing through every one of them without a care.






The lichens on the ancient rock were most obliging about holding the shawl in position for a close up. Felt it was a bit of an imposition, but maybe they were austerely amused at the frivolity.

Speaking of the cold (and by 'eck was it cold up there, you genuinely didn't dare even to smile too widely for a picture because the bitter chill immediately attacked your teeth), I was fascinated by this simple image in Vardo:



I saw it more than once, with different groups. Here in Ireland, children would tuck dolly in with her face showing. Up there, the kids carefully covered the doll's pram right over with a blanket, against the cold.





Here is something else nice. Little wooden shoreline huts for storing fishing tackle, oars and nets. Can you see how carefully the rotten wood has been cut out, and the new wood fitted in? The gaps were caulked with moss. The huts are on sturdy runners, so they can be moved as need be.


It was sunny there near Vadso, but out on the Hamningberg Peninsula, it was grim and black.






It's such a dramatic coastline - you feel awestruck just driving it, and very small indeed in the immensity of it all.


We saw dozens of sea eagles, and in one very fortunate moment, several otters squeaking excitedly to each other as they fished offshore.




The road up to Batsfjord lies over high open moorland, where the snow lay thickly and the spring was still a long way away.





When you drop down to the sea at this lively fishing port, though, it's much milder and the reindeer were everywhere, taking advantage of the gentler climate.





A local fisherman told me the reindeer come down to the shore to give birth each spring. 'It is better for them here, safer too, I think.'

I have a dear friend in Batsfjord who I was hoping to see again, if I could discover her whereabouts. Dropped into the local LYS first (as you do), and who should I find coming to meet me but Else herself!





I had no idea that she was working here! She's finished her studies in Lillehammer for the summer, and what more convenient than that she should find opportunity for stash enhancement gainful employment in her LYS? It was lovely to meet again and hug and exchange news. Good luck with the final exam tomorrow, Else!

Had hoped to see Marianne in Vadso too, but unfortunately she was returning from a trip as we were leaving, so it wasn't to be. Next time, next time. Else, I know I promised to show you how to do a short-row heel, and Marianne, I had every intention of getting you to show me how to make those lovely felted pieces. We'll meet again...


There was a final leg to the trip to be made - out to Kirkenes, where the Hurtigruten boat calls in each day on its voyage around the endless Norwegian coastline, delivering mail and packages, and then on, up an increasingly narrow road, petering out into a rough track, to the very edge of Europe and the Russian border at Grense Jacobselv.







It was strange to drive along a track at one side of a small river, in Norway, and see the green and red painted post on the opposite bank showing that it was Russia. I grew up during the Cold War when the mystique and fear of Russia was very real, as were the tales of borders and daring escapes and tragic endings. To be there now, albeit in somewhat more relaxed times, and to see those implacable Russian mountains rising high behind the river, was quite an experience, especially as it was late in the evening and there was nobody else on that road.




There was still a solitary watchtower on the Russian side, but it didn't seem to be occupied. A merciful release for some soldier who would formerly have been doomed to a long lonely day in freezing conditions up there, watching, always watching.





The watchtower is rather nicely balanced by the King Oskar II chapel on the Norwegian bank. When relationships were very chilly after WWII, it was proposed to moor a gunboat at the mouth of the river, but an inspired soldier suggested that a chapel would be a much more effective icon, and so it was. So it is.



Knitting continued of course throughout the trip.





Here is the complex Celtic crop cardi photographed by a frozen Finnish lake. By now everything is up to the armhole stage, and it will be necessary to put frightening numbers of stitches on to one long circular to work the raglan shaping up to the neck, while at the same time (don't you love that phrase, especially if you read it too late) continuing the cabling on each individual piece. Wish me luck.




I love this felted picture in its window frame, don't y0u? Saw it at Ivalo Airport.


And when we got back, to the green and gold of early summer in West Cork, of course yarns had to be dyed and hung to dry in the breeze.






These are the new laceweights. Can't seem to do justice to their rather nice colours, no matter how hard I try with the camera. Sugar Maple, Connemara Twilight, and Magical Forest.







And these are the semisolids in merino/tencel sockweight which I have christened the Goneril & Reagan yarns after that really rather gorgeous pattern by Liz Abinante. Designed for strong-minded women who like creating a sensation, not for your wilting lilies at all. Turquoise Temptress, Predatory In Pink, Venomous Violet, and Emerald Empress. Took an age to get those listed on eBay last night. Does your PC immediately go into a slowdown when you try to get things listed? Mine takes so long that I now keep some simple knitting next to the keyboard and work a few rows while waiting for the page to refresh.




Now I know what you're sighing. Too much, and after too long a break, you're complaining. You're right of course. I'm exhausted myself and I haven't shown you half the pictures I meant to. Look, I promise, yet again, to try harder. It would be easier on both of us after all if I posted a little and often. Maybe - no, not tomorrow. Maybe three days time? I will try. I'll put a reminder to myself on my cellphone right now. Want to tell you about a day in the Black Valley and the Gap of Dunloe.





Must tell you right now though - the sun is shining in West Cork! And it's a Bank Holiday weekend! This is nothing short of a major miracle. People are out and about, smiling, laughing, talking. Beaches are crowded. Shoulders are being bared. Never mind that the temperature, at about 24 deg, would be considered a chilly spring day in Texas. It's summer in Ireland - all three days of it!

Old Roads and New Life

We were talking some time back - it was probably last year - about old roads and how powerful they can be. I was referring in particular then to the Gearagh, an ancient post-glacial alluvial forest, flooded by a hydro-electric scheme, and how its old pathways can sometimes reappear in dry periods.

That's only a mile or so away, but I realised rather tardily this morning, as I went down through the orchard to see how the fruit blossom was doing (chilly for May as yet, they need a watchful eye, although I've never tried that country remedy of lighting little brush fires on frosty nights to protect their delicate petals), that I have entirely omitted to let you into a rather nice secret. Some people claim to have fairies at the bottom of their garden - Celtic Memory has an old road. Yes, a genuine stretch of old boreen, running right along the boundary. You cross the lawns, go under the rose arch, through the long grass of the orchard, and down to the fence. It's shadowy there, under the overhanging trees, but peek down about a 6' drop and what do you see?

That wall once bordered the busy little highway to Macroom. Donkeys pulling cartloads of turf, black-cloaked women taking butter to the market, herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, all made their way on the old route. The new, wider road, more suitable for fast cars and big trucks, is about forty or fifty feet beyond. The trees have grown up, and you would never know this little stretch of the old road was here unless you happened to come down into my orchard and look over the fence. Which you are very welcome to do if you are passing. I like to think that at night, if you go and stand very quietly in the orchard, leaning on an apple tree (their magic is just as powerful as that of rowan, and that's why they're planted in so many old hedgerows and boundaries), you just might hear the soft tapping of a donkey's neat hooves or the trudging of a tired woman of the roads with her heavy basket. Surely old roads must retain memories of all they have seen, all those who have passed by?

We're pretty rich in this particular corner with highways of former days in fact - across the main road, there's a stretch of another one to be seen - the route that branched off from mine and headed out across a valley, now hidden beneath a lake.

You could walk along this for half a mile or so, but after that you would need a wet suit and breathing apparatus as there is a fairly deep stretch of water between you and Macroom. Denis Murphy's farm is up to the left, and his sheep often gather down here at night or on warm summer days, enjoying the peaceful shade. Nice to have so many vestiges of the older, slower world still there to be found, if you take the trouble to look for them.

The primroses and violets are blooming all along these old ways now, undisturbed by traffic.

Out on the lakeshore, the gorse is in full bloom, and if it's a warm sunshiny day, you can get that delicious coconut scent from its flowers. (Did try to make gorse wine once or twice, but since you have to add grape concentrate, raisins, and dozens of other rich encouragements, you do wonder what part the gorse blossoms play in the preparation at all, if any. Maybe it's just the thought that counts.) Tufts of wool caught on the thorny branches tempt you to gather pocketsful and take them home to spin. When I was learning that craft, a long time ago in England's West Country, I was told very severely that this hedgerow fleece was no good at all and should not even be gathered. If it hadn't been cut directly from the sheep, then it wasn't worth using. Well, I was in fairly penurious circumstances at the time and my Irish heritage wouldn't let me leave such generous offerings unheeded (I'll even pick up dry branches laid on the road in front of me by the wood spirits, and say 'Thank you' for good measure.) I gathered lots and lots of the tufts I found on the Devon moors and it was just fine for spinning. Made several Christmas gift scarves with it. Just goes to show you can't believe everything you're told by the experts.

If you're quiet enough on these rambles, and stay in the shadow of the trees, you might be lucky enough to spot some of the residents going about their business.

Mr. Tod on his way to the fast food outlet at the local chicken run (or possibly Mrs. Tod going shopping, although this chap looks too resplendent to be an exhausted mother in springtime).

A treecreeper bringing food to its own young family

and out on the lake, a proud mama little grebe taking her firstborn for a nice swim in the sun.

DH was very excited about the fox and went off for the afternoon in the car to a spot by a grassy bank where he could park and sit very quietly with the big lens positioned at the window. He figured that where there was one, there could be more, and probably, in May, some babies as well.

He said it was a long afternoon, as he waited, afraid even to move an inch or change position, but in the end it was worth it.

Two curious little fox cubs came out to regard the car gravely, wondering what this strange shiny monster might be.

It was a warm day, and after a while, the temptation to fall asleep was overwhelming, said DH. But that was all right, since everybody felt the same.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Celtic Memory was busy dyeing up some new yarns - both sockweight and a new blend, cashmere silk laceweight.

Left to right, we have merino/tencel in Apple Blossom, pure merino superwash in Bluebell Woods, and right down there in the shadows, cashmere/silk laceweight in Mermaid's Garden.

Dyeing them up and hanging them in the grove to dry doesn't take all that long - it's the listing on eBay that can take forever. Perhaps it's because we're right at the end of the possibility line for broadband here, and the connection isn't always as fast as it could be. These days, a project is always in hand so that a few rows can be put in while waiting for a page to refresh. Surprising how much you can get done that way. Next to me now as I type are a pair of tube socks (tube worked on the sock machine, tops, toes, and heels worked by hand) in bright red, plus the latest new excitement, the start of a cropped, heavily cabled little jacket top, with side and back slits, something after the style of Elsebeth Lavold's Ragna, in blue mousse merino.

Here you can see the first panel for the back, and the second in progress above it. They, and the panel for each front, will be joined after two pattern repeats to work to the armhole shaping and after that we'll see. Maybe an Elizabeth Zimmermann raglan decrease to bring the whole thing in to the neckline, including sleeves worked in the round up to the same point (might put a sleeve slit in too).

That mousse is quadrupled to bring it up to chunky weight - not in the mood for millions of stitches right now, want quick gratification.

Which way of thinking is of course because we've just finished Round Four of Sock Madness

Lucky Diamond, designed for Round 4 of Sock Madness by Melissa Goodale.

and although the design was delightful and the result very happy indeed, these fingers don't want to see tiny stitches and endless rounds for another while. Not in fierce competition anyway (you wouldn't believe how fast some of these speedsters knit, especially the Norwegians!)

UK Ravelry Day is on June 6 in Coventry and you wouldn't believe how difficult it is to arrange a quick there-and-back-in-a-day, which is the method of travel most favoured by Celtic Memory. To put it succintly, you can't. Having explored all the options, including camel train to Ulan Bator, onward donkey to Ladakh, flight to Gander and connecting flight to the Outer Hebrides, finally accepted the inevitable and made a long weekend of it. Still, people like Northernlace are genuinely making major multiple-stop trips to get there (Kirkwall to Inverness and onward, anyone?) so CM can hardly complain at having to use Aer Lingus, get in on Friday afternoon, and not leave until Sunday afternoon, since our national airline clearly doesn't believe anybody needs to travel to Birmingham on a Saturday. Added to which, they have the lowest weight allowance for cabin baggage of any short-haul airline I know (half that of Ryanair), which further adds to the load of Celtic grievance. Large raincoats with tons of poachers' pockets are clearly indicated, to assist the carefully-measured, regulation size rucksack, and never mind that it will be June.

Cold enough for May right now, though. The flowers are emerging, as are the young leaves, since they really can't leave it any longer, but they haven't got that vigorous spring in their step that we find when it's muggy warm and damp as it usually should be at this time of year. The clematis is spectacular though, and one particularly energetic plant in the back garden gives me joy every time I look at it. I had fully intended to trim this very tall tree in the hedge last winter but didn't get round to it (knitting or something), and when I saw how the clematis had used it, I was very glad I hadn't.

Can you see how it's climbed right up and thrown its sprays around the very top of the tree? Do you know what it reminds me of? That famous portrait of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria (Sissi) with diamonds in her hair. Let me see if I can find an image.

Yes, here's one. Well, I can see the comparison anyway. Always wanted a climber to create that effect on a dark tree, and now the clematis has done it for me. Thank you, clematis!

The lily of the valley, with their seductive scent, are blooming too, recalling memories of First Communions and confirmations when our veils were garlanded with the little perfumed bells. Picked a little bunch to keep on the desktop, to remind me that this is Maytime.

I hope the flowers are blooming for you too. Or if you are still shivering in winter, that they are nevertheless there, just underneath the ground, waiting to gladden your heart when warmer weather returns.