Bears, Beavers, And The Best Ribs In The Klondike!

If I don't get round to posting right this minute, it'll never get done. No use waiting for enough time, is there? You have to make it. Even when editors are threatening and deadlines are sitting evilly on your bedside table , eying you like vultures when you wake up in the morning.


Besides which, if I don't post now, Samhain will be past and Christmas, heaven help us, on the way. And that wouldn't do at all.


It was wonderful going back to Yukon Territory and a tiny bit of Alaska. Even without window seats, we got a few stunning glimpses of Greenland.







And Whitehorse (when we finally crawled in at 1.30 am, having left Cork at 6 am - and you can subtract another eight hours from that for the time difference, so it was well over 24 hours, with delays at this airport and that) was as charming as ever. It's nice to be in a real frontier town of the kind that faces up to nature and rough weather with total practicality, knowing it can't just assume things will always be easy - things like pottering out to do a spot of shopping, or travelling any distance without packing survival gear.



Absolutely and far away my favourite restaurant in the whole world is in Whitehorse - the Klondike Rib & Salmon on 2nd Ave - and one of my favourite people is owner, Dona, who runs the whole shebang as if it were a gigantic party. You can see queues down the street at feeding time, but she still finds time to greet every customer personally and has a wonderful relationship with her gang of cheerful young staff.







Here she is, still merry after closing time. See that Dog Sled Parking sign over her head? That's a very tempting reminder to head back to Whitehorse next February. No matter that the whole place will be frozen solid and blanketed under twenty feet of snow, that's when the Yukon Quest takes place, the dog sled race from Fairbanks Alaska to Whitehorse. The dogs and their mushers race a thousand freezing miles, and I WANT TO BE THERE. Dona, if you're reading this, can I come help make soup, coffee, man one of the checkpoints? Please? I'll knit double thick socks for both of us!


Headed out early every morning in Whitehorse, to see what was about in the dawn light.






I don't know who was more taken aback here, me, the coyote, or DH.


Is that a lens or a Gatling gun? Wow, you don't see many of those in these here woods...








Having got over his initial camera shyness, he trotted quite casually past DH, on his way to a business meeting no doubt.



The other place we spent quite a bit of time was the Whitehorse dump or recycling centre. Those with wildlife photographer acquaintances will know that dumps are very high on the list of desirable locations, and Whitehorse is one of the best. Simply everyone drops in at one time or another.







These juvenile bald eagles would far rather have Mama and Papa bring them a nice hot lunch like always, but their parents were having none of it, sitting at a distance on a tall pine, and refusing to lift a talon to help. They had to learn for themselves.






This raven was really being mean, winding up the poor hungry young eagle something rotten. He'd fly down, get a nice tasty titbit, then bring it back to the wire, and edge slowly up towards the eagle, taking delicious little nibbles and cawing, 'Oh this is nice. Oooh, this is the best titbit I've ever tasted...' He was doing it on purpose, no doubt about that. Every now and again, goaded beyond endurance, the eagle would make a dash at his tormentor, but the raven would easily evade him, chuckling all the while.









We went up to Dawson, another of my favourite places. Do you know Dawson? It was a huge place during the Klondike Gold Rush, fell into decrepitude thereafter, but was, thankfully, saved as a beautiful ghost town for future generations to enjoy. It's full of old log cabins dating from those heady days, some sinking into the soil at dangerous angles (probably where their occupants had dug right under the building in search of the elusive metal), others, on firmer ground, holding their own.








This is somewhere I think of when I can't get back to sleep at 2 am and need a peaceful old-world image. It's Robert Service's cabin. The Bard of the Yukon lived in this little hut and wrote his wonderfully evocative and popular poems here. I've quoted this verse before, but I'll do so again, because it's a good one to recall when life gets a bit too respectable:



They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have steeped you in convention through and through.
They have put you in a glass case, you're a credit to their teaching,
But can't you hear The Wild - it's calling you!








Of course we went up The Dempster a little way - until the road got really rough anyway. You're supposed to tape up the headlights and put mesh over the grille and things like that if you plan to drive any distance. That's as well as food for a week, enough medical supplies to perform minor operations, and a few extra sweaters.






In Ireland you can't go three kilometres without someone offering you a cup of tea, for heaven's sake!


Dawson is a good place to watch beavers.

This chap was so busy stocking up for the winter, gathering juicy branches, still with the golden leaves attached, and carrying them down to the underwater larder, that he didn't mind us at all -







- but I simply loved watching this guy swim off and collect a huge armful of weed, then ponderously carry it all the way up to the top of his lodge to caulk any possible weak points.



From Dawson, you either retrace your steps the long long road to Whitehorse or you cross the Yukon River - just like in the song - and head into Alaska.







That's an Elizabeth Zimmermann Ribwarmer in bright pink boucle, by the way, being knitted on the ferry. Thought another layer wouldn't come amiss.







From the high road above, the early morning clouds were still hiding Dawson, but you can just see on the right where the Klondike River joins the Yukon. And then it was a long, long, LONG drive down through Chicken, Alaska (really!), back into Canada at Beaver Creek, out again just before Thirty Mile Roadhouse, where we had to stop for coffee, as this is another of my favourite places.





Unutterably cosy and comfy and welcoming after a long drive, run by several sprightly and very strict elderly ladies, it's a gathering point and information centre for the surrounding area as well as a cafe. Which makes sense in Offthemapua.

We were heading for Haines, a small port of call for cruise ships in season, but also an extremely good place to see grizzly bears if you know where to go. Which, fortunately, we did. As dusk falls each evening at this time of year, the grizzlies come down from the woods to fish for salmon in the river. There aren't any controls, no barriers or safety screens, just you, a lonely woodland road, a river - and the dark woods.

I was wandering along this road on my own in the dusk, thinking of Starmore sweaters or something, and only belatedly realised that perhaps being solo wasn't all that good an idea. I headed back to find DH round the next bend and as we met up, we heard a crashing in the woods a few yards away.

'Time to move, I think' said DH with understatement, and we got rapidly out of the path of the approaching noise. Only a few yards up the road and then we turned -








Not a very good picture, snatched at speed in the gathering dusk, but I won't let DH delete it. It is a reminder of just how close I came to being on my own in the sort of situation where you would really prefer several strong friends by your side.



There were actually three of them - Mum and two grown cubs - and they trotted across the road, glancing crossly at us, and down to the riverbank. DH switched to flash mode, which interested the youngsters exceedingly:










Gosh, maybe we shouldn't have beaten up that coyote, he was telling the truth after all! Willya look at the size of that lens?



Great heavens, I've only just this minute spotted something, when I looked at that picture. We'd both noticed the nice white markings on the bear on the left, but now it looks exactly like the face of another bear, doesn't it? What a very odd effect. Must go tell DH as soon as I've finished posting.


It's a privilege to get so close to these enormous creatures but let's face it, it's also darned dangerous. Probably won't be much longer that you can walk that river road at dusk and play peekaboo with grizzlies. And I'm still wondering what exactly I would have done if I'd been on my own when The Three Bears crossed the road. Frozen in shock? Closed my eyes and prayed? Shown them the sock I was knitting? (Reagan in Wollmeise, on size O Addi Turbos).








On the way back up to Whitehorse, completing a very big circle, we paced the White Pass Railway train, the big black steam engine puffing clouds of smoke to let us know where it was when we lost it in the hills. Wish there had been time to hike a bit of the legendary, appalling, Chilkoot Trail, but unfortunately we had a flight to catch.


Two days to get home and the jet lag from hell, lasting well over a week, but it was worth it. To be out there in those huge empty spaces with those vast skies and that clear cold air - it made you feel invigorated just to breathe.


There would be absolutely no sense, no justification whatsoever, in going back for the Yukon Quest in February, would there? No, you're quite right, there would not. There would not...

I'm Here, I'm Home, But Beset By Deadlines And Jetlag

Just so's you know, nothing's happened, all is well, but got home to the jetlag from hell as well as really strict noises, verging almost on the annoyed, from the editor of our new book. A chapter has to be with him by Wednesday and right now the Deadline Monster isn't just whistling by, he's sitting on the roof of the house glowering, while we combat the desperate need for sleep by typing nonstop (me) and sorting through millions of pictures (DH).

I promise faithfully and sincerely that Wednesday night (if not dead from exhaustion), you will get the full tale of the Yukon trip, including The Three Bears And The Addi Turbos...

Of Sea Eagles, Ancient Annals, And The Inadvisability of Plying Yarn

It seems like such a good idea at the time. You have this beautiful yarn, perfect colour, begging to be used, but it's too thin for your purpose. For any purpose really except fine socks or a sadistic Starmore special on triple O steel needles. So you do the sensible thing and ply it. Twice, maybe three times (Celtic Memory has been known to use four plies when occasion demands).


But... and this is where the inadvisability comes in - the project doesn't always work. In my case, it was back last January when I was battling the flu bug from Hades and got the feverish idea late one night of creating a beautiful guernsey from a book of Japanese patterns, using a particularly gorgeous cone of violet pure wool I'd snaffled on a trip to Texere Yarns in Bradford some time back.







This was the yarn, if you remember. And you may also remember if you read that post, that I realised the error of my ways about half an hour into the project and frogged what little I'd done.

Only... I'd plied the yarn double, to get it up to usable thickness, hadn't I?



And... this is undoubtedly one of the rarest and most attractive violet yarns you've ever seen, isn't it?



And... I've just got the hang of combining machine knitting with handwork, haven't I? Which opens up delectable new possibilities of working whole garments in hitherto impossible fine gauge yarns?


So it became clear that the violet yarn needed to be unplied.

No worries. Got a ball winder now. Got several skein winders. Surely two different machines can be brought into use together to return the yarn to its original gauge? (Stand by Ireland, the industrial revolution is about to hit your shores at last).


Of course it never works out as simply as you think. Even when you wind a ball casually by hand (or, in my case, flu-ridden last January, feverishly and incoherently and quite badly), you inevitably twist it. And that twist is seriously bad news for unplying. What should have been a fairly easy task of winding a skein and a ball at the same time turned into a major task, involving swearing under the breath and the bringing in of any handy local hook or knob or surface to deal with tangled loops and lengths.






There are lengths and loopings on the floor there too, if you look closely enough.







Here's a closeup of my adorable Victorian skein winder which I persuaded my dear friend Warren Ogden of Craftspun Yarns to sell to me. It's all cast iron and brass, with a lovely dial that counts up to 80 yards, and when you're winding you can't hear a thing, it all runs silently and smoothly. Love it, even if my 2 metre skein winder is a little more practical for the dyeing and selling side. You simply can't beat this wonderful old 19th century machinery. Warren called it something else, I can't remember what, but it was originally designed for making up little sample skeins for customers. He still uses one himself - pop into his lovely shop in Johnstown not far from Dublin and you'll see it in action.


I may just have mentioned a few odds and ends that I was trying to finish up in my last posting. Well I soldiered on with those, much encouraged by your support. As advised by BB, I went for the easiest one first, and completed the Tofutsies in short order.





I am enchanted by the way the colour works out on this yarn - in the ball it looks like a mixed scrimmage, but when you knit it, suddenly waves and stripes and pools appear and it's all a lot of fun.


I was so touched by the number of you who sent Tofutsies to West Cork after I offered to trade for my hand-dyed. It is certainly a winner on the sock machine and I now have enough to see how every colourway in the range looks when knitted up. The socks are cool and light for summer and wash in the machine like a dream. Thank you. You really are the best, my worldwide gang of knitter friends.






One Conwy sock is finished, and the other is started, no more than that. Been experiencing a bit of RSI in the thumb joint from fine sock work, and stiff shoulders too, so had to slow down on the thinner yarns and needles a bit while Chinese massage worked its miracles.

Oh by the way, while I think of it, you've a chance to get your own creativity and brilliance recognised! The moderators of Sock Madness are looking for pattern submissions for next year's crazy event (one of the daftest, also one of the greatest going), and you need to get started right away. Look up the rules on the Ravelry group and start working on that pattern NOW. Well of course you're on Ravelry. If you're a knitter and aren't, WHY?






The mohair boucle wrap has had another few inches added. It just goes on, that yarn. The ball never seems to get any smaller! Sooner or later I'm going to have to take a decision and cut it, bind off, finish.


What do you mean, I haven't got much done? It's only a few days since I posted - oh, gosh, is it as long as that?

Well - OK, there were a couple of distractions. Pleasant ones.

Confirmed and total handknitters, purists, look away now. I'll tell you when it's safe to come back.

I've been machine knitting. On a flatbed.

You've latched on to that already anyway, from comments further up, but here it's time to come out of the closet and admit that machine knitting can be a whole lot of fun. To be able to create acres of stocking stitch in half an hour, to whip up a pair of sleeves in no time, a vest while you're getting ready to go out, is rather marvellous when you've grown accustomed to weeks of labour and very little to show for it. More, it means you can really concentrate on the complex bits instead of being so exhausted from the endless rows that you can't be bothered. Maybe a bit like having a full-time, super-efficient nanny for the children (and an additional, soundproofed, nursery wing to the house), so that when you meet them briefly in the evening before dinner, you can lavish love and delight on them instead of being a bit too tired to care? Or maybe not.


Anyway.



All the manuals and online sources advised making little swatches to get some practice. And then making striped swatches to get more practice. Which was fine, but I don't like wasting time like that. So I started making very long striped swatches. And then more of them. And then created a patchwork vest.







This isn't put together yet. The middle strip is half the length of the (doubled) side pieces and will be the centre back. Only...




Take a look at that second-last square from the top centre. The dark one (it's navy in fact).







I'd been popping down to the workshop at all hours to do a little more on the machine, and on this particular occasion, it was late and dark. I reached for the cone of navy Shetland, threaded it in, worked the square, threaded in the pale lilac, went on, and finished off.



It was only when I came to wash and block it that I realised I'd picked up a large cone of acrylic in exactly the same shade of navy (I keep it for experimental work). Will you look at that? Hideous!



I'm undecided between making the whole strip again, thereby condemning the three perfectly virtuous Shetland squares to oblivion, or making just one square and grafting it into place. What would you do? (Apart from switching on the light when working late at night, I didn't need that crack, smarty pants!)






But my second project worked out rather better.







This is the Dangerous Kimono, discreet black until you turn or move and a flash of wicked scarlet reveals itself. Got the original idea from that lovely pattern - is it Iki? - in Vicki Square's Knit Kimono, but the design is my own. Strips were all I could do as yet on the machine, so strips it would be. Wide rectangles for the sleeves (first red, then black), two long pieces for the body, going up and over the shoulder, and also with the red facing at either end, a narrower strip for centre back, and finally two very very long strips, one in black, one in red, for the band. Oh and four little red strips for the side slit facings. The final touch was a length of i-cord worked on the machine (didn't believe it would be easy, but it was), and twisted into a Celtic symbol.




Really really chuffed with this. It's in a hideously expensive and luxurious Italian mousse merino which feels like silky velvet and costs so much that when I made a mistake halfway through one of the long pieces, the only option was to frog back two or three rows v-e-r-y gently and re-hang the whole thing on the machine. (It was a lot faster to type that last sentence than it was to carry out the awful task, I tell you.)

I am so pleased with how it turned out. It's almost like a designer version of a PhD gown, isn't it? That's OK, I'm entitled. Less chance of tripping over the folds too.



OK, purists, confirmed and certificated hand-knitters, you can start reading again now.



Another job got done too, and I hadn't posted about it beforehand because it was a secret. Socks for DH.






Modelled by the man himself. (You want me to pose with them? On my feet? Me?) A nice blend of wool and cotton, tubes worked on the sock machine, cuffs, toes and heels by hand. Can't begin to tell you how nice it is to work the bulk of dark colours on a machine. Much easier on the eyes.

The socks were for his birthday. This is our birthday weekend (mine on the Friday, his on the Saturday). He got home-made pecan fudge, among other things. You should have seen me the night before, leaping from the sock finishing to the stove and back again, picking up stitches for the afterthought heel, stirring the fudge, working the decreases, chopping the pecans, grafting the toe, beating the fudge... It all got done in time.

And yes, now that you ask, I did secure a little loot for my own birthday. Just a yard or two of yarn...





From left to right, lower row at back: black worsted spun, about fingering weight; a really rare Suffolk fingering weight (hadn't scored that particular breed before, lovely grey shade); and a big cone of superwash merino fingering weight, destined for hand-dyed sock yarn. Top row, L to R, three cones of that seductive Italian mousse yarn. Front, a cone of cashwool, that Italian fine gauge merino that feels exactly like cashmere. And in the foreground, a delightful cone winder dating, I would think, from around the 1960s, which I got from the lovely Rosina at Mostly Knitting Machines, and some little treats from DH who knows my (other) weakness. Enough to keep me going for a while maybe.

But Friday was the most special day out. I knew exactly where I wanted to go - Innisfallen Island on Lough Leane in Killarney. Innisfallen is fabled in history because it was here from the 4th century onwards that the community of monks created and continued The Annals of Innisfallen, probably our earliest and most historically valuable documentary source. The original is now in the Bodleian in Oxford, where it can be cared for as it should be, but some friends of mine at Cork University have placed a translation online where everybody can benefit from it. You can look it up here.





It's only a small little island, but it's well out in Lough Leane, and you have to take a boat from Ross Castle. Which we did. Boatman Fergus does this run all the time, in between taking people right up the three lakes to Lord Brandon's Cottage for tea.



We were halfway across when I spotted something in the sky and said, 'Holy heavens, what's that?'





Those of you living in wilder parts of North America may not consider this particularly unusual, but here in Ireland we're pretty bereft of the larger raptors. Eagles, buzzards, died out long ago. But there has recently been a drive to re-introduce both the golden and the white-tailed sea eagle, and this could be none other than the sea eagle.


Of course DH grabbed his 500mm lens and started firing bursts, while Fergus obligingly brought the boat around and steered towards the thicket of trees on Innisfallen where the bird seemed to have landed. But as we got closer we saw something horrible.





Oh no, no, no, it can't be. Please don't let it be. How could the bird be dead? We'd only just seen it flying. Or - was it another one, caught and somehow trapped, unable to free itself, some time ago? Was the other one searching for it? All kinds of thoughts and half-finished sentences were running around as we edged in closer.





Thank heaven! After a few agonising minutes, it suddenly seemed to come back to life, flapped those huge wings, and got itself upright on the branch. It had to be a young bird, virtually on its first flight, then. We've seen this with smaller birds leaving the nest - often they crash land on a branch and then slip right round, their claws firmly grasping the twig, but unable to keep upright. They're fine once they work out what's happened. And so it must have been with this huge beautiful bird. Which meant that it could only just have been released. Immediately rang our friends who were masterminding the reintroduction project and they confirmed that yes, half a dozen of the birds recently donated from Norway (thanks Norway!), had been let loose that morning from a secret location way in the heart of the mountains.





This, then, with the prominent wing tag (and radio transmitter which you can't see) is the female, Feenagh. May you have a long and happy life here with us in Ireland, Feenagh, and may the wind be always underneath your wings.

It was good to have seen her land on Innisfallen too; one of my favourite poems, which dates from just about the time the Annals were being written, is an Anglo-Saxon one, The Seafarer, with the line,

The erne screams, icy-feathered...


Erne being the old name for the sea eagle (and you'll still find it as a clue in crossword puzzles to this day!)


It was a lovely birthday present for DH as well. Couldn't have timed it better, that bird.


And so the boat's keel finally grounded on the pebbly shore of Innisfallen and we entered an older world.





Although the abbey dates from the 4th century, most of the buildings are later, around the 14th century. Some scraps of the original do remain though, built into the walls of the medieval structure.







This tiny cross was discovered in the lake some years ago, and brought back to the island from whence it must surely have originated.






Hundreds of coins had been placed carefully, reverently, around and even on the little cross. There are some instinctive beliefs and rituals that lie unsuspected below the surface in all of us, until one day we are in a place where we have never been before, and suddenly know what we must do.






This is the view of the mainland and McGillicuddy's Reeks much as the monks must have seen it as they took a break from their slow illuminative and scribing work, blowing on their cramped fingers and unstiffening their joints, bent too long over a sheet of vellum.






Didn't want to leave that peaceful place, but evening was drawing on. We saw these fishermen on the lough on the way back, and one was determined to show us just how big the one that got away was!




Ross Castle really looks at its best when you come to it by water, doesn't it?



Everything went right on this day. We drove into the woods to see if we could find any of our native red deer, and we did.







This doe was protective of her young fawn who still had his dappled spots.





And then the stag came along and ushered them both away to safety. So we withdrew as quietly as we could. It's their woodland, not ours, after all.

And finally we took a long and winding and extremely circuitous route over the hills and far away. Coming down at last as dusk fell to a secret valley and the Last Homely House - or, more exactly, Gougane Barra and our dear friends at the hotel there, for a wonderful dinner. Altogether a magical day.

Seeing Off The Seven Deadly WIPs

Celtic Memory is thoroughly ashamed of herself. Appalled would not be too strong a word. Lack of moral fibre, lack of any restraint whatsoever, a complete inability to stick to one thing and get it done. Or even two things. Or three.


This morning the sun was shining brightly through the window as it occasionally does during an Irish summer. It hadn't done so for a few weeks, and the resultant illumination was a nasty shock. The number of WIPs piled, draped, perched all over the dining room was frightening. No, really I mean it. Far, far too many. Socks, scarves, jackets, vests - how had things come to this pretty pass? I hauled no fewer than seven (count 'em, seven) out on to the table and into the merciless sunlight.



That, by the way, in case you're wondering, is the total of WIPs actually on view, touchable, ready to hand, in one room. No mention is being made of WIPs ageing in quiet corners, living out their lives in forgotten baskets or plastic storage boxes elsewhere in the house (or indeed car). We're only talking here of the ones on the top of the iceberg.



Enough!, I cried. There will be no more of this. Every single one of these WIPs currently on view will be finished, completed, ticked off the list before ANYTHING new is started. And by heaven I have every intention of keeping to that resolution. Forget New Year promises, this is a mid-July crisis and it's got to be sorted right NOW. No two ways about it. And why am I telling you? Well, not just so that you can enjoy a good laugh at my expense - no, I'm hoping that by coming out of the closet and confessing, I'll put myself in the position where I have to do something or look a right eejit. You'll be watching me, I'll have to!


Here, then, are the Seven Deadly WIPs.







Item One: A wrap, shawl or stole in light soft mohair boucle in a particularly gorgeous colourway of greens and turquoises and blues. It has an angled edge which pleased me exceedingly when I worked out how to do it, and when finished it will look devastating over a dark jacket or sweater. Simplicity itself to work, ideal for TV watching or long journeys.


Started: Last February, in a fever of enthusiasm, when I bought the hand-dyed skein.


Progress: about halfway. Hard to tell - there's a lot of yardage in this ball. It gets finished when the yarn does.








Item Two. A cabled cropped jacket in a blue mousse merino used double or treble or something, can't remember without going to look. Got some ideas from Elsebeth Lavold's Ragna sweater, but mostly this is my own design and I was very excited about it. There are several separate pieces or flaps which come together about six inches up the body, and the sleeves also have slits at the cuff end. Once the second sleeve is up to where it should be, the whole lot will go on one needle for raglan shaping to the neck. Haven't decided what to do then.


Started: Around January, I think.


Progress: More than three-quarters done.









Item Three. Zauberball socks in progress. This is Nancy Bush's Conwy pattern and very nice it is too.


Started: After UK Ravelry Day, where I scored the yarn, that very evening in fact. Because I was travelling, I didn't follow my usual practice of winding the yarn into two equal balls and working both socks at the same time, so there is a distinct risk of Second Sock Syndrome.


Progress: You can see for yourself. Not much more of the foot to do on Sock One. So what's keeping me?









Item Four. Tofutsies socks. These are my mixed media socks, with the tubes worked on the sock machine and then the tops, toes and heels added afterwards. (By the way, the Tofutsies, though a little fine for my liking in handwork, is just great on the sock machine, so I'm in the market for some more if anyone has any to trade for some of my hand-dyed).


Started: June sometime. The tubes take about ten minutes to knit (don't you just hate people who have sock machines?)


Progress: Again, you can see for yourself. One sock complete with ribbing, toe, and afterthought heel. Second has toe and most of the ribbing done; still the delicate and worrying task of snipping a stitch and unpicking the heel stitches so as to work the afterthought remains.
















Item Five. The Noro Shawl. The pattern is the Weavers' Wool Mini Shawl by Peggy Pignato and the Silk Garden Sock shows off to excellent advantage in the simple design. Of course, at the beginning, you forget how many stitches there are going to be by the time you get even halfway...


Started: After UK Ravelry Day, again having scored the yarn.


Progress: Hard to tell. Another good yardage ball, so we'll see how far we get before it's time to cast off.







Item Six. The Mermaid Vest, inspired by Jane Thornley's beautiful Sunset Vest. This one demands so many different yarns, it was taking up space in a wide basket.


Started: Last summer sometime, when somebody had the bright idea of a Jane Thornley KAL.


Progress: You can see it on the right of the picture; had been working upwards from the bottom in stripes, but when I'd laid it out to take a picture, I realised that this was begging to be worked sideways - far more effective. Frogging will be quite a problem, since there were several yarns used in each row. But it would be a real showstopper when done. MUST get on with it, and never mind that it's a recipe for frustration, tangling and long long late nights painstakingly undoing knots.









Item Seven. The St. Enda cropped cabled jacket. This one really embarrassed me. I suddenly decided that what I should be doing was knitting items I actually needed in the wardrobe rather than shiny new distractions, took some thought, and settled on a good crop jacket in a dark colour. A staple, something like that would be, could wear it anywhere, with anything. Went virtuously off to the stash to find an appropriate yarn and pattern, saw some rough notes for St. Enda... and realised that I'd done this already, last year.


(To tell the truth, I've done it more than once. There are several charcoal or black jacket WIPs hanging around, but I haven't had the strength of will to look for the others - afraid what I'll find. And yes, there is a cream cashmere/silk St. Enda sweater also OTN, but in another room, therefore not counted during this penitential exercise.)


Started: At least a year ago, I would suspect.


Progress: Back up to the armholes. One front, with integrated side slit and pocket, plus cabled button band, almost up to the same point. Another front (this time with buttonholes), and two sleeves to get to home base, after which the entire thing will be worked as one raglan piece to the neck. Which may well have a cabled strip collar.



Seven deadly WIPs. Each one begun in a white heat of lust, greed, envy, whatever. Each one laid down just for a minute while something else caught the eye. Each one left to languish.



It's not good enough. Here comes the vow.



I, Celtic Memory, do hereby undertake most solemnly not to take on, examine, get distracted by, even consider ANY knitting (or crochet or quilting or weaving or spinning, you can't get out of it like that) project until each and every one of the seven listed above has been fully and totally completed (and yes, that does include sewing up AND the attachment of buttons, yes, even blocking where necessary).


In confirmation of which, I hereby append my X.





X



Hang on though, there is some achievement to report. Late last night, and well before expected completion time, the EZ Ribwarmer Vest MkIII made its appearance!










Simply cannot believe this got finished, and that it actually fits! Cut down on stitches and rows to get it to size, and might go down even more on the next try. Had intended to work i-cord all round the edges, which would have taken several more days, but in the end went for a simple crochet effect, which did a very good job of evening out the bulges which tend to appear where the short rows turn the corners.






Here's a back view. You might be able to see the rain battering at the windows. If I'd only slept late this morning, I'd have missed the sunshine altogether, wouldn't have noticed the burgeoning WIPs in the gloom, and you wouldn't be reading this now.



The next posting will chart progress. And perhaps a little sneak peek at The Seven Deadly Temptations which will do their utmost to upset that progress...