Roan Inish Rediscovered

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

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

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

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


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



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



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

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





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

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

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




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




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



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



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



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

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

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




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




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




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


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

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

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

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







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






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







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




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




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





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



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



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

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

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

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




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





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



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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Of Ravelympics, Country Buses, And A Lost Island

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Which A Very Long Scarf Is Hooked, Yarns Are Dyed, And Woods Walked

Gosh, I've never known weather like it. Floods were followed by freezing, followed by snow, followed by more floods, and more snow. Roads were treacherous going on lethal, people were slipping and breaking limbs everywhere, the local councils were run off their feet (well, generally we don't have much need of snow ploughs and grit in this part of the world) and overall everybody had to stay indoors for the best part of a month.



This was the view from my study window on a typical day. It was midday by the way, not dawn or dusk.




And this was a dawn view from the upstairs sitting room. You can just see the sun trying to break through the icy fog.

Now I do realise that this petty little shimmy of less than perfect weather will make many of you laugh hollowly - especially those of you in Canada, Alaska, Maine... We, however, are so unused to it that it nearly drove us mad. One chilly night, one or two bouts of frost are all we ever get, before returning to the normal mild damp and drizzle.

So we were mightily pleased to see the sun yesterday and today. Still pretty cold, but at least there was blue sky. The roads were packed with relieved families getting out to shop, to socialise, to get the fresh air. Let's hope we've seen the last of the ice and snow. (The last of the rain? Ah don't be silly. That's a given. How do you think we keep so green?)




Oh while I think of it, a few people (including Laurie M) asked to see a closer view of the Polperro jacket, so here it is. Still quite pleased with it, and wearing it constantly (which is more than can be said for every Celtic Memory project - bet I'm not the only one with a few horrors in the closet over which endless time and money were expended).

But that project is well finished, and by way of finding something to do during those enforced days when cabin-fever threatened, I became a new pupil at Hogwarts - that is, I joined the Harry Potter Knitting & Crochet House Cup group on Ravelry. (Slytherin House of course). The first homework I undertook was for the Divinations class, where we had to make something to protect the palms of the hands.





I thought fingerless gloves would be about right, and they suited the bleak weather very well. Silk cashmere from the stash, hand-dyed in my favourite violet and used double. These are based on the lovely Cabled Fingerless Gloves by Kimberly, but I adapted the stitch count and the cable pattern a bit.

Here's the fun bit - since they emphasised protection of the palm, I put a tiny pocket on the palm of each glove, suitable for the tucking in of some powerful herb. In times of real danger, both hands can be raised with the palms outwards, thereby knocking any evil influence for six. I've hardly taken these off since completing them. Not so much to protect against bad spirits as to keep my hands warm. Why did I ever mock fingerless gloves? They're wonderful, even at the keyboard.

And then, for the Potions class, I made a Monkshood scarf. I do have this plant in my own physic garden, but at this time of year it's well underground and better off there too.

Using these blue and violet shades of mohair reminded me of how beautiful the monkshood looks in summer. It is apparently excellent as an external embrocation, but exceptionally poisonous if taken internally, so always treat it with respect. Yes, the scarf is hooked rather than knitted. Wanted to make sure I hadn't lost the skill.

Tried something new for me on this project - some delicate beading to emphasise the curving edge of the scarf. Added the beads with the final row of colour, just using a very very fine crochet hook to pull the stitch through each bead. A lot of fun. Must do some more beading.

And finally, since I'd promised faithfully that I would list the new yarns today, at noon, some dyeing had to be done.

These are in a new blend, a rather gorgeous mix of 50% superwash merino and 50% silk. The yarn has a lovely lustre, and a delectable drape. Soft sumptuous socks certainly, but I see cowls and scarves and gloves here too. Left to right, Marsh Marigold, Chocolate-Dipped Strawberry, Wild Iris, Woodland Moss, Wild Rose, and Blue Pool.

You may take this picture for granted, but it took days to achieve, waiting for a gleam of sunlight long enough to get them hung on an obliging tree and then caught swaying gently in an icy wind. Oh for spring! (Those of you digging your way out of twelve feet of snow, feel free to laugh scornfully.)

And then we have these, a right aristocratic pair. Absolute pure silk, both of them, light fingering weight or heavier laceweight, depending on your attitude, 400m to the 100g and - well, what can you say about silk except, 'Grrrr - gimme!'? Enchantress Green on the left, Bluebell Woods on the right. Love 'em both, but have a sneaking preference for the wicked green lady on the left. What a lace scarf she'd make for a Slytherin House student!

It took ages to list them (it always does) so once they were safely up on eBay, a treat was in order. I grabbed Sophy Wackles and we set off for Killarney Woods. Would you believe I haven't been able to get down there since November? Can you imagine the state of the roads after all that appalling weather? I can tell you, I've been in some war zones just after hostilities had ceased, and those roads looked a lot better than the one between Macroom and Ballyvourney. And going towards the city was no better - poor DH has to get four new tyres on his car. Fortunately a jeep can cope better, but even so it was a careful journey down to the woods.

Whenever life is trying, the woods which enclose Torc Waterfall restore the balance of things. There is something about the timeless peace of the place, the ancient hazel woods, the moss-covered rocks, that strokes the heart into calmness. There is a well-used path up to the foot of the waterfall but both Sophy and I prefer to make our way to it through the woods . So would you, I think.

There is always the chance of coming across something unexpected like this little length of old stone wall right in the middle of the trees, on its own, keeping its counsel about what it's doing there. Me, I think there is probably a private entrance leading from that dark little gap at its base to the nice warm tree behind. And very probably a leprechaun or a clurichaun tapping away inside, keeping busy with orders from the Good People for dancing slippers to see in Imbolc or Brigid's Day at the beginning of February. Gold satin for the Queen, better make sure they're ready by tomorrow night or there'll be ructions. High heeled red shoes for that wan, who does he think he is, cocking himself up like that? Where did I put those buttons? And didn't I have a bit more of that green leather left?

I know I've shown you Torc before, and indeed admitted before that the world holds many larger, more splendid examples of waterfalls. What I love about this one though is the way it is cradled in such luxuriant greenness, with ivy and brambles and bushes and trees reaching out and dipping their fingers in the crashing water all the way up to the top. It's at its best after rain, sometimes even three days after, since it takes quite a while for all the water to drain from the mountains down into the rivers.

Take the feeling of Torc to bed with you tonight, and imagine that you are tucked up snug in a little warm cabin in the woods near to the foot of the waterfall. It will make you sleep sound.

[Update. Heavens to Betsy, while I was out in the woods, half those yarns sold! Sorry if you wanted the Chocolate Strawberry or the Woodland Moss...]

West Cork Moves Closer To The Arctic Circle!

Hooray, hooray, the Polperro gansey jacket finally got finished! Took advantage of the temporary lull that always happens just after Christmas and really got stuck into it. And of course once you concentrate, and don't get distracted by every shiny new idea that whisks in front of your mind's eye, the work does go faster. Right pleased I was to see it all done and dusted. Then we did our best to take a proper knitter's picture of it. You know, the kind you'd see on the front of a pattern, or a magazine. DH did quite a good job on it, although his photographer's eye did insist on giving Dripsey Castle a bit of the limelight as well.


This jacket is the first thing in ages to be absolutely and immediately useful. It's cosy and warm, and bright enough to cheer up the dark days of winter. And has it had some use since being finished! (That was a rhetorical question - it has!)

Because we have had a freezing snap, the like of which hasn't been seen in Ireland, let alone West Cork, for many a long year. Usually we might get a night or two dipping down to almost zero, and then back to the usually milky mild dampness. But this freeze began just before Christmas and hasn't let up since. And today it started snowing and hasn't stopped yet.
Side roads are lethally icy, main roads not much better. Birds are flocking desperately to the garden and we're kept busy refilling feeders all day and putting out dishes of water, since every normal source for them is frozen solid (the dogs keep trying to drink from the pond and looking exasperated when all they can do is lick the ice!)

This bullfinch was methodically stripping every single little forsythia bud from the bush outside the window, but you couldn't really grudge it, could you? To us the shrub might be a pretty sight in flower in spring, but to the bird, it's survival. I'm worrying about all the birds right now, when it's dark and late in the evening, and the snow is falling. We have had incredible flocks of migrants moving in from northern countries over the past few days, a sure sign that whatever it's like here, it's even worse for these little creatures up there.




We went down to Gougane Barra yesterday (on very icy roads) because we'd heard that the entire lake had completely frozen over. And sure enough, it had. A Dutch couple were skating very beautifully, but also very close to the middle of the lake, where it's more than a hundred feet deep. We tried to suggest it wasn't a very good idea but they said cheerfully that they were used to ice at home. Yes, well, the Dutch canals probably freeze solid down to their bones. You just couldn't be sure how thick this ice was out in the centre. Fortunately they survived.




Here are some of the sixth generation of Luceys, enjoying themselves safely close to the edge where they know it's only a few inches deep. The hotel is officially closed for the winter, but we were made welcome of course, as always, and given hot chocolate in the kitchen, while news was exchanged and opinions given on how long the cold weather would last.

And then Christy had to go out to make sure the Jacob rams didn't go hungry after nightfall.

Today DH had several sporting and social jobs on his schedule but they had all been cancelled, not only because of the existing bad weather but because even worse weather is forecast for tonight. However, a newspaper can't exist without pictures, so we went hunting for happy people out walking, children snowballing, that kind of thing. And in between, to see what birds and animals we might find foraging.

At this time of year, you can't possibly pass nice dry dead wood without loading up the car, can you?





Look at this bright-eyed little chap. In summertime you wouldn't have a hope of seeing him amongst all the foliage, but right now, on bare branches, and especially against a white background, he stands out so beautifully. He was more intent on feeding up, naturally enough, than bothering about a pair of nuisances in a car, so we got closer than usual.

And I would love to think that this is his house, where he is tucked up tonight. Now of course the rational adult in me knows that squirrels have dreys, not little houses in a treetrunk, but just look at that door. Well it must be a door! Can't you just see it opening a crack and a bright eye peeping out? And inside there's surely a little hallway full of warm dry brown leaves, and then a little interlaced staircase climbing up through the tree roots to a tiny sitting room above, with a black pot bellied stove, and a cosy armchair upholstered in red check gingham. And above that again, a snug little bedroom all panelled in moss, with a box bed and a big thick eiderdown. If you look closely, you might even be able to see a lattice window artfully hidden underneath that ivy. Well I think it's there anyway.

(OK, those of you who find such imaginative wanderings nauseating, you can come back now.)

I thought I'd leave you with this image. This little lost bridge at Dunisky is very dear to my heart, representing the old world and the old valley before the dam was built far downstream and the area was flooded. Once it spanned the small Buingea river and was very important in its own right.

Neither of us has ever seen it like this before, on its little islet, completely surrounded by a lake of ice. May never do so again. This kind of weather only happens every fifty years or so in this part of the world.

Wherever you are, keep warm, keep happy, feed the birds, and don't forget to look out for the tiny doors in trees near you.