An Ancient Well and A Powerful Rock

Yesterday was one of those days given by the gods.  Here in Ireland you never take fine weather for granted.  How could you, since it only flashes into your life when it feels like it?  We've had weeks of rain and gloom, so waking up to a glorious morning with fleecy white clouds scudding across a blue sky was an irresistible invitation to go adventuring.

We headed for Ardmore, a little seaside village just over the border from Cork, in Co. Waterford.  It has the most spectacular scenery and on a day like this, strolling the cliff path and getting the scent of the grass and heather and the sea breezes was as heavenly as it can only be when you've endured those aforesaid weeks of drizzle and damp.

  

This was our first destination.  St. Declan's monastery and its associated sacred well.  What a setting, on the clifftops at Ardmore (the name, Ard Mor, means The Great Height).

Here is a closer look at the well with the stone surroundings carefully put in place centuries ago.  Next week will be the Pattern Day (probably from Patron as in patron saint) when thousands of people will gather to circle the well and monastery sunwise, while reciting a specific sequence and number of prayers, and take water from the well.  It's a ritual far older than Christianity in Ireland, going right back to the days of the pagan goddesses who guarded and oversaw the proper use of such vital necessities as land and water.  It's hard to imagine now, but just try to think of good clean water not as something that automatically comes out of a tap, but that has to be sought and, when found, treasured and thanked so that it won't dry up and leave you with no supply at all.  Our ancestors here knew the importance of water.  Sacred wells, springs,  and the sources of rivers were regarded as especially powerful since they were often entrances to the Otherworld where the Good People dwelt.

You can understand Christianity slapping one of their own male saints down on the site, blotting out the original water goddess.  They were never going to stop people coming here, so they might as well make it look like a Christian custom.  And the Pattern Day?  Coincidentally near to the beginnng of August, isn't it?  That's the great sun festival of Lughnasa, when the first fruits and grains ripen, and a celebratory feast can be held before the hard work of gathering in the harvest begins.  (DH and I will be heading down to Mt Brandon in the far west next week, to see the crowds climbing the mountainside for Lughnasa.  I'll bring you there too, promise.)

A little stream dances out from below the well and runs down through the grassy slope of the monastery grounds.  Sophy had a good long drink from this and even lay down in it for a while to cool her paws and thereby receive even more blessings from the goddess.

Then we went down to the beach to find St Declan's Stone.  It's quite a long way from the monastery and well, but it's been firmly associated with the same saint for the same reasons - there was no way that the people, accustomed to coming here for thousands of years to beg favours, were going to stop coming.  So Christianity thought up this wonderful story of St Declan sailing across the sea to found a monastery here, guided on his way by a huge floating stone which carried his bell on top.  When the stone landed on the shore at Ardmore, he knew he was in the right place.

It's always worth looking back behind the layers of legend and then back a bit further again.  Don't be afraid to lift each layer, even if it seems stuck firmly to the bedrock.  It isn't.  There are more underneath.  This stone is one of those glacial erratic boulders, which doesn't really belong on this shoreline, and is regarded as a source of great healing power .  If you crawl underneath (and DH has made this look quite simple in his picture, but up close it's quite a small aperture, believe me, I got very wet trying) it is believed that you can be cured of a number of ailments.

In ancient times, I would think this was one of those fertility or birth stone alignments, similar to the Men-an- Tol in Cornwall, for example.    Pregnant women would crawl through to get an easy birth, while those hoping to have children would do the same to achieve the desired result.  Wherever you find a difficult passage through a limited space in an ancient stone alignment, it is usually associated with this particular purpose.

There is a very beautiful round tower at Ardmore too.  Much more modern of course - around the 12th century or thereabouts - but DH couldn't resist framing it in this lovely outburst of flowering stonecrop on a limestone wall.

This is the memory that will stay, though.  Those magnificent cliffs, the sea as calm as a millpond, and the sky smiling down on the purple heather.  A day to thank the goddess for, indeed.

On the way back we explored a couple of minor lanes and boreens.

I insisted DH take this picture, so you could see the kind of lane he considers driveable.  There were places I thought we would just get stuck and have to remain, living caravan-style in the car and fetching milk and bread from the nearest farmhouse, a few valleys away.  Driving slowly along, the brambles (all in flower, with luck it will be a good blackberry season this autumn) clutched at the sides of the car, while the hazel saplings leant right in the open sunroof and tapped us gently on the head.  You could just see the young hazelnuts forming, but they'll be a while yet.  Our ancestors would have depended on autumnal bounty like nuts and berries and we shouldn't scorn them either.

Is there any knitting at all going on, I heard someone ask plaintively, or is it going to be all kittens and travel from now on?  Not a bit of it.  Been working on far too many projects since the start of the year, and the half of them not finished yet, shame on me.

There was this nice ruffled shawl, a la Duchess of Cambridge, which was whipped up in a boucle yarn of which I had a large cone (stashbusting, you see, stashbusting!).  That, at least, got finished.

And it made me feel so virtuous that I headed off to This Is Knit in Dublin to find a suitable Aran weight to make a stunning jacket as my personal challenge for the Ravellenics, coming up on July 27.    As a digression, let me exclaim with delight upon the re-blossoming of knitting and yarn crafts generally in Ireland. Those of you who have been with me from the beginning will remember the many loud lamentations concerning the total unavailability of lovely things like Local Yarn Stores or indeed yarn of any kind.  It took its time, but at last you can find half a dozen knitting magazines in my local market town, and some really good yarn shops in Cork and Dublin.  Vibes and Scribes in Cork deserves a mention too, for seeing the future and having the courage to seize it when knitting was still very unfashionable here (too many memories of having to knit Aran sweaters for household finances).  Which brings me back to that Aran weight..

Of course I didn't end up with Aran weight at all, but this stunning kettle-dyed silky merino from Malabrigo which is only DK (sport?  worsted?) weight.  That's OK, we can adapt.  And the people at This is Knit were simply lovely and I had a great time. Worked a big swatch while returning triumphantly home on the train, to get the feel of it, and on the strength of that have now decided on a completely different pattern - the Debbie Bliss Cabled Jacket, which will be soft and drapey enough to show off this yarn as it deserves to be.

And of course there was some dyeing.  Here is the basketful I'm going to put up on eBay tonight (unless any of you contact me first of course, to say you can't live without one of them).  Back row three greens:  Fresh Lime and Olive Grove, both merino/tencel fingering, plus Water Lily, which is merino/silk fingering.  Front row, Firebird, a real tour de force of overdyeing, if I say so myself, and Summer Skies, both merino/tencel, plus Wild Roses in merino/silk.  All delicious and happy colours.  If I do get them up on eBay (they tend to sell before I ever get to that point) you'll find them under Celtic Memory.

See, a whole posting without a kitten in sight!  But where are my manners?  I never even introduced her properly.  She is of good breeding, mother an exquisite red Maine Coon, father a long-haired European domestic tabby.  Want to see her when she was very little, with her mum?  Thought you might.

Why do I look different?

She did take those first steps into the garden the other day, with Sophy, who has constituted herself Nanny in Chief, in careful attendance.  It was all a bit too much to take at first for someone who had thought World consisted of a couple of rooms, and she peered out from the terrace with a very worried face before venturing further.  No, no more pictures, I promise.

Oh all right then, just one.

The Sadness of Sophy, The Serenity of the Sea, and a Storybook Ending.

Let me start by apologising if this post looks a bit untidy.  New Blogger has its own ideas of how it should run, and it isn't very helpful about telling me how to achieve a neat effect.  It can only get better.  Onward!

Things got kind of sad here earlier in the year. You will remember that Maeldun the Wanderer Kitten came to join us, but then left us far too soon. Shortly after that, the dowager duchess Natasha de St Petersburg II also handed in her room key.

Dear old Muffy the Yarnslayer did not long outlive her half sister. She got tireder, weaker, and finally in early May (old May Day now that I come to think of it, which is of course eleven days later than the current May 1) we couldn't pretend any more that she wasn't suffering, and took a very hard decision.

 Didn't want to talk about it then, don't want to talk about it now. Please.

But the row of little headstones in the orchard was getting a bit much. And of course all these losses had a dreadful effect on poor Sophy, who had lost her wandering companion, Maeldun, and then both her comforting aunts in a very short space of time.

She took to moping on her favourite chair, uninterested in walks, rambles in the garden, anything really.

Now, I hear you exclaim, was the time for that New Black Kitten to play her part, surely? To come forward with messages of comfort, and paw cuddles, to reassure Sophy there was still a friend around?



The heck she did. Black Brat (and that wasn't the word I first typed, believe me) turned into a monster. I think she'd always been one in waiting, but nervousness on first arrival here had hidden her true character. She cuffed Sophy, she hissed, she spat, she even drew blood on a couple of occasions. And of course, the bigger she got, the more trouble she could cause. If I had known when I picked up that kitten that she had been tossed by an Alsatian when very tiny, I wouldn't have taken her. But I only found out afterwards, when enquiring delicately into the possibility of early traumas. That experience, combined with being born a barn cat to a very wild mother, and I knew it wasn't going to work.

 Oh I kept on trying, hoping that somehow she would soften, but she just got worse as she became more confident. The heartbreaking bit was seeing Sophy bringing toys and little offerings to the cat's basket, with pleading, imploring eyes, and receiving only a loaded claw paw across the face in response. So eventually I persuaded a friend who had given Black Brat's brother a home, to try taking her too. She was doubtful but the cat had no such reservations. She and her brother welcomed each other with open paws and proceeded to celebrate in a junket of mayhem and chaos that doesn't show any signs of abating several weeks later.

No, of course I didn't like doing it.  What cat lover would?  But Sophy's heartbreak deserved more attention than a little wildcat's shenanigans.  A solution had to be found.

And it was found.  But we had to wait for it.  It wasn't old enough to leave Mum yet.  So Sophy had to be patient.  If you can discern that Access All Areas badge on her chair, by the way, it is there because she always insists on every single door in the house being open.  Doesn't matter if she doesn't need to use it right now, she must have it open and available.  Shut just one door, anywhere, wait five minutes, and you will hear disgruntled staccato yaps that continue unceasing until you give in and remedy the mistake.  Access.  All. Areas.  Did you HEAR me?  Access.  All.  Areas!

In the meantime, we took her out for plenty of fresh air and stimulating circumstances, in the hope that this would lift the gloom.  'Won't be long now,' we told her comfortingly.  'Things will get better very soon, you'll see.'  And Sophy stumped along, despair in every lineament of that small face.  She stumbled over stones, fell into rabbit holes, ignored the bracing sea air.

This was down at Toormore, not far from Crookhaven and Barley Cove in West Cork.  It was a fine afternoon during the school holidays, but as is usually the case in West Cork, we had this stretch of coastline to ourselves.  There are tiny orchids growing on that grassy headland, and wild pansies too.

Coming down by Drimoleague, I just happened to glance sideways down a tiny boreen, and saw this wonderful old bridge, which once carried the much-loved West Cork Railway.

The bridge still stands, built to last, although the train is long gone. I do really believe though that if you wait there late at night, you will hear the whistle of the train and hear the steady chug of the engine as it heads towards the bridge, carrying its passengers and freight safely to their destination. Maybe you could get on, but you wouldn't know what century you were in when you alighted at the next station, which could cause problems.





On the way home, we stopped to photograph a lovely battered old gate with the grass growing long around it.  Don't you just love these gates, in the middle of nowhere, which quite evidently haven't been opened in years?

And then there were these marguerites beautifully backlit by the late evening sun. So many lovely things to discover, even at the roadside.

But the happy ending, you shriek! Sophy's Solution!  What happened next? Well,at last, at long last, the solution arrived.



Tiny Mishka (Little Bear) was a bit confused at first, having only just left Mum, and not being at all sure about this strange new world.

But very soon she began to explore wonderful things like doors

and delightful dangling distractions

and discovering that one could after all climb these things oddly called 'chairs'.



 Did it work? Did it work? Well, of course at first there was a little worry, a tiny hiss or two. But Mishka had been carefully chosen from a household where not only had she been handled and cuddled from birth, but had also been sniffed and licked by two large dogs who liked cats. So the end result wasn't long in coming.

Sophy is lonely no more. Mishka leaps up quite happily and cuddles down to sleep in the comforting circle of her surrogate mother's warm furry body. And they are both looking forward to a day very soon when Nanny will take her charge out on a first exploratory journey around the garden. Happy times ahead.

In Which A Happy Event is Announced

This will have to be a short posting, as there are some writing deadlines to meet, but I wanted to share the glad news with you as soon as possible.

There is a very small new member of our household.

I was beginning to think that she would never come. This year, for some reason, kitten litters were just not happening. I wore a path to every vet's door, every notice board, every pet shop window for weeks. And then, quite suddenly, my good friend Eileen rang to say that a local farmer had a tiny female kitten which he was willing to give to a really good home.

Rushed down to see him, went through the expected pot of tea and slices of cake while discussing life generally at the kitchen table by the glowing stove, but at last was allowed to see and take into my arms the miniscule bundle of terrified fur.

When we finally got her home, she spent the first few hours perched on the highest place she could find, while Sophy, thrilled and breathless, sat below, pleading eyes fixed on this new friend.

Kittens, however, being kittens, it wasn't long before she was exploring every inch of the living room (in which it was deemed advisable she should spend a few days before venturing anywhere else).

You will be glad to learn that she took to the concept of knitting and yarn balls with delight and concentration. Clearly we can expect great things here.



I just wanted to let you know. Sophy Wackles is ecstatic, although little kitten is still a bit wary of her, and inclined to be standoffish. Not for long, she won't. Not when they get out in the garden together.



For some odd reason, though, littlest one is absolutely terrified of Muffy the Yarnslayer. Now Muffy is getting elderly, and you will recall that eye accident earlier in the year, so she doesn't see all that well either. Yet she has only to bumble through the room in a vague way for the kitten to positively explode with hisses and yowls and shrieks of rage. Muffy isn't bothered, but I wonder what is sparking this hate off?



And no, she hasn't been named yet. Started with Minoushka, but then switched to Brogeen. This is the name of a famous leprechaun who lives not far from here (turn down the lane where the thorn tree leans out from the bank, cross the stream by the wide stepping stones, and you'll find his little house tucked under the roots of the big tree) and he was quite willing to have Kitten borrow his name. Sure any time she's passing, can't she tap on the door and I'll give her a saucer of milk and welcome.



Since then she has been Jezebel, Babette, Mishka, Cuddle Bundle, Little Fiend, Ming, Scarlett, Roisin Dubh, Carlotta, and a dozen more names, but nothing as yet is quite right. Suggestions welcomed!

In Which Farewells Are Made But New Arrivals Hoped For

Didn't really want to tell you about this, but since so many have enquired, I suppose I'd better. Little Christmas Kitten was only allowed to us until January. Turning out to be a small male, he was christened Maeldun,, after the old Irish saga about the wanderer of that name. The original Maeldun went far and wide across the oceans, saw amazing sights and survived many dangers, to arrive safely home once more. It's the sort of tale we call imramma or soul journey, in which your personal crusade is mirrored by the real-life adventures you experience. And since little kitten had clearly come through several adventures to arrive in our garden, he was a fitting bearer of the name.















Sophy Wackles, after initial mistrust, became fascinated by our new resident and followed him everywhere as he explored the garden and discovered the delight of climbing trees.

Not fair! I can't get up there! Come down here this minute!


It actually took surprisingly little time for Sophy to shed her normal suspicion of anything new and different (and possibly dangerous!) and start to enjoy herself. Wherever Maeldun went, she would follow. Gone were the days spent lounging on her special chair, gazing into space. When she wasn't actually out in the garden with him, she was watching from the window to see where he was. She got more exercise than she'd taken in years, and even started to play little games with her new best friend.









Ah go on! Let's play pat-a-cake!








We got rather pleasantly accustomed to Maeldun's bright little presence too. It was nice to come home, park the car, and see the vivid little face instantly peeping from his nest on the rocker in the porch. Then, as you got out and retrieved your bags, he was coming across to meet you, tail held in the highest welcome mode, and making cheerful little chirrups of pleasure. And of course you don't need to be told about the comfort of a purring kitten on your lap, on the windowsill by your computer, by the fire...


Unfortunately it wasn't to be. One day, something wasn't right, and it got worse from there. He spent more time in his nest, still purring, still stropping his paws with pleasure when you spoke, but without that wild energy that had broken flowerpots, knocked over plants, sent him up the highest trees. The vet said he had a serious heart problem. I thought I could fix it with tender loving care. I couldn't. He got quieter, weaker (although that defiant purr kept going almost to the end).


I went to bed one night, having tried all the old knowledge and remedies I could. He pushed his face against my hand and purred lovingly from his new indoor bed by the radiator. Next morning he was lying on the floor, uttering despairing cries. He was in pain, there was nothing else to do. Early and all as it was, we packed him into a soft bed box and drove up into the hills to the vet's home. He's a good vet, didn't say anything, just stroked the little cat and gave him something to make him sleep peacefully before putting him out of his misery.

We brought him home and buried him in the corner of the orchard. I made a Brigit's Cross of rushes, and put it on the stone.





















'Bye, Maeldun. You brought such joy into our lives for a little while.


Sophy is lonely for you, and keeps searching in the orchard where you used to play. I've told her you're in the Happy Hunting Grounds, but she still can't understand why you won't come back to her, your best friend.

I will admit to being devastated for a couple of days. Hadn't been sure about this new arrival at all at the beginning, then of course gave him my heart. DH too, always a committed cat hater (they kill birds, you know they do!) had also discovered the joy of watching sheer feline beauty on the move, the pleasure and comfort of a purring warm body snuggling up on your lap. He followed Maeldun for hours with his camera, capturing every leap, every stretch. And it had given Sophy Wackles so much joy too. The two older dogs really didn't play with her any more and this was a whole new experience for her.

Once the tears were dried, the next step seemed obvious. Give another small kitten a good home, right? Wrong! Or at this time of year at least. It's not the season for kittens over here, would you believe? Since early January, I kid you not, there hasn't been a single one on offer. Now in Ireland, you normally can't move for tripping over kittens in need of a good home. Every shop, every notice board, has pretty pictures and pathetic pleading notices. They're everywhere.

But not right now.

DH, bless him, was ringing round while I was still sobbing myself to sleep. My friend Eileen, who runs an amazing kennels and cattery, had been doing likewise. They even, apparently, rang each other, which is when they discovered that both were on the same hunt! Every likely source has been checked. Not a sausage (well, not a kitten anyway). But it's March now, and any day, there will be a phone call or more likely a flood of phone calls, given the efforts we've been making. I'll be lucky if we don't end up with forty-five kittens, black, white, tabby, marmalade, tortoiseshell, the lot. (How bad would that be?)

Hurry up, small kitten, wherever you are. Sophy needs you. She's still looking out of the window, hoping against hope to see a small triangular face, an upright tail, and a chirrup asking her to come and play.

Somehow lost even the passion for knitting. Couldn't stick at anything. Forced myself to finish the Solstice Shawl which I'd begun up in Tromso, but that was about it. And then, yesterday, we said goodbye to the oldest and most dignified of our dogs, Natasha de St Petersburg II. She was in her fifteenth year, and had been getting quieter and less active for some time. She wasn't really enjoying life any more, so there was relief as well as sorrow to find her curled up in her bed at breakfast time, in a last long sleep.
















A lady of impeccable breeding and rare intelligence, Tasha knew and kept her place at the top of the household ranking effortlessly. She will doubtless be organising the poker games in the Happy Hunting Grounds tonight, and heaven help anyone who takes her on.


And that really is that. I've cried enough. Let's get on to thoughts of spring and blossoms and, hopefully, an adorable new kitten one day soon. Sock Madness, that annual bout of insanity, has just started, and the first round is a delightfully zany pattern in which you throw a dice to decide whether to cable a column or not. It makes every repeat of the pattern on Dicey a laugh, and that's pretty good at any time. Thank heaven for Sock Madness!

I meant to tell you long ago about the Wren Boys, but the worries over Maeldun sort of took up all the time. Every St Stephen's Day in Ireland (that's Dec 26 in the rest of the world) we have this ancient ritual whereby heavily disguised revellers go from house to house or pub to pub, carrying the figure of a wren in a bush of furze or gorse. It's such an old tradition that nobody is quite sure what it means, or how it originated. I have my own ideas, based on a lot of research, but you'll have to wait for De Next Book to find out.

Anyway, one of the best places to see this event is Dingle, way down in Kerry, and there we headed on the day, leaving home very early to be sure of not missing anything.

Don't know what it's like in your part of the world the day after Christmas but here it tends to be empty, silent, everybody indoors nursing hangovers or washing up or just plain recovering. Dingle looked a lot like that - windswept empty streets, shuttered windows, everything closed. But we knew where to go, and headed for one particular pub. From the outside it all looked deserted, but push the door open and you find yourself in a maelstrom of noise, activity and excitement.

The place was packed. In one corner, several men were making sheaves from a pile of long stalks of grain (where had they kept that all winter, you wondered?) and skilfully plaiting these on to a rope strung between two pillars. Seeing them work was extraordinarily reassuring - clearly the old skills have not gone away, despite the best efforts of modern technology. Even the youngest lad there handled the stalks with a sure touch.

These ropes of grain were becoming cloaks to be worn by the marchers in the procession. They also had beautifully woven head dresses of straw, with a small model bird perched in the very middle. I was entertained to see that the birds were in fact not wrens but robins, the kind you can pick up in any shop around Christmas time for a few pence. I mentioned this to one of the men. 'Ah sure, 'tis a bird anyway, and who'll know the difference? ' I suppose the thought was there, and I don't think you can buy toy wrens that easily anyway.

Look at this strange atavistic creature. The head is woven of willow, the eyes are limpet shells, and the beak is a split cow's horn. I wouldn't be surprised if that would be recognised back several thousand years ago. It gives you the authentic chill of recognition when you see it.

How its wearer actually drank the beer I cannot imagine, but every now and again he tipped his head back and poured the liquid down into his beak. Didn't see any trickling out, so it must have worked. (But then again, can you imagine an Irishman not thinking of that necessity first, and working it into the design?)

It took them most of the morning to make all the straw cloaks. I asked why they didn't make them beforehand and they looked at me crossly. 'Sure, they have to be done on the day itself,' explained one patiently. Eventually somebody struck a mighty blow on a huge drum and everybody crowded out into the street where the procession formed up.
















I liked this moment in the procession very much. The ancient tradition passing by a newer one. No matter what influences sweep over Ireland, it still holds fast to the Old Ways and the Old Knowledge. Come over sometime for St Stephen's Day and we'll go down to Dingle together.


Now, is that it? Oh wait, no, I know what I wanted to tell you about. I was in Dublin the other day and went to the Hugh Lane Gallery in Parnell Square on a mission. I felt in need of the spectacular beauty of Harry Clarke's famous stained glass window, The Eve of St. Agnes.























I'm sure you know Keats' poem - it's been a favourite of mine since college days. When Clarke was commissioned to illustrate it in stained glass, he really went to town. It's a masterpiece and we're lucky to have it here in Ireland.


Each handpainted panel illustrates a different scene from the poem but what gives this window its exquisite breathtaking effect is the colour. There are blues and silvers, pinks and crimsons here, and the skilful way it has all been lit from behind, makes it something you could stand and look at for hours.

















Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call’d, “La belle dame sans mercy:”






















And they are gone, ay ages long ago,
These lovers fled away into the storm...

If you find yourself in Dublin, don't miss the chance to stand before this masterpiece.

Maidens of the Northern Sky - And The Christmas Kitten

We went up to Tromso recently. As far back as I can remember, to see the Northern Lights was a dream - as indeed it probably is for most people. There were enough vague attempts on different occasions - in the wilds of Canada, remote corners of Norway, in Finland - but it had never worked out. This year, it was going to happen if planning and careful calculation could have anything to do with it.



Gosh, North Norway, you do do the festive season well!



The streets of Tromso were snowy, the decorations were simple and heartfelt, and everyone was jolly and full of the spirit of goodwill.

Of course the yarn shops were visited, what do you think? Yes, despite the determined vow that 2012 will be The Year Of Using Stash And Only Stash, advice had been sought from dear friend Else, and armed with her list, each one was ticked off in turn. And turn about. And again. Isn't it lovely to go from one yarn shop to another and then back to the first and then think of something you saw in the third - or was it the fourth?





This window was crowded with the most wonderful handmade dolls, each and every one dressed up in hand knitted winter clothes! The lady in the rocking chair at the bottom right-hand corner is knitting on tiny wooden needles, while the rest of them are rejoicing in their warm jackets, caps, breeches snow suits, everything. Alas and alack, I only saw the kits for making up the bodies of the dolls after the shop had firmly shut for the night - but if any kind Tromso-ite wants to ship me one, I'll repay in full and then some!


At this time of year so far north it only gets to dusk-light in the middle of the day but that's no big deal. Or not if you're only visiting for a few days anyway. I can see that it might get a bit tiring if you have to endure several months of it. One man said that when they finally get a glimpse of the sun for ten minutes or so - around February, I think - they punch the air and shout 'Yes!!!' Makes our solstice seem quite a gentle affair.


Speaking of which, did you happen to watch the Newgrange solstice on TV? It was a bit of a non-event there this year, with cloud cover preventing the sun from penetrating the ancient structure, but I was watching it at my desk, with one eye on our own sunrise outside the window, and was rewarded with a ray of bright light right on to my keyboard. So, although Co. Meath didn't get the solstice sunrise, West Cork did. So there!


Up in Tromso, every toddler wore its own sturdy snow boots, and even small dogs donned suitable footwear.




Doesn't this little fellow look smart in his mackintosh and red boots? Despite the woebegone expression, he was the jolliest dog alive, giving us many greetings and welcomes to his home town. He came originally from Madrid, said his owner, but had adapted very well to the far north.


We took the cable car to the top of the mountain overlooking the town.


It was breaktakingly beautiful up there, with the wildness of the snowcovered hills all around, and, far below, the quiet fjord and the lights of the town, itself a remote outpost in this region of ice and snow. Around three in the afternoon you get a sort of after-sunset effect in the skies which is so lovely you stand looking at it for far too long, until you realise your feet are frozen and your hands are blocks of ice.



Worked even faster on the extra-long wristwarmers in a sumptuous blend of violet alpaca and silk (well all right, I didn't actually say I didn't buy any yarn, did I? It's not 2012 yet, is it?). And yes, I had to take my gloves off to knit. So not too much got done on the actual mountainside. More in the cafe where hot chocolate was temptingly available, and in the cable car going and coming.


It's at night that things get going in Tromso. For the locals, it's having a jolly time in bars and restaurants (I have to say, Norwegians, that the price you charge for beer can induce heart attacks in visitors from less prosperous countries, although I fully appreciate that you earn more, so it all evens out) but for those in search of the elusive Aurora Borealis, the normal going- to-bed time becomes the wrapping-up-and-going-out-again time.

A minibus picked us up and took us way out north of the town, into a dark and still world of snowy fields and fjords, with no city lights to pollute the natural skies.



There was a traditional tepee (the Lappish name is, I think, lavvo) where you could shelter if the cold got too much.



This picture was taken with a wide angle lens and a flash, but in reality it was a dark and incredibly cosy place, with the fire of birch logs blazing in the centre, and reindeer skins spread on the benches around the edge. You sat in there, with other faces just visible across the dancing flames, drank hot chocolate (well, what did you want us to do? Starve?) and realised, dimly, how many must have sat in such shelters across thousands of years, grateful for the warmth and the companionship of others while outside the wind howled and the snow fell. It was a very good feeling and one that has been tucked away to be brought out and re-lived at many times in the future, perhaps at night, when sleep is elusive.


But guess what occurred here in West Cork at the solstice! We'd just come back and were sorting things out by the car when we heard this pitiful cry in the hedge. 'Strange bird' said DH. 'Kitten!' cried I, dashing over and throwing myself down to look. Nothing could be seen, and the cry ceased abruptly.

Fretted about it all night. Next morning we heard it again and this time I burrowed deep into the hedge while DH went further up on the other side. And nervously, cautiously, it came out.




Not quite a baby kitten but a kitten cat for all that. Young indeed, still not fully grown, in excellent condition, with an unusually thick tail for a smooth cat. Huge golden eyes, and very very nervous. It cried, circled round us, and then bolted as we tried to coax it closer.

Cutting off DH's protestations even before they surfaced, I headed for the kitchen, warmed milk, snatched the feeding bowl from whichever dog had been unwise enough not to empty it, and placed offerings underneath the hedge. Coaxed again, but the kitten-cat stayed well out of reach.

Half an hour later, both dishes were polished clean. That evening, the next gift offering was placed slightly closer to the house, where we could keep an eye on it. She fell on it as though she hadn't eaten in weeks.

I put a box underneath the rocking chair on the porch, with a warm blanket in it, and hoped for the best.

Next morning, Christmas Kitten came running with cries of delight as I brought out her food. I stayed very still, and she actually walked around me twice before daring to rub against my ankles and utter such a loud purr that she vibrated all over.

It took three more meals before I could stroke her gently, but once that formality was out of the way, feline natural curiosity took over and The Cat Came In!

Now in a house of dogs this can create just one or two awkward moments.



Here is Mehitabel conveying her approval of the festive decorations. And there is the top of Sophy's furry head, advancing with malice aforethought.



Retreat of Mehitabel to behind a safe doorway. Advance of Sophy.

Sounds of crashing, thumping, bouncing and heavy breathing (Sophy of course - cats never get out of breath, had you noticed?)

Mehitabel decides that perhaps after all the garden is a safer place to be. (And yes, you're right, DH and his camera were enjoying themselves thoroughly. No pop star ever got the paparazzi treatment like Lone Christmas Kitten!)

For now she's roosting in a snug nest made of an old sleeping bag on the rocker in the porch. Meals are regular, and the amusement occasioned by suspicious dogs just enough to keep a girl on her toes. We do not know what is going to happen. It's like that with Christmas Kittens. They may have come just for a quick visit, they may be bored with their present posting, they may be passing through, they may need shelter and solace for a time. (well, now that you ask, some proper cat food was laid in as soon as the shops reopened).

I don't know if she's called Mehitabel. She may be Arabella or Fairycake or Lucy Clare for all I know. She hasn't seen fit to tell me yet. But I thought you would like to share the tale of the Christmas Kitten. And those of you who have lost a beloved pet recently (Chewyknits, for one, LilyMarlene another) I thought you might feel just a little better knowing that somewhere else in the world, a small stranger arrived in their place. It's not the same, I appreciate, but it's a reflection of the turning wheel, isn't it?

All right, all right! I heard you, way back up the page. Did I or didn't I see them? I was saving it to share as a solstice greeting. Up there they call them the sky maidens waving their mittens. I sent them greetings from all of you.

Twenty Thousand Projects Under The Sofa

Seventy-six projects led the big parade,
One hundred and ten WIPs close behind.
They were followed by rows and rows of forgotten UFOs...

It's got to stop. One particularly gloomy wet day last week, I incautiously dislodged a bale of fabric from the elongated piano stool that does duty as gather-all in the upstairs sitting room. It was a double bale of fabric, in fact, several yards each of bright pink and dark navy cotton jersey which I'd picked up for a song somewhere, some time back, with some idea in mind, now forgotten. That isn't topmost in my mind right now.

What is topmost is the fact that in so dislodging the fabric, I toppled an enormous logjam (can you topple a logjam? What exactly do you do with a logjam? Stab at it?) of carrier bags, small baskets, project holders, loose skeins and patterns. A pair of unfinished socks, started in Iceland last July. The beautiful front of a cabled jacket in unbelievably expensive alpaca silk aran weight. One bright red Origami sock, with its fellow just started, barely past the toe. And so on.

Now most times I can deal with situations like this. The normal practice is carefully to replace the covering material and go away to cast on for something new, right? That's what The Big Book of Advice To Obsessive Crafters would say. But, as I mentioned, it was a gloomy wet day, just right for pondering the Meaning of Life and particularly The Meaning of Startitis.

Because these past few months have been pretty appalling on that front. If Startitis be a vice, then the Celtic Memory establishment has been a riot of debauchery. What was I doing? What was I thinking? Was I thinking at all? Is sheer self-indulgence all there is to the human brain these days? (Don't bother answering that one.)

The heart was heavy, but the soul knew there was only one thing to do. Gather up all the WIPs. All of them. Lay them out, photograph them in the totality of their sad unfinished states. And then (courage, mon brave) let all of blogger land see them. Be truthful. Maybe, just maybe it will cure you of this reprehensible habit for once and for all (who's that laughing at the back?)





The memories come flooding back as each one is hauled out into the light of day. This cabled jacket in alpaca silk aran weight is going to be beautiful. And the yarn was just too expensive for it not to reach completion! It's already been started as two different projects, but interest waned, and it was frogged for another try. Some of the rewound balls are starting to look tired and whine for a bath. Then they'll look different to their new, fresh, as-yet untried colleagues. They always do.

Ah the Brigit jacket. Using that ingenious design from Starmore, on gorgeously smooth rich wool tracked down at Pierre Loye et Cie in Provence last May. It was a total bargain this yarn in the Campanule shade, and the jacket will be unforgettable. As was the scent of the little apricot trees in the sundrenched yard where we parked the car and DH photographed black redstarts while I ran wild in the bargain shed. (Brought home the kernels from some ripe apricots which we sampled from those trees, and actually managed to get them to sprout. Annoyingly, a marauding rabbit found them and nipped off each lush little plant at the root. Will they sprout again or will they give up? They're in the greenhouse, thinking about it for the winter.)

Secured this navy chenille, beautifully plush and thick, at the same place as the Campanule. Hidden in the bottom of a bargain bin on the floor, at such a price I would have been insane to leave it behind. A delicious crochet waistcoat, with tiny fob pockets (you can barely see those), but will there be enough to finish the back? The chance of finding more of the same yarn is unlikely, to say the least. And I'm not planning to drive down around Provence any time soon (bit chilly this time of year anyway). But one could almost get the scent of the orange blossom, the sound of the cicadas just by handling it...





It's my own fault, I shouldn't have grabbed a couple of balls of the chenille to take on a trip for which the chosen project was a Jane Thornley lookalike vest. But there it is again - that overwhelming desire to begin with the new love, instantly, immediately, without a second's delay. I mean, taking yarn from one project to start another? What kind of behaviour is that?




Ah the Icelandic socks. I remember the evening well. We'd spent all day driving in and out of long inlets on the Westerfjords, distances which could have been covered in two minutes if we'd happened to have wings and could fly straight, and came in a grey evening twilight to a small fishing village. Yes, it was the very place we had breakfast with the sorcerer next morning, now I come to think of it. I got that overwhelming urge to be working on a pair of socks and rushed down to the tiny local shop. You couldn't have called it a supermarket, but yet, there among the potatoes and the tinned beans, the spades and the saucepans, was a rack of knitting yarn and needles. Got two shades of Einband and two circulars, and was as happy as Larry for the rest of the night. There are times when only socks will do. And there aren't that many countries where you can find the makings thereof at 9pm in the middle of nowhere, are there?




Gosh, I remember exactly where I got this divine tweedy Italian cashmere. It was in School Products, up several flights of stairs in a decrepit old building on Broadway, NY, NY, and while I was fingering it lovingly, Berta Karapetyan was telling me about her change of heart from crochet to knitting (because you get smoother more draping effects with knitting) and also how she found knitting machines extremely useful for doing the long plain sections, leaving her the energy and inclination to spend absolutely ages on the complex bits. And when I'd left Berta, I went way up Fifth Avenue and had tea in that divine Japanese shop where they have all the lovely knitting books. It's going to be a beautifully cosy cowl - but for which winter?

And speaking of winter, this is a bright red stocking cap, in the Finnish style, for a new baby girlfriend, and I am absolutely determined to get it done and on her little head this winter, no matter what. In fact, in the early stages of this appalling realisation of just how many projects there were unfinished, grabbed this and stayed up really late one night last week to get some work done on it.




And therein lay my downfall. Because I watched The Holiday on tv, didn't I? And Cameron Diaz wore That Jacket in it, didn't she? Dear heaven, lay awake until 4am agonising over the right kind of yarn to use for such a project - a light colour of course, to show off the cables, but not too heavy a yarn. Cameron's was light and almost fuzzy, as you'd expect from someone normally living in LA who goes to her favourite boutique on Rodeo Drive to enquire what one should wear in an English winter.




Eventually remembered all that unspun Icelandic I'd carried home from the summer trip and fell asleep happily at dawn. It's a nice silver gray, which is only marginally more practical for fireside wear than Cameron's pure white, but it's knitting up beautifully. Just right for adding a welcome layer of warmth.




Ah yes, warmth. Intending to hunt for the Northern Lights this winter at some stage, so thought lined mittens would be a Good Idea. My own hand-dyed cashmere/silk for the outer layer, possum wool for the interior. Put on the embroidery halfway along the project and all, as it would be difficult to do once the whole thing is finished, as there is no division between outer and inner layers. So why isn't this one done, and its fellow well under way, since my fingers are icy right now, typing at my desk? (Not that you could type in mittens, but you get the idea.)




Good heavens, had quite forgotten the Origami Socks. Chanced on a remaindered copy of Knitted Socks East and West while away somewhere, and fell for these instantly, buying the bright red wool in two different shops because each had only one. It involved driving several miles too, I remember. It's a very pretty pattern. And yes, it deserves finishing. They'd look great for wearing on Christmas morning.

Are we there yet? Are we heck as like. My dear friend Tricia started her annual Advent Scarf KAL and how could I not participate this year? And there is the Lintilla shawl languishing somewhere, it's in soft dark green mousse yarn and it's going to look exactly like that worn so fetchingly while shopping, by Kate, Duchess of Cambridge - WHEN it's finished. Can't even find that at the moment. Didn't have the courage to haul out the huge bag with the almost-completed gansey in cream Stella yarn, because there is a lurking fear, amounting almost to certainty, that an overwhelming flood of 'what on earth was I thinking of when I started THIS?' will sweep across it. And that Stella has been tried and frogged several times already in OTHER gansey projects.

It was bad enough, starting that Fireside or Holiday jacket, although in defence, what would you have done, seeing Cameron Diaz slinking around a cute English cottage in it and ensnaring Jude Law into the bargain? (Never mind that she couldn't possibly have lit that log fire and fed the resident dog, let alone worn it to bed with a bottle of wine, while still maintaining the pristinity of the white wool. That's what you call poetic licence, I think.) But wandering around Ravelry the other night, as you do, I saw the most amazing shawl pattern (Zuni, I think, but don't quote me) which was nice enough in fingering weight but which immediately shrieked to be created in a really thick, ultra-luxurious yarn that would make a positive blanket of cuddliness for the cold weather. I have almost-matching supplies of rich angora and supremely soft alpaca (one from France, one from Norway) in my favourite violet shade, which together would make a thing of beauty. They're calling softly to me now from the sitting room. 'Come here and touch us,' they are crooning. 'Find the right circular this moment. We want to be with you! Wouldn't it be lovely to start playing with us tonight?'

I've got to face up to this problem that I seem to have developed. I'm not sure what to do. I would welcome constructive suggestions for dealing with it. Two lots of constructive suggestions actually. Firstly, how to stop starting things. And secondly, how to start finishing things.