In Which Much Yarn is Spun and Tamzin Takes a Dip

It's been extraordinarily hot here in West Cork over the past couple of weeks.  OK, not such soaring temperatures as you get in Texas or SoCal, but well above anything we are used to.  And it doesn't cool down much at night which is tiring when you don't have air conditioning.  Don't have air conditioning, I hear you shriek? Listen, for about 99 years out of a century, air conditioning in Ireland would be a bit like an ice-making machine in Alaska.  Getting enough wood dry to keep the stove going is a more usual concern.  But this summer is very different.  Never thought I'd be yearning for the soft dampness after rain, the misty clouds on the hilltops, but I am.  Can't feel comfortable with pitiless clear blue skies day after day.

Ah well, doubtless it will change back to the old style soon enough.  In the meantime, spare a thought for those exhausted cyclists slogging up the Pyrenees and the Alps during the Tour de France.  I've been thinking about them quite a lot more than usual, because this is also the season of the Tour de Fleece on Ravelry.  You know how 'spinning' is the term for creating yarn out of fleece, and it's also now commonly used as a description of stationary cycling in a fitness centre?  Well somebody linked those two together and in Tour de Fleece you spin every day that the competitors are cycling, take rest days when they do, and on the most challenging day of the Tour de France (I think it's Day 18, coming up soon, when they tackle the frightening fastnesses of the unforgiving Alps) you are supposed to take on a challenge of your own - spin straw into gold, create ultra-fine silken yarn out of a hog's ear, something like that.

My chosen fibre was a beautiful soft grey Gotland roving which I had bought ages ago from World of Wool in Yorkshire, on hearing that the creators of the Lord of the Rings movies had insisted only that fleece would do to create the grey Elven cloaks worn by Frodo and his friends on their adventures.  Who could resist spinning a magical yarn like that?  And, having spun some, it seemed entirely natural to start knitting with it - a Mithril Vest to protect the wearer from dangerous dragons and evil Black Riders.  Here you can see some bobbins of just-spun yarn on the Haldane Orkney, together with some balls of yarn wound up, and the start of the vest.  The idea is to get it all done in perfect timing with the finale of the Tour de France in Paris.

 Also had a go at spinning silk,  Finally twigged that you need a very light hand indeed to spin such a slippery fine fibre, so hauled out the lightest spindle in my collection.

It didn't do too badly.  Made quite a respectable skein of about 40 yds or so.  Only another 5 or so of those, and I just might be able to make a tiny neck scarf!  But hey, I did it!

Actually it's quite fun getting yarn spun and plied, winding skeins, washing them and hanging them out to dry in this fine weather.  But by yesterday it was definitely time for a bit of a break.  Somewhere with water, please!

Eagle Rock - Sliabh an Iolar - on Killarney's Upper Lake.  This canoeist had the right idea, paddling through the calm clear water without the slightest ruffle of a breeze.

The dogs had been suffering a bit in the heat, so it was time for a dip.  Sophy is well used to it, and lost no time in finding a nice shallow spot and lying down with a sigh of satisfaction.  Tamzin was very nervous, but once she had been firmly placed in a safe spot with cool water lapping around her knees, she gradually relaxed and sank down, her eyes widening with surprise as the water cooled her hot little tummy.  Had a job getting them out of there!

And then we sat in the shade of the trees near Lord Brandon's Cottage, once a decorative little place for the gentry to be rowed up to for picnics from the great houses of Killarney, now a very pleasant cafe.

We did have a mission.  Hadn't been to see the Kissane sheep farm for a couple of years and wanted to see that they were OK and managing in this unpredictable weather we've been having for the last while.  John was in good form, demonstrating sheep herding (or shepherding) to visitors with the help of his able team of dogs. I love hearing his calls and cries of guidance which go back into the mists of time.  'Come bye, come bye!  Go left, go left, go left! Look back, look back, look back!'  And the dogs double and turn and run and round up the sheep and drive them in exactly the direction they are told to.  How long does it take to train a good sheep dog?  Years.  And you might pay a lot for a good one, says John, and then find that it will never do.  'It might be fine for cattle, but no good at all with sheep.  You just can't tell until you work them.'

John's son, Sean, a sturdy five-year-old, wanted to show us his rescue pony.  What was his name, we asked?  'Sweet horse' said Sean firmly.  And went off to help his Dad in the Adopt a Sheep department which was proving very popular with visitors.  Just imagine, you could go home to your own part of the world, knowing that there was a little Irish sheep living in the depths of the Kerry mountains who belonged to you!.  It's also a practical idea, attracting tourism and enabling sheep farming to continue here in the face of ever rising costs and overseas competition.

Here is one of the sheepdogs trudging back up the hill after a quick trip to the stream for a drink.  Not a bad place for a dog to live - with Magillicuddy's Reeks and the Black Valley stretching for miles, and nothing to be heard but the baa of a sheep or the call of a raven overhead.  A peaceful life indeed.  Even if he does have a demanding day job.

Fields of Gold

 You'll remember me, when the west wind moves, among the fields of barley,

You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky, among the fields of gold.

I've always loved that song.  Recently I was reviewing a ballet performance and the highlight for me was an exquisitely performed group piece to the song, the dancers' long dresses swaying in unison, just like a field of barley does in the west wind.  

The view from our windows for the past week or so has truly been of a field of gold.  Not barley in this case, but buttercups.  Bright, gleaming, golden buttercups in such profusion they certainly give the sun something to be jealous about.

It's nice to sit by the window and enjoy that splendour while gently teasing a small dog with your bare feet.  Still nervous of a sudden outstretched hand, Tamzin feels quite safe with bare feet and even nibbles them sometimes.

The project?  That's the Nine Point Charm crochet shawl which I'm working in two different colourways of silk laceweight.  Podge in the background, enjoying a comfortable nap.  He can take buttercups or leave them alone, he says.  But a nap is always a good idea.

DH took his little pop-up tent hide down to the buttercup field to get pictures of the baby rabbits playing amid the flowers.  But he kept getting distracted.

First there was a coal tit, bringing food to its hungry youngsters,

and then there were tiny wild field pansies among the buttercups to be photographed.  These aren't as plentiful as they used to be, but we probably have he fact that this field belongs to an organic farmer to thank for their presence.

Finally settling down to concentrate on the bunnies, he heard a rustle just outside the hide.

Hey, this is my path through the woods to the field!  What are you doing here?

Meanwhile Tamzin waited worriedly on the boundary of the garden, to make sure he got back safely.  Can't be too careful, with those Wild Woods down there at the end of the field, you know!  All kinds of nasty horrid creatures with evil eyes and grasping paws.  Much better come home!

He got the baby rabbits in the end, though.  This tiny little fellow can hardly see over the flowers, having to stand up on his hind legs to discover where his siblings have gone.

Where are you?  I can't see you!

Here is their worried parent, scenting that there's a fox about.  Look at that streamlined body!

As well as being buttercup time, it's sheep season here in West Cork and last weekend we went along to the International Sheep Shearing and Wool Handling Festival at nearby Millstreet.

It was great fun.  Frantic sheep baaing all over the place, competitors working in controlled fury to get their fleeces cut as smoothly and perfectly as possible, the scent of wool constantly assailing you, and lots of lovely real people, every one of them an expert, whether they kept one sheep or five hundred.  There were contestants from Ireland, the UK, New Zealand, Australia, Norway - all over, in fact.

You couldn't hope to hide an accidental double snip, or, heaven forfend, a tiny nick on the skin.  Every move was watched, and the clock ticked inexorably.  The pressure must have been severe.

This is George Graham from Wexford, who emerged the proud All-Ireland Record Holder for shearing and also the All-Ireland Wool Handling Champion.  He is PRO for the Irish Sheep Shearing Society too,and gets around the world quite a bit, judging and commenting at different shows.  He even knows Vardo and Vadso, up in the furthest northern reaches of Norway, which DH and I thought we were the only ones to discover!  'I've worked at the most northerly sheep farm anywhere,' he said.  'Do you know the one on that narrow road along Varangerfjord, on the way out to Vardo?'  We did.  Funny to think that George might well have been there at the same time as us on one of our visits.  Apparently the sensible Norwegians shear their sheep indoors, and they also lamb indoors.  Then when the summer finally arrives, around June, mothers and children can all go out together.

Met several old friends there.  Remember Daniel P. Buckley, whom I posted about way back in 2006?  (Find it here, Where Yarn Begins, if you can't.)  Back then he was a little pessimistic about the future of wool and sheep in Ireland, but here he was, as bright as ever, and with his two children helping him still.  Back in 2006, Una and Daniel Jr. were very small;  now they're 14 and 12 respectively, and experts at sorting the poor fleece from the good stuff.  'I always like to keep them involved in real things like this,' says Daniel.  'They need to have their feet on the ground in today's world, and working with the old traditions and the old ways is the best method I know of achieving that.'

And who should be demonstrating the traditional craft of spinning with some of that lovely freshly-sheared fleece but my dear friend Mairead Sharry from Inisheer, the littlest Aran Island.  Mairead is nearly the same age as me, and I was delighted to see her wearing purple, even to her new punk hairdo.  She runs the most amazing art and craft classes on Inisheer - dyeing, felting, weaving, crochet, and of course Aran knitting.  Writes children's books too.  Great girl, Mairead.  Go check her out here.

We've been going round the countryside during the month of May, photographing examples of the old traditions for De Next Book.  One particularly lovely custom that you can still find in the rural areas is that of placing branches of May or hawthorn over stable doors, and tying little knots of flowers on doors to bring luck

I've always been fond of this little ruined cottage near Ballyvourney and, on an impulse, stopped to pick a few flowers from the roadside verges and make a small nosegay to show it that it's still loved and thought about.  Well, why not?  I bet it remembers happy times when young children ran in and out, while mother fed the hens or milked the cow, and granny sat by the fire knitting and watching the potatoes boil for dinner.  It's done good service in its life, and just because it hasn't got central heating, wall to wall carpets, and plastic replacement windows, is no reason to ignore it.  Good on you, little cottage.  I'd buy you if I could, and put a smile back on  your face.  Until then, these flowers might give you a nice feeling.

Of Mayday Celebrations, And How Fur is used for Warm Nests

On the first day of May we made our way up to the ancient site of the Cathair in the mountains which divide Cork from Kerry.  Didn't quite make it at dawn, but soon after, when the rising sun struck the great central stone in the enclosure and lit up the Paps beyond.

People have been coming to this high place since the dawn of time, to hail the rising sun on May Day or Bealtaine, and look forward to the summer.  The two smoothly rounded mountains in the distance are the Paps of Danu, goddess of fertility and the land.

Christianity, unable to break the tradition of climbing to the Cathair at Bealtaine, turned the gathering and the ritual circling of the enclosure at sunrise  into a religious observance.  It put up a more modern statue too, but she fits in quite well.  Our Lady of the Wayside is not that different to Danu, and she watches over the countryside and the mountains as her pagan ancestress did.

 Here are some of the deeply-incised stones, several of which have clearly been etched by willing hands since long before Christianity came to this island.

One observance that has never changed over the centuries is the custom of bringing animals to the well to drink on May morning or, if that isn't possible, taking the well water home in a bottle to administer as needed during the year ahead.  The well is enclosed now, to avoid too much muddy activity, but I walked both Sophy and Tamzin through the stream which runs down from it, to ensure their happiness in the months to come.

Tamzin has come on by leaps and bounds, grown a good coat, and is (almost) ready to come for a cuddle when coaxed.  There are still moments of blind terror and her reaction to sudden movements alerts us to possible past traumas but she is being gently eased out of bad memories and into a full realisation that life can be a happy thing.

Trouble about that hairy little face is that you simply couldn't see if she was happy or not.  All you could glimpse was the occasional gleam of an eye through the thicket of fringe.  And so, very reluctantly, we did a small amount of trimming.

And what do you know, there was a bright little facekin in there all the time!  Now at least we can check her expression more easily.  (Sophy long ago adopted a permanent air of gloomy pessimism.  She found it got her more attention.)

The cats, too, are blooming, and (unfortunately) as full of mischief as a cauldron of squirrels!  They appear to be happy enough indoors,

although my heart misgives me when I see them gazing out at the grass and the trees (and the birds, the birds, the tail lashing tells of basic instincts coming to the fore).  But the memory of a small still body lying on that  road outside is still vivid.  They do not go outside.  Not until they're a lot calmer and more placid.  Which may never happen, judging by the way they carry on at present.

Sock Madness started in early March, and both moggies took to it with great delight, seizing every opportunity to assist with yarn winding, advanced knitting techniques, and, best of all, independent frogging.

You'd cast on for a sock, get the ribbing started, then incautiously leave the room for a nanosecond.  That was enough!  Even large baskets of hand-dyed skeins weren't safe, and neither were those gorgeous balls of violet blue alpaca/silk from a recent Norwegian Stash Enhancement Expedition..  Do you know, they even tore open a ziplock bag of precious cashmere/silk/merino Sublime intended for the Michael Kors sweater, and distributed no fewer than three balls of it around a fairly large room, incorporating as many chair, table and sofa legs as possible?  One good thing:  DH is becoming quite an expert at disentangling and winding neat balls of yarn too.

They get on absolutely fine with the dogs, occasionally deigning to play with them, but mostly preferring to enjoy their own feline games.

Ooh, look an invite to The Lion King!

Podge is marginally more placid.

He never loses an opportunity to grab food, even if it's something that somebody else was actually enjoying at the time.  (Tamzin really is very tolerant and gentle with the cats, and they know they can risk it.  Sophy would snap their whiskers off if they tried this.)

Pollywog, however, has a more explosive nature, and likes to watch fellow wild creatures on television

and then practise their moves to make sure he's got them right.

But their devotion to each other has never wavered, since that very first day Pollywog put his paws round a tiny squalling baby Podge and washed him until he slept.

It hasn't been a good spring so far in West Cork.  Chilly easterly winds continued far too long, and we were giving up hope as the end of April approached.  However, May exerted its power, and suddenly everything was happening at once.  Primroses, blackthorn, celandines, all the early flowers came out at the same time as the later bluebells, dandelions, buttercups, making for a wonderfully colourful display.  And the birds got busy all at once.  

We always put little bunches of soft undercoat dog combings on the bushes near the house at this time of year, and this morning DH literally had no time for breakfast with the activity going on outside.

First came this little bluetit

who gathered such a bundle of Sophy-fur that he looked like a flying cloud rather than a little bird heading back to his nestbox!

Then came a tiny goldcrest who preferred Tamzin's light grey

and lastly a wren who chose a blend of both.  We followed this little chap back to the corner of the garden where he had tucked his nest in behind a fencepost.  Cock wrens build several of these little boudoirs and then conduct their lady-love around to each, to see which she prefers.

Clearly the little lady liked this one best, because she was very busy tidying up, placing the fur her mate had brought in just the right way, and then finding a skeleton leaf to make it all beautiful.

Meanwhile, of course, her mate was showing off most elegantly, raising himself on tiptoe, fanning his wings and tail, and singing his heart out.  It was a lovely morning, although we got very little else done.  So much to watch and see.

The garden is starting to unfurl at last too.  And I have a tiny nosegay on my windowsill which blends past, present and future in a very special way.

Just one stem of the rare rose-tinted lily of the valley which DH's mother brought from France many years ago to set in the garden here.  Muguet de bois is traditionally associated with May Day there.  The more usual white variety grew in the garden of my old home, and my mother would tuck its flowers into our hair on special occasions.   Its scent is unforgettable.  It didn't quite make it for May 1, but then, Old May Day isn't until the 11th, so this one is an advance guard, promising joy to come.

With it are some sprigs of southernwood (also known in different places as Lads Love, appleringie and several other charming country names).  It's an artemisia variety, possibly abrotanum.  This, above all else, reminds me of my old home and childhood.  My mother grew bushes of it, shaping them roundly so that she could put handkerchiefs to dry on their surface and give them that sweet scent.  When I unwillingly left home for other countries, I brought cuttings of that southernwood with me, and planted them wherever I went.  Moving on, I would either dig up the plants, or take cuttings again (it is exceptionally good natured about propagating - all you need to do is tear off a little branchlet with a heel and put it in water for a week when it will produce tiny roots, all ready for planting on).

When at last I came home to Ireland, I brought cuttings again, and set them in our garden here in West Cork. They are the great-great-great grandchildren of those original plants which grew in the place I loved best in all the world.  (Mount Verdon still stands, with my brother doing his best to keep it propped up, but these big old places need resources beyond the realms of possibility to restore.)  The last few bad winters hit the plants hard, but two at least have survived, albeit spindly and tired.  Gently I took little cuttings, and they are now getting ready to make their own place in the garden here, which I have come to love as much as my old home.  It is entirely fitting that they are tucked into an antique glass bottle which my brother discovered in the gardens of Mount Verdon.

In Which Yet A Further Furry Paw Is Pleadingly Extended

Strewth, has it been raining here.  I think I may have said it before, but one is certainly grateful for the fact that Ireland - or at least West Cork - is nothing but a gigantic sponge.  Torrents pour down upon it on a daily basis, and it still manages to absorb the lot and push it somewhere down the thousands of streams which gurgle happily to the coast and swell the sea.

I was calculating this morning that it was either last March or last June that I last hung out a load of laundry under a clear blowy sky at morn and brought it all back in, nicely dried, at evening.   Oh for spring, I moaned, wandering sadly out into the soggy brown disaster that was the garden.  And then I saw something unexpected poking out of a tired mass of wet foliage in a flowerpot.

 It couldn't have been a more dreary January day, but this little iris had poked its way through last summer's dead leaves and pushed up its bright little head, all covered with jewelled raindrops.  Well done little iris!  Cheered me up considerably, it did.

Of course dark winter days and nights are ideal for craftwork, and there has been plenty of that.  I had promised to show you that little Norwegian Angel crochet cape on its recipient and here it is.  Doesn't she look cute in it?

Once the festive gifts had been got out of the way, and still maintaining my vow of Knit From Stash, I remembered a whole pack of extremely expensive Karabella merino/yak chunky that really needed to be used up, so started the Wave Hello Knit Cardi by Melissa Monday.

Here is Wave Hello to a Yak in progress.  I decided to continue two strips of the cabling up from the hem along the back, to give what would otherwise be plain stockinet fabric a bit of texture.  It's a really quick knit so hopefully I'll get it done before something shinier beckons.

 Like the Michael Kors cabled tunic, for example.  Lusted after this as soon as I saw it in Vogue Knitting some years back, but hadn't got round to it until I discovered a huge pack of Sublime cashmere/merino/silk in pure white in the stash.  What possessed me to buy so much of something so expensive in the first place I cannot now recall, but clearly it can't be left there to slumber in peace.  Will adapt of course.  The Kors design is very large and loose, and I'd prefer a fitting polo neck.  Also Aran designs should really be done with a raglan sleeve.  It looks so much neater than a drop shoulder.  Plenty of ancient pattern leaflets to hand, and I can just follow one of them for the shaping.  Suspect this will be a long-term project.  After that, the legendary St Brigid beckons yet again.  Never did find exactly the right colourway and fibre to use for that baby.  Maybe 2013 will do it?

But there have been other matters to occupy the mind (and indeed the hands) over the past week.  Oh there have indeed!  Why did nobody warn me that reaching out to lift a little frightened fur person to safety and love was extremely addictive?


Of all the auspicious times in the calendar it was New Year's Day when a friend who runs a rescue centre rang me.  As is unfortunately always the case after the festive season, she was full to overflowing with dumped, unwanted, rejected dogs.  Could I possibly consider fostering a little Shi Tzu for a few weeks, to get her back to some sense of normality and security?  For two seconds I wondered frantically what DH would say to yet another arrival, but then did the only possible thing and said, 'I'll be round in ten minutes.'  DH, bless him, rolled his eyes, laughed, and said, 'Why am I not surprised?'  That man's a keeper.

One terrified, bewildered little bundle to be wrapped up warm and held snugly.

Look at that expression.  Fear, mistrust, a beating heart.

Hated upsetting her further, but she really really needed a gentle warm bath to remove at least some of the signs of serious neglect.  Before that she had had a small but nutritious meal to get started on putting some flesh on that skinny ribcage.  She would have eaten an entire pack of food if she had got the chance, and the bowl too, but you mustn't rush these things.

Then it was a stroll on nice green grass with Sophy Wackles, who accepted her with surprising equanimity.  Even when it meant having drops of water shaken all over you.

In fact everybody has accepted little Tamzin (or Tamsin, can't decide which spelling I prefer) extremely well. Here is a snatched picture of one corner of my small study at this precise moment.  On the chair, Pollywog and Podge.  On the floor, Tamzsie and Sophy.  Barely enough room for me!

It's going to take time.  (Fostering, fostering?  What nonsense is that?  She ain't goin' nowhere, isn't Tamsie!)  She still won't come readily to your hand, and tends to cringe if you stoop down to her unexpectedly from above.  Sudden noises or raised voices send her into a huddled terrified heap.  The contrast with Madam Sophy, spoiled and petted from birth, is distressing.  But we're getting there.  And DH is enjoying every moment of photographing her gradual dawning confidence, as she explores the garden on her own, discovers how to get down stairs (bounding up was no problem, but oh help, what do I do next?) and, just now and again, a very rare lick to a friendly hand that she is learning to trust.

So very very glad we were there at the right moment, Tamsin.  Already we can't imagine life without your whiskery little face.  And when the spring comes, you won't believe what a wonderful wide world there is out there to enjoy!