Pekingese Convicted of Heinous Yarn Crime!

I had scoldings and remonstrances from many of you after I wondered out loud about Muffy being a secret yarn fiend. Wanda had even gone so far as to suggest that I was fingering the wrong suspect. Well have I got news for you! (That was a rhetorical question, you don't need to answer.) This morning DH had gone upstairs to relax awhile in the quiet of the drawing room (also my yarn room) and keep an eye out the window for any rabbits or foxes passing by which he could photograph. Downstairs happily getting on with Sock No. 1, I suddenly heard him shout for me. I ran up and found, in the following order:

1. DH, on the floor with his camera (shaking with laughter).

2. My WIP basket on its side, its contents (numerous) spilt wide.

3. MUFFY, the bould Muffy, tearing into a full and hitherto untouched ball of super-soft, super-expensive alpaca silk (pink).




Of course I fell upon her with cries of horror, ignoring DH's pleas that I should leave her alone until he got at least one more shot. I managed to prise her jaws open (I can tell you this lassie was more than disinclined to yield up her luscious treasure) and retrieve the yarn. Isn't this getting like a horror movie for yarnaholics? You know, a sort of Texas Chain Saw Massacre where the most beautiful and delectable yarns get carved up and we have to watch from behind the sofa in fascinated terror?


Yes, you can just make it out, can't you. That was indeed a beautiful ball of Debbie Bliss alpaca silk in the softest shade of pink. I'd been working on a little cabled vest and got distracted by another project, which is why it was waiting trustingly for me in the WIP basket. And I'd failed it! It's all right, it's doing fine now, just needs a little time to rest and recuperate from the trauma. But thank you for asking. I'll pass on your good wishes. I've put it in a little basket on a shelf by itself for a while.

So Wanda, and the rest of you softniks who counselled understanding and wisdom, what do you say now? What advice do you have for the owner of an animal possessed of such depths of moral turpitude? (Tasha, needless to say, is prancing around with the smuggest of 'See, it wasn't me' expressions.) Should I commit Muffy to penal servitude? Send her for therapy? Or perhaps I should simply take her with me next time I visit my LYS. On the other hand, that might be an unwise move...

To happier matters. I had long coveted a very chic little see-through plastic bag/container which was advertised in Vogue Knitting earlier in the year. You popped your project inside for travelling, and when you were ready to knit, you took out the WIP, and fed the yarn through the side, leaving the ball safely inside. Only trouble was, they were charging a king's ransom for these little bags and I couldn't bring myself to pay that price.

Then today I spotted some charming little toys in bags in a local shop window and realised they were just what I needed.


No, I know I didn't need the toy, but I soon found a team of degenerates who did...



And I found that the little bag, which has its own Velcro closure, just swallowed my sock project plus needles and yarn beautifully. It even has a strap by which I can fasten it to my belt if I want to do walkabout knitting like the women of the Aran Islands long ago.


Speaking of socks, I went looking for lovely dpns last night and found some delicious ones on a Scottish website. You wouldn't imagine that a sweet old-fashioned Highland company like Scottish Fibres would stock rosewood dpns but they did, so I went entirely mad and ordered two sets of four-inch. I know, I'll probably regret the short size, but the next one up was ten inch and I'm having enough trouble with the present ones (around 7 inch) as it is. And with two pairs I can get both socks going at once! (Thanks Grouchywif on Knitter's Review for that incredibly sensible and marvellous hint.)

The Anny Blatt is proceeding too: up to the armhole on the first sleeve. Maybe the best way is to set a deadline: to say, on such a day I will WEAR that jacket. Sometimes it works - you know, you imagine yourself in it, hear the compliments, bask in the glory - and then you find you've forgotten to buy buttons and the whole thing looks kind of wrong anyway...

That was what happened with a Noro sweater I made last year. Mooching around John Lewis on a trip to London, I fell like a ton of bricks for the Silk Garden they had there and bought enough to make that stunning sweater in the Cornelia Tuttle Hamilton book - you know the one?


Sorry it's so blurred, it's a shiny page and didn't reproduce all that well. Now the colours there are spectacular, and when I'd made it up they were just as stunning. BUT... eventually I had to admit that the shaping was just a little too casual, and the whole thing hung about like an old mackintosh rather than a design item. SO after doing the usual thing we all do - sticking it in the back of the cupboard and hoping it would transmogrify itself somehow - I bravely took it all apart, frogged right back to the beginning, skeined up the yarn and washed it.

Incidentally, I think Noro Silk Garden benefits from a washing. You wouldn't think it was silk when you handle it from new - it's so harsh and unyielding. It's a whole lot softer now, and I have a BIG pile of it.



I think when I make it up next I'll still go for a simple design - after all, with something like Noro, the yarn makes the statement, not the stitches - but I'll incorporate a bit of control with ribbing and shaping. It's like those high fashion garments you see on the catwalk. For heaven's sake, anything would look good on those models, even a plastic bin liner. On a normal human being the design would look weird. And so, the moral of this tale is never to believe too much in a glorious picture in a magazine. They were paid to make it look good. Trust your own instinct.

But It's So Easy! You Just...

Life has been a little trying for your Irish correspondent since our last meeting. I told you about buying that nice sock yarn in the little Clonakilty yarn shop; well last night I decided to succumb just a little bit to temptation and try out this fascinating technique known as the Magic Loop. Several helpful souls on various Net forums had given me the URL for finding all the necessary instructions so I settled down happily in front of my screen with circulars and yarn in hand.

Ye gods! WHO is responsible for inventing that sadistic instrument of torture, the Figure Of 8 Cast On? It looked weird enough to start with; but I had figured (unwisely, as it turned out) that as I was of reasonably advanced years and had a lot of dropped stitches under my belt, there wouldn't be anything that I couldn't handle.

I mean - have you tried to follow those instructions? Hold two needles one above the other. Hang on - does this mean both ends of that circular or an entirely new pair of needles, complete strangers, who had no idea up to this minute that they were invited to the party? If so, do they need to be the same size? Should I have gone out and bought the entire stock at my LYS? I decided they meant the original circular since there were no preliminary notes about getting in survival stores of needles.

Then wind the yarn around these two in a figure 8 pattern, keeping hold of the end (you're telling me, that end was friskier than a puppy let loose), until you have about 12 on each needle. (I think the instructions said, though I may be wrong - I wasn't in exactly my right mind by this time - that this meant 12 on each at this stage which would of course (my italics) mean 12 overall once you'd done the preliminary row. Pausing only to mop a fevered brow and push an over-affectionate puppy off my feet, I soldiered on.

First knit the stitches on the top needle. Easier said than done. They were only loops after all. Make sure you are still holding on to the end of the yarn. Darn! Gone again. Start again.

Then - and this is where we move into the Theatre of the Absurd - you are told to now bring the bottom needle to the top and knit those stitches. How? With what? Are we talking about yet another circular? Another pair of innocent needles whisked in off the highway where they were taking an evening stroll, and pressed into service? A needle hiding in the background behind the curtain, hitherto unsuspected? Is one supposed to slip everything hitherto knitted with so much pain and effort on to the cable and use the freed-up needle to do the second lot of stitches? But which end if so?

It was academic in the end. Every time I tried yet again to follow those smug instructions, everything shredded gaily off the needles and resumed their original condition, i.e. one length of increasingly more tired yarn.

It reminded me sharply of maths classes in childhood (New World readers, I think you prefer to call this discipline math. Whatever. I'd missed one session and when I came back a helpful schoolmate offered to show me how to do long division (you probably don't do this any more, but it involved totally useless activities like trying to divide 4782 by 13. Why? Don't ask me, I just went with the flow.) It's easy, she explained, you just see how many times 13 might go into 47. And it goes in three times, so you put down 3 for the first figure. But how do you know that in the first place, I wondered. I mean, where was I supposed to find out that 13 went into 47 three times? She looked blankly at me. The teacher looked blankly at me. The rest of the class looked blankly at me. Clearly there was some small vital piece of information which no-one had seen fit to give me. I still can't make much of a hand of long division, but the opportunities for showing off by dividing 4782 by 13 are fewer and fewer these days, I find.

It's the same thing with the Figure of 8 Cast On. I sought guidance on Knitter's Review, on Knitter's Help and found lots of information, plenty of guidance. It's easy, they all assured me. You just... And then those instructions again. WHAT AM I MISSING HERE? I really really mistrust that phrase, It's easy, you just...

It's as bad as another phrase I mistrust. You can't miss it. Oh can't I? You're going to see someone and request directions . You are told to take the first left, the second right, and straight ahead. You can't miss it. Several hours later, you telephone from the middle of nowhere and they think it hysterical you couldn't find them. Oh did we say first left? Well, yes I suppose there are five roads before that one. And second right? Oh sorry, we meant fifth right. Was the farmer all right about it? The bullocks didn't make too much of a mess of your car, did they? Well, from where you are, just keep turning right. You can't miss it.

Retourner a nos moutons, I hear you cry. Back to the subject. OK. Socks. Well, around bedtime I admitted defeat with that F*O*8*C*O*. I also wasn't too keen on hearing the words Magic Loop for some time to come. BUT, you know something? All that suffering made five little dpns look very welcoming indeed. I was tired, I was cross and hot and wanted to go to bed. But I found a set of dpns and carefully cast on, following a simple pattern recommended by the Twisted Sisters. I worked four rounds of rib and hit the sack. This morning I took the bus to town. It's a very jolly local country bus which makes a winding journey through all the local villages before getting to Cork. Everybody knows everybody else on board. I took out my sock which immediately evoked floods of reminiscences about the good old days. By the time we reached the city I'd finished the rib and got on to the stocking stitch.


Now don't make fun of it. It's my very first and I am so proud of it I feel like singing its praises from the rooftops. Isn't it the prettiest baby you've ever seen? Isn't it cute? Oh you were right, all those of you who said sock knitting was addictive. It is. I can't wait to get back to it. I'm going to look on the Net for a nice little set of wooden dpns - and I like that suggestion from somebody on Knitter's Review who said she kept two sets of needles the same size so that she could work on both socks, turn and turn about. I did that with crochet socks but they're still in the WIP basket. And while I was in town, I picked up a ball of soft black sock yarn. I'd like to try a pair with little cables down the sides.

So, although yesterday was severely stressful, today was better. And it got better. When I came home I discovered that a pattern I'd bought on eBay had arrived. It was a design for a lace shawl but a very very special one. I'd first worked this shawl in my teenage days, during long summer evenings in our family home. It was a time of security and happiness, of utter belief in an exciting world, knowing that home and my beloved mother would always be there to come back to, wherever I might wander on my adventures.

I kept that original shawl through many years of seismic life changes, moving from one country to another, one way of life to another. But the pattern got lost along the way. I searched everywhere, I hoped one day to unearth it in some hitherto overlooked box or envelope, but it never resurfaced. It was part of that world that had gone forever.

Then I saw the pattern up for sale on eBay and it was as though a door locked for so long had reopened. I had to bid and re-bid - the interest in that little scrap of paper was extraordinary. But in the end I got it. When I opened that envelope today and took out the simple little pattern, there was a lump in my throat. I'd got something back that I thought I would never see again.


'But why didn't you simply study the shawl and work out the original pattern,' asked Richard simply. Do you know, that had never occurred to me.

I need help from Yarnaholics Webonymous!

Where oh where were you all yesterday when temptation struck? (Still
fast asleep to the west , I imagine,and the day finished further east, since it was 10 am here. I had spent three - yes THREE - maddening days working on that tangled ball of chenille from my Anny Blatt project and still hadn't managed to free it up to finish the back of the jacket. I was getting that dangerous feeling of 'oh I'm sick of this project, it's never going to be finished.'

You know how it is when you get a new idea - you are almost shaking with excitement, you can't wait to be off to buy the yarn (why is it that the stash never has quite the right one?), and the world seems a lovelier, happier place. It's a feeling like falling in love each and every time. But almost like relationships, some go sour quicker than others.

Now that I come to think of it, it's exactly like relationships - or those of teenage days anyway. One morning you're madly in love with the boy who walks to school along your road; that evening you've actually met him and discovered he's boring, has absolutely nothing in common with you, and you can't imagine what you saw in him in the first place. Did you ever start a knitting project like that?

I will say, though, that Anny Blatt hasn't reached that stage - yet. (She isn't created entirely in AB, by the way, and this isn't a plug for that company though they do make some exquisite yarns, it's just because I adapted the original idea for the cover picture on the latest issue of their magazine.) I finally finished the back at midnight last night and today I will start on the sleeves. I would normally work on both together but realised that I can't in this case - with so many different colours, some doubled, on the go at the same time, and most being stranded up the side to take their next turn, it would be a superspeed telegram to Disaster Central to come and get involved. So it will be the weary job of first one and then the other - SSS or Second Sleeve Syndrome again!

Yay, back and two fronts done! NEARLY there!

But BEFORE that midnight completion - well this is where my wail to you comes in. Where were you all when I needed you? It was a bright sunny Saturday morning, I felt like doing something really nice and happy, and that darned ball was still resembling the Gordian Knot (look it up, girl, look it up!) Please understand that I'm not actually reprimanding you here. I'm not saying it's completely and entirely your fault - but if just one of you had sent me a wise but caring message at that moment, reminding me of my vow to finish AB before I started anything else; even if one of you had lightly, casually, smiling to show there was no harm at all in the casual query, enquired as to the actual size of my yarn stash down in the basement, it might have swung things back to the path of virtue. I might have stayed indoors on that glittering morning and worked solidly on untangling the chenille.

Who am I kidding? I jumped into my little jeep (a black Jimny Suzuki which I love with a passion but have to be careful not to round corners in too fast as it's only a tubby little box with a wheel at each corner really and can't make like a low-slung Ferrari no matter how hard it tries), and headed for the coastal town of Clonakilty. You can get there from here entirely on back lanes if you know how and I do by now. Some of the boreens have grass growing down the middle, and some are so twisty they'd put the heart across you for fear you'd meet a gigantic tractor and trailer on a blind corner, but it's a lovely way to travel. You can imagine you're back in an earlier age, long before the advent of cars (except for mine, of course).

Between Enniskeane and Clonakilty is a tiny hamlet called Lyre (crossroads, pub, population of approximately seven in a good year) and yesterday was Fair Day. I hadn't realised that Lyre was up in the big league, but there was a carefully printed notice on a piece of cardboard mounted on a stick on the way in, which is how I know and am passing on the information to you.

All I could see of the fair was a horsebox containing two peaceful donkeys gazing out at the world and admiring the sunshine; and two men arguing on the patch of grass in the middle of the village over a small cross pony. 'I wouldn't take a king's ransom for him, I'll tell you straight,' one was saying as I passed. I thought I'd wait to photograph until later, when things had warmed up, and went on my way.

My RYS (rural yarn store) in Clon is a very happy crowded little place with a lovely lady who doesn't want me to mention her name because she's shy. The shop is crammed with handknit sweaters, scarves, hats and other delights for visitors, and at the back are all the shelves of yarn. Once she saw me she prepared for a session.

'What is it this time?'

'I've seen this unbelievably beautiful cropped cardigan...'

I hadn't told you this, but I joined Knitting Help the night before last, on the recommendation of lovely helpful Becka, and the first thing that dazzled my eyes was the utterly stunning cardi on the Elann pop-up. I knew instantly I couldn't live without it. (SEE what you could have avoided if you'd just extended the hand of encouragement from Yarnaholics Webonymous? I'd have welcomed a word of advice from Start-Up-Itis Webonymous too, I can tell you.)


Isn't it gorgeous? Don't you just want to start it this second?

Well anyway, this cardi was recommended for Aran weight so we looked at those. But I grew up with these wools and I'm sick of them. Besides, I felt that the pattern on the jacket would look a lot better in a smoother, almost harder yarn, with a bit of weight to it, you know what I mean? Eventually, after we'd pulled everything in the shop out...

That's my shy friend from Knitwell Wools in Clonakilty - on the main street, you can't miss it.

...and I'd heard all about her two little girls aged 3 and 5 who are dying to learn to knit themselves, plus the new baby boy who just enjoys tangling the balls of wool), my keen eye lighted on some very nice linen/cotton mix from our own Cork-based Tivoli Yarns. Now this is definitely thinner than Aran weight, but heck, I've always been a loose knitter. (In my teenage days, I used to follow the pattern for a child's sweater to get the right size.) I know what you're going to say, you virtuous, get-it-right-first-timers, I should swatch and swatch until I GET GAUGE. Well I didn't have time for that in my young days. And to tell the truth, I still think it a bit of a beastly swizz to have to go down a needle size or two when by just using a smaller pattern (and less stitches, tee hee) I can get along fine.

I thought this teal shade from Tivoli was just right, however, and the texture is ideal for showing off a lace pattern. I will even reluctantly consent to going down a couple of needle sizes to avoid making it too loose and loopy (don't want to wreck the fine pattern) and then I bet I'll come out right ON GAUGE.

I was so pleased to find the right yarn that I decided to plunge even further into perdition and bought a couple of balls of Regia sock yarn too. We talked about the Magic Loop method and she was intrigued but couldn't see how it worked. Neither can I at this stage, but my lovely new friends on Knitting Help and Knitter's Review Forum have given me so many tips that it has to work. If I shut my eyes and follow the pattern absolutely to the letter (stop being pedantic you at the back, you know what I mean), it WILL work... won't it?


But I promise I will start on those sleeves for the Anny Blatt right now. It will be finished... (I wonder what size basket Stephanie Pearl McPhee uses for her WIPs?)

Oh the fair at Lyre. When I came back through with my loot, no more than two hours later, that was over. There wasn't a human being to be seen; the donkeys were still gazing peacefully at the world from their horsebox, the pony was snatching irritated mouthfuls of grass around his tether, and the noise of singing from the pub (that yellow building down at the end of the road in the picture) echoed over miles of sunlit countryside. What a nice fair!

Stop Press! Has Yarn Fiend Been Unjustly Accused?

Today is Bastille Day.
My mother always used to write that on the labels when she made jam at this time of year. Not July 14 but Bastille Day. I still treasure one of those empty pots with her handwriting on. It took me years to realise that although she was no longer there in person, she lived on in all the things I enjoyed doing - like knitting and crochet and sewing and gardening and talking to dogs and cats and any other wildlife that happened by. She will always be with me.
Thank you all for your fan mail to Muffy. She is really rather pleased, having been considered up to now (by the other two dogs anyway) as the dumb member of the family (inevitably goes to the hinge end of the gate; pushes against doors that open inward, that sort of thing). They, on the other hand, are both pretty furious at this birdbrain getting talked about in far corners of the world when anyone can see that they are far prettier and brighter.
I said in a previous posting that I thought she was a canine yarn harlot but Wanda at Fiberjoy has suddenly stopped me in my tracks. As you will know if you’ve read her latest weblog, Wanda’s been on jury duty lately (knitting socks at the same time, of course) and that gave her thoughts a legal angle. Did you, she asked sternly, fixing me with a steely glare clear across the Atlantic and the whole width of the US (she lives in Oregon), actually see Muffy taking the yarn? See her chewing it to a slobbery knotted mess? Well, no, I didn’t. I just assumed.... Ah-ha! Assumed. What if, suggested Wanda, getting into her legal stride, ANOTHER had spirited away the yarn and put it under the cupboard, knowing that Muffy would be blamed? Someone like Tasha, for example, small, very composed and self-reliant, and frighteningly intelligent. But - . Never mind but, is it possible? Yes, I suppose it is. And, knowing Tasha’s character, it is actually just the kind of thing she would conceive of doing. She didn’t get to be Number One Dog by just being a pretty face (well truth be told she got it by being there first, but she's never had much trouble holding her title.)

Muffy on the left, Tasha on the right. From which would you buy a used bone?

Do I lay out some more precious skeins (no, cherished customers, not the Celtic Memory heirlooms, but something harsh and lurid, something I bought once in a fit of mental aberration), and then set up trip wires, infra-red cameras, beams? DH would love to help with that side of it, being a keen nature photographer. But if I did find out the worst, would I be better off? How could I live with the knowledge that one small dog was capable of such villainy against her half-sister? Dear heaven, it beats the Medicis and the Borgias paws down.

All of a frazzle with this uncertainty, I went down to the deep soothing woods of Muckross at Killarney to re-photograph one of my new yarn creations against Torc Waterfall, a fairly stunning natural setting which I never tire of visiting. I took along Sophie, because she’s got the longest legs and, being younger, the most energy.

She had a lovely time clambering around in the deep moss and over ancient tree trunks while I tried to find just the right spot for the photograph. Have you ever noticed that while your eyes can take in the whole of something beautiful like a waterfall, when it comes to pointing the camera lens, you can’t get anything like the same effect? Eventually had to climb half way up some very slippery wet rocks to get almost the shot I wanted. You never get absolutely the right one, do you?


I was so embarrassed! Returning down the steep little winding path through the forest, Sophie trotting serenely ahead on her leash, me with my mind completely in free-fall, we came unexpectedly on some charming American tourists climbing up. They exclaimed with delight at Sophie and advanced to make friends, whereupon she shrieked piercingly with terror, slipped out of her entire harness with one fluid movement, and was off down the hillside like a mountain goat. Of course I had to stay and make flurried explanations and apologies and assure them that no, we really did love our visitors and please don’t take the dog’s reaction personally. I hope I succeeded, but am not entirely confident. After all, how would you feel if it happened to you? I don't know where I've gone wrong with that pooch but while almost over-affectionate to those she knows, she is petrified when faced with strangers. No, I got her as a baby (see previous posts), so she hasn't any bad history, and she's never been frightened by traumatic experiences - although I do suspect Tasha of reading horror stories to her in bed at night. Whatever - she's no socialite, that's for sure.

When I got back to the car, Sophie was hiding underneath it, shivering of course, and looking as though she had been brutally treated by a bad owner. An elderly couple dining on ham sandwiches and a flask of tea in their own car alongside gave me very cold looks, murmuring, ‘Shame’ audibly under their breath as I tried to drag the little cow - sorry, my poor little dog - out from her hiding place. When I eventually managed to slide her into the car, she immediately leapt up on to the back seat and proceeded to roll joyfully on (a) a rather nice wool cardigan, (b) my knitting bag which of course was open, and (c) a bag of rather squashy raspberries which I had bought that morning and intended for jam.

Of course when I yelled she did her badly-treated-poor-little-mite act again which smote my heart with guilt and so I drove home with a wet, muddy bucket of love lying heavily and contentedly on my lap. The cardigan and the knitting will probably be OK if I leave them to dry before brushing off the mud and other detritus of the forest floor, and the raspberries were going to end up squashed when I made the jam anyway .

Nearly done with the back of Anny Blatt. I should have finished it by now but came up against that bugbear of all knitters, the tangled ball. For this one I cannot blame any of the dogs, I did it myself. I don’t know how, but I did. Well, I do know really. I’d been working away contentedly, drawing from the inside of the ball, but at some point I tugged, a few layers of the outside fell off (it’s a very floppity yarn this dark blue chenille) and I compounded the disaster by pulling yet again before I realised what was happening.

Why does it take so long to untangle a knotted-up ball of yarn? You’d think it would be easy. I draw out long loops wherever I can find them, search for the other end (the one that isn’t already on the knitting needles and pulling itself happily off in dropped stitches whenever I jerk too hard), and try to ease everything loose, but it just gets tighter and tighter. I’ve left it laid out on the floor of my sanctum until I have more energy, and locked the door this time. Don’t think Tasha has a skeleton key, but I wouldn’t put anything past that little madam.

But I still got the yarn...

Reading Fiberjoy's weblog last night (link on this page) I noted that she'd suffered a dogbite recently. Last December I was in the mountains of Southern Poland for a weekend and was attacked by a large farm dog which gave no warning but came silently from behind and bit my leg to the bone. The local people were lovely (except for the farmer who had disappeared without trace), the hospital was lovely, the police were kindness itself, whisking a heavily-bandaged me and DH back up into the hills to identify the culprit who was then taken into veterinary observation (no, not the farmer, the dog, although I think they interviewed the farmer fairly seriously for the rest of the weekend) for the regulation 3 weeks of rabies watch. Crawling round with a gaping wound crimsoning the snow wasn't what I'd intended for the trip, but it wasn't going to make me miss my yarn opportunity. There was this wonderful open air market in the little town, where everyone was muffled up to the eyes to sell local cheese, handcarved bread boards, knitted sweaters and socks, and - yes - skeins of gorgeous homespun wool from local (and presumably happy, if they hadn't met my dog acquaintance) Polish p.

sheep. So as soon as the police and nurses had let me go, I limped back down to the market, leaning on DH's arm, and bought a whole kilo of Aran-weight pure wool in a dark charcoal. Cost me 25 zlotys which is about six Euros or seven-ish US dollars. Only then did I allow him to pilot me to a cosy little bar where we were introduced to the local winter specialty - tea with black cherry vodka. It's exceptionally warming and restorative - remember we're talking about an invalid here - and you feel quite chipper until you step outside on the homeward run and the fresh air hits you. DH claims I sang rebel songs all the way back to the inn where we were staying but I think that must have been somebody else. Didn't contract rabies, thank heavens, and got my wool home safely. Was it worth it? Well, I think so. In any case, I have now got over my fear of strange hospitals and unexpected tetanus shots for good, which has to be a plus - and I have the anticipation of making up the yarn into a really nice Aran sweater for DH who had to put up with the whole thing when he would have much rather been out photographing the wildlife. Here is the yarn at the centre of the tale.
A whole kilo to play with - that's 2.2 lbs. for the imperialists among you - and it still smells definitely of those contented Polish sheep as it should do. We Irish like our wool to retain a smidgen of its origins - it's better at keeping off our soft rain. I shall have a lot of fun working out what patterns to use. The idea is to use those which reflect the intended wearer's interests. Since DH loves nature and the countryside, blackberry stitch, honeycomb, cables for winding pathways, will certainly be in there. I might try this new-ish idea of starting some of the cables right from the rib stage instead of waiting until the bottom band was done.

Having discovered Fiberjoy's husband's site - jenkinswoodworking - also linked on this page - I now lust after the glorious needles and crochet hooks he makes, as well as the Turkish spindle for which she has created both an instruction book and a video. Then I thought something looked familiar about the spindle and I rummaged among my old images to find this one of a busy Buddhist monk in Ladakh about twenty years ago.
I imagine his was definitely home-made too. You can see the similarities can't you? And I love the way he has wound the rough fleece round his arm. I asked everywhere in Ladakh where I could get one of these but got surprised looks. One man with a few words of English finally said firmly, 'But this is for you to make. You do not buy such things.' I was duly chastened. Ladakh at that time (hopefully still) was a much more self-reliant community than most of us have come to be. Anyway I'm determined to get my hands on one of Jenkins' spindles.

IS THIS THE WORLD'S FIRST PEKINESE YARN HARLOT?

This is Muffy. As you can see she is glowering out from underneath a cupboard. The cupboard is in my study and she regards it as her own private space. Serious trouble if one of the other mutts tries to get in there. Muffy has had her problems and to tell the truth she is not the most balanced and outgoing, tennis-playing, life-and-soul-of-the-party dog that you could meet in a month of Sundays. A couple of years ago she went very odd indeed, lost her balance, started travelling in circles instead of straight, and went completely off her food. The vet diagnosed a brain tumour, I had hysterics, and Muffy lay on a chair and got thinner and thinner. When she couldn't even raise her head, I stopped crying for long enough to tell DH to call the vet and ask him to come round (no dog of mine is going to end her life on a vet's table when she has a loving home in which to breathe her last) and went out to find a puppy. Heartless? No, a survival technique learned over years of losing beloved pets. You still feel the pain, and quite a bit of guilt, but the new baby does distract and keep you from gazing at the worn collar and lead. (I should say that at this stage, Number One Dog, Tasha, was crowing with delight at the prospect of having the food bowl to herself in future and showing no grief at all.)

I came home, having interviewed several puppies at a reliable breeder's, and booked the irresistible tot which clambered on to my lap and went to sleep, to discover that the vet had been on holiday that week and DH (rightly) didn't think a locum would do. However, new puppy still arrived two days later. WHEREUPON, Muffy staggered to her stick-like paws, fell off the rocking chair, and proceeded to demolish a gigantic dinner, muttering savagely under her breath that she wasn't done yet, no not by a long chalk, nor would be until she'd seen that little upstart off the premises.

That, as I said, was two years ago. Today Muffy is as weird as ever, but weighing in at healthy normality otherwise. Puppy has grown up to be twice her size and can beat her elders with one paw tied behind her back (but doesn't because she's very sweet natured).

I'm telling you this because, after watching for weeks, I have finally had my suspicions confirmed. Muffy is a confirmed YARN FIEND! Oh Stephanie Pearl McPhee you have a rival harlot! Is this the first yarn-obsessed Pekingese in the records? It began when I had accidentally left the door of my yarn room ajar. That's where I blend and spin (and swear now and again) while I put together my range of Celtic Memory yarns for eBay. Returning later on, I was surprised to see a long trail of Torc Waterfall (or was it Innisfree, I can't remember) draped across the carpet. Then I noticed that the ball I'd wound to make up a shawl for photographing for eBay was gone. Like Ariadne in the labyrinth, I followed the thread (actually several threads of especially lovely fibres, including mohair and glitter - this was a very precious yarn and I was starting to hyperventilate). The lovely trail led out of the yarn room, across the upstairs landing, and into my study. Across the study carpet and UNDER THAT CUPBOARD. I reached down and hauled out the much-chewed, hopelessly tangled, not to say rather wet, bird's nest that had once been a beautifully wound ball (I use a nostepinne because I'm a romantic, even though it takes ages and I know I should get a proper winder.) Carefully, delicately, almost in tears while at the same time consigning Muffy and her anti-social behaviour to perdition, I untangled the poor disaster. It took three hours (these were once pretty aristocratic yarns, unused to rough behaviour, you understand). I can't even bear to show you a photograph Oh let's be truthful here, I don't even have a photograph - I was far too hyped up. I put the sad exhausted ball on a table and went to bed. With a large drink and the Twisted Sisters' Sock Book - always good for relaxation.

Muffy has obviously been practising acrobatics in secret. The next day that door had been opened again, and the ball of Innisfree (or was it Torc Waterfall?) was back under the study cupboard, in a worse state of entanglement and slobbery than ever. But wait. There's more! Getting down on hands and knees, first to haul out the obstinate dog who was mounting guard over her treasure, and then to rescue the yarn, I found several other small balls and scraps, including a tiny skein of silky mohair and two lengths of eyelash that I had been searching for everywhere. She's been stowing away her own stash and I never realised it!

Do you think a Pekingese would find straights or circulars easier? Or maybe she'd be happier with a hook?

Here she is, planning her next trip upstairs. You can see she's dreaming of space-dyed ribbon, can't you?

Computers craze this knitter!

I spent a useful half hour this morning kicking and screaming in a tantrum because my computer simply would not do what I wanted it to. When it comes to beautiful yarns and glorious colourways, my serenity is unshakeable - but show me one of those smug screens which tells you that you can't access the page you want because you probably mis-typed it, or that you have just lost everything you ever committed to text, or, WORST OF ALL, having wasted several hours first finding and then searching what is supposed to be a Help site, having found nothing whatsoever that remotely resembles your query, THEN being brightly asked to fill in an online questionnaire about how useful you found the help site! Yikes, the rest of the day I will definitely devote to finishing the back of that Anny Blatt...

I mentioned that circular shawl last night, and thought you might like to see a picture of the WIP.

I bought both pattern and yarn at the legendary Schoolhouse in New York last January. The quirky little Herald Square Hotel has now entered the Wifi age, so was able to access a very useful blog in the bedroom which chronicled the adventures of four committed knitters and stash fiends who had a day out in the Big Apple. I duly noted down every one of their hits and set off with a large shopping bag. Schoolhouse is well downtown - around 28th St. as I recall - and up a flight of stairs, but when you get in that door - wow! The entire range of Karabella yarns, plus lots of ends and bargains. Couldn't resist the shawl pattern and found a whole cone of a beautifully soft Italian wool, very fine, which I'm using double for the shawl. I did start to wind the cone off into balls, thinking of my luggage weight for the homeward flight, but gave up after six and managed to smuggle the whole lot on board after all (yes, I did hit a few more shops, just a few before the flight...)

Speaking of travelling, I mentioned being in France recently. Some of the shops there had a very odd attitude to woolgatherers like moi. Bergere du Nord in Clermont Ferrand was one: shelves of yarn around the walls, but solid blocking counters 'twixt them and you, and firm-faced ladies to make sure you didn't cross the line. If you saw something (twelve feet away) that LOOKED promising, you pointed and they brought ONE ball of ONE shade out for you to examine under their beady eye. And all the Phildar shops seemed to have staff who followed you round, sighing and tutting if you dared to touch anything, and patting everything back into place as you moved along.

There were, however, some lovely surprises, including a MUST SEE if you're in Brittany. It's in the small town of Landevant, between Lorient and Vannes and it's called Laines. On the rue de Hennebont, it's simply a huge room with trestle tables laden with boxes, every one of which has specialty yarns at bargain prices. My credit card was whimpering by this time.

And speaking of French yarns, I need HELP. I have this small ball remaining of a really lovely mix, and I mislaid the label long ago and have no way of identifying it. Can anyone tell me what this one is? I would love to get some more of it.

The weather is a bit cooler here now, thank goodness - we're always suspicious in Ireland if the temperature goes up into the 20s - or high 60s if you prefer. Misty and damp today and although I have several things to write up, the urge to get on with my knitting is gradually taking over.

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I will say one thing for Wimbledon, you certainly make inroads on knitting projects that had been sort of hanging around all summer while you got on with other things like everyday life. A good long semi-final got me through two fronts of a jacket/cardigan that I'd despaired of ever finishing. Today's final between Federer and Nadal saw me soaring up the back of the cardigan and if they'd gone to a fifth set I'd have been past the armholes and within sight of the finishing line.

I first got the idea from this Anny Blatt magazine. No, that's not me on the cover. She looks a bit too confident for my liking, and in fact I don't like pastel shades much either, but I really went for the cute little splits on the sleeves and sides and immediately got that 'I want to make this NOW, RIGHT AWAY, sort of feeling. Yes, I will admit that I already had a superb circular crochet shawl (Karabella design) almost finished and a dolman-sleeved jacket half-way through, both in my bag (did I mention I was on holiday in France at the time?) but I unceremoniously relegated them both to the back seat of the car (the final insult for the dolman-sleeve was being slid off on to an unwanted spare circular so that I could use my favourite Old Colonial rosewoods to start the new love affair).

Well, I'm back from France a fortnight and hadn't got any forrader until Wimbledon fortunately happened. I did also have a mountain of ironing to tackle, and tennis marathons are good for that too (as are old weepies on the daytime TV - Waterloo Bridge anyone?), but Anny Blatt was in there and serving for the match.

No, that's not a Stone Age bikini on the left, it's the two fronts and half a back. Now I come to think of it, most if not all the yarns are French - some Anny Blatt, of course, Phildar, Plassard, and a couple of Bouton d'Or bargains. The bright green is from La Droguerie in Paris. (Can you tell I've fallen for bright colours lately?) I'll have to give it a French name when it's finished.

Because this one IS going to be finished. I swear it. I will not start another single thing, no matter how tiny, no matter how tempting, until that jacket is finished AND sewn up, AND the buttons on. At this stage of my life I have to take a stand. I'm not going to do anything as courageous as the Yarn Harlot, who actually hauled out all the unfinished projects and piled them up (good on you, Stephanie Pearl McPhee, you're a better woman than I am) but this one I will stick with. It can't take much longer.

But I've just had this great idea for a lovely summertime choker or necklet - a band of Irish crochet lace in a clear bright colour which could pick up the shade of a skirt... NO, not until Anny Blatt is done.

Did I hear somebody murmuring down at the back because I dared to mention crochet? Listen, I'll come out front on this one and declare my predilections honestly. I do like crochet. I also (might as well get it all out in the open) like quilting, spinning, and painting all the woodwork I can reach white. I just happen to love knitting most, and have a passion for yarns and yarn collection that will ultimately prove disastrous. Fortunately I also design yarns and sell them on eBay, so I persuade myself that that justifies the rest of it.

Well, it's Sunday night, so I'd better go and re-list the summer collection on eBay. Then it's back to Anny Blatt. I'm definitely getting the feeling that that girl on the cover of the mag is called Anny. She sort of would be, wouldn't she?