Merrily We Crank Along...

Who would have thought that one small century-old machine could occupy so much of one's time? Since my last posting, almost every waking minute has been spent working on that little survivor and by now Celtic Memory knows every nut and bolt, every spring, every millimetre of its surface.





And eventually, hard work paid off, and it was set up. A few false starts, but at long last -







- it was knitting! Not without the occasional catch, a dropped stitch here and there, but, after fifty years of lying hidden and unused, it was working! It felt like magic, and perhaps it was magic in a way.


I know I've said before what a great crowd of friends bloggers, Ravelers and knitters in general all are, but I'm saying it again now. I joined the Ravelry Circular Sock Machine group, asked for help, and down it came from all sides! Eirual spotted I needed a vital part known as a cylinder ring, and sent one from her own collection. Civilgrrl offered to make me a set up bonnet - another vital accessory. Pat at Angora Valley sent me an order of needles so quickly they almost got here before I'd hit the 'Order' button. Bonnie Smola did likewise with my order for an instruction DVD - and then, when I discovered she'd sent a more advanced one than I could use at this stage, said no problem, send it back and she'd replace it. Laura of Handwerks got a yarn mast and topper to me in double-quick time. And absolutely everybody piled in with advice, guidance, encouragement, help, even detailed pictures. What a lovely lot you all are!

Of course there are still hassles and difficulties and some days it seems like one baby step forward, one speed train backwards, but slowly, slowly progress is being made. When things get really difficult, and the same operation crashes for the seventeenth time, recourse is made to Little Barbie - a good name for the small toy machine, which has proved surprisingly effective and well behaved in cranking out nice narrow silky tube scarves. You have to keep a close eye on it for the first few rounds, often lifting the thread over the hook to assist the mechanism, but after that it works away very well.





Ten minutes or so of soothing handle-turning on that, and I'm ready to go back and tackle Madame Defarge. (Probably won't go on calling her that - but today it did seem to suit her rather. Don't ask about trying to make a selvedge at the top of a sock, just don't ask!)

As a result of all this light engineering, progress has been slow on The Summer of Socks.





The Koigus are getting towards the cuff, thanks be, and there is a determined effort to get them finished, out of the way, tucked in the sock drawer, within the next day or two.


Even took them to Cahirmee Horse Fair (nearly typed 'Sock Fair' there, honestly!) so as not to lose a minute.
Cahirmee is one of the oldest fairs in the country and still takes place in the main street of Buttevant in North Cork.







There are horses everywhere, big, small, piebald, skewbald, roan, bay, black, grey. Donkeys too, aplenty. You have to be careful where you walk, and also watch what is coming up behind you at a wild gallop.






The main purpose of the day is horse trading, and it's taken very seriously indeed.





...with the finer points of the animal being discussed in great detail before the ritual handslapping and handing over of wads of cash (it is customary for the vendor to hand back a note or two for good luck).





For some younger traders, having had to get up before dawn to travel to the fair was just too much.





- and the cafe was doing a roaring trade in pots of strong tea and full Irish breakfasts. So much so indeed that the landlord had to guard the half-door so that it didn't get too overcrowded inside. The queuers didn't mind - there was plenty to look at in the streets.








Isn't that a fine sock now? I wonder would ye make a set of four for meself, to go over the hooves? They'd be fine for a ceili, so they would.



It is really heartening to see these fairs continuing to be held as they have always been, on the streets of the little towns of Ireland. In so many places, complaints about nuisance and lack of hygiene and perceived risks to life and limb have resulted in such events being forcibly moved to a purpose-built, clean, empty site well away from human habitation. That almost always spells death to the ancient tradition. These fairs belong in the streets that gave them birth, and long may they remain there.



Actually managed to stay away from the sock machine the other day long enough to get a new batch of sock yarns dyed and painted up and hung out to dry.





It was about time I got round to it. Trying a new blend this time - 80% superwash merino, 20% bamboo - as well as the 50% superwash merino/50% tencel I usually work with. The bamboo blend gives a generous 400m to 100g which is good news for people who like more yarn to play with; it's also very soft and pleasant to the touch. The tencel blend gives 360m, but also has that added sheen which looks so nice knitted up. These have now been listed on eBay but only for a three-day duration, since workloads towards the end of the week will mean no time for packing and posting - got to clear them by midweek. You'll find them by putting Celtic Memory into the search box.



Woke up in the early hours this morning, feverishly wondering just how many WIPs there were lurking around the house (it's not a very good thing to think about in the early hours, be warned). Could only get back to sleep by deciding firmly that the top six would be assembled and worked on, in the order of closest to finishing downwards, and No More Would Be Started Until They Were Done. The So Near To Finishing Six are:

1. The red Koigu socks. Almost up to the cuff ribbing on both. What's keeping you?



2. Hug-me-tight seamless cardi in soft blue mousse yarn, worked in the Elizabeth Zimmermann style upwards to the neck. At the armholes on main body and both sleeves, so the careful decreasing starts now. Just sort out the math, OK?



3. The Norwegian grey socks for DH. One almost at the heel-turn, the other some way behind. Doesn't he deserve them?



4. The Trip To Oslo socks. Well sock really, since only one has been started. The fun bit of the decorative cuff has been done, in natural and red; now the long slow march down to the foot awaits. Do cast on the second sock immediately - you don't want SSS do you?



5. The Laminaria Shawl. This one has suffered more frogging than a large nature pond in the tadpole season. Advance two rows, frog one. Advance five at a gallop, frog four. Why can't you get your increases right?



6. The St. Enda jacket. No, you didn't know about this one, I was keeping it for a surprise. I'm starting St. Enda in charcoal Shetland, conveniently forgetting about the version in cream cashmere/silk which is currently dozing in its private, curtained, basket. Currently a couple of repeats up the back. Get on with it!



Feel so much better now that list has been compiled and published. Will have to progress them after that - won't I?



To my great surprise, GrannySu informs me that she has considered me worthy of the Arte y Pico award! I am touched and honoured, GrannySu. Thank you very much indeed.



Now - back to Madame Defarge. If I leave her alone too long, she might start bullying Little Barbie.

A Very Special Discovery

You'd think I'd had enough of good luck with Little Yellow Suitcase eventually tiring of its travels and returning home, but I had another smile from the goddess a few days ago, and this time involving something very very special indeed to me. In fact I'd given up hope of it ever happening.

But let's get the housework out of the way first. It's been utterly wretched weather here (in sympathy with friends across the Atlantic I imagine, since yours hasn't exactly been great either). I'm sorry for our visitors who are faced with day after day of windy, rainy, cloudy greyness.

This is the typical view through the windscreen as you drive over the Cork-Kerry border towards Killarney, - swathes of drifting grey clouds encircling the mountain tops. Of course the tradition is that when the Good People are on their travels, out for a Wild Hunt perhaps, or on their way to a party at another rath, they bring down the clouds so that human eyes will not see them. Well if that's the case, they're having one heck of a summer up there, the little folk, with parties going on all day and night, if the mist is anything to judge by.

Here;s another view, this time on the road to Killorglin, where Puck Fair is held every August. Hope it clears up for that. Hope it clears up for the McMurtrie clan visiting West Cork from the States next week - Deb and family, I'll look up my book of spells and see what I can do, promise!

Of course there is always a good side to gloomy weather, like actually getting some knitting done.

Here are the alpaca/silks, demonstrating that yes, it is indeed possible to make a very pleasant pair of average adult sized socks with just one skein of c. 280 yds. As alpaca always bulks out a bit, especially when washed, I used a slightly larger needle and a 48-st round; in retrospect, I think perhaps four or six more stitches would have given it a more relaxed feel, but there was plenty, as you see, to make a decent cuff length. Do not adjust your monitor, I dip-dyed them after completion. Might give them another bath in violet.

By the way, I found that all the circulars I thought were US size 1 were in fact US size 2, or else I've got mixed up in my conversions from metric to whatever-it-is-you-use-in-the-States (which wouldn't be surprising). Size 0 is 2mm, right? Then 1 seems to be 2.5mm. Is there a 2.25mm? Why am I asking this? What was the original query? What day of the week is it? Does it matter? Should I only knit on days of the week that have an 'r' in them? Or is that oysters?

Anyway, these bamboo/cotton socks also got finished. This is yarn from Guichard Laines in Landevant, nabbed during the Brittany trip last year. I think it's Katia. I thought that two balls would be insufficient for a pair of socks, so got three balls of each colour for safety, but in fact these again came out just fine with two balls. Used the same baby cable pattern as on the alpaca/silk, because bamboo/cotton doesn't have much bounce and you need a fair bit of strong texture to stop them becoming unintended slouch socks.

OK, I can't put it off any longer. Curiously reluctant to start posting about this, because, perhaps, it matters so much personally and you might think it's a lot of fuss about nothing.

It's the story of a very old and rather small machine. A sock knitting machine. I have childhood memories of long winter evenings in the huge cosy kitchen, with the range glowing warmly and my mother bending over this machine, which was sturdily clamped to the table, constantly adjusting a needle here, the tension of the yarn there. I remember the steady sound of the wheel being cranked as she turned out socks and stockings for all five of us. Of course as a very small child I was most unthankful for warm knitted stockings. I wanted trendy nylon kneesocks like other girls wore to school on the coldest wettest days. And I didn't want knitted ankle socks either, especially not in the dreary school colours of green and fawn. We're like that as kids, aren't we?

The machine was old when she got it, from a maiden aunt who by then had arthritis and could no longer use it (although this aunt, my great-aunt, still made the most exquisite crochet up to the day she died). I haven't been able to find out yet where this relative originally got the machine, or indeed why. It was not the easiest of things to master, and my mother had never seen one before, but she persevered, poring over the manual of instructions night after night and experimenting until she finally got it to work. Then she went out hunting for coned yarns. Fifty or more years ago, it was a lot easier to source these from friendly mills - we had Blarney, Dripsey, Kerry and more all quite willing to part with a few to a friendly lady with a sweet smile. My mother had a pretty respectable (for 'respectable', read 'frightening' if you're not a knitter) yarn stash way back before anyone even coined the term. My earliest memories are of playing with unsortable tangles of pink wool on the floor of her knitting room, and later of winding little balls of it from between the knots, and starting my own experiments with needle or hook.

Time went by, we all left home. My mother died. Far too soon, far before she should have, but isn't that the case for everyone? It's never the right time to lose someone unutterably dear. I shut a cast-iron door on that part of my life and resolutely refused to open it again. You do that if the pain goes too deep. You blot out the memories of a magical garden, a large warm home, a front door always open, most of all of a stone-flagged kitchen with a glowing range and a dear person waiting with open arms.

But last year, wandering through one of those cheap everything-shops, I came across this, if you remember.

I stared, perplexed at its odd familiarity. Then all at once a curtain was lifted and I remembered that machine from so long ago. I bought this, told you all about it in delight, intended to try experiments on it. I recalled for you some memories of the old sock machine from my childhood. Enough years had passed for it to be safe to remember crafting details if the personal were still kept well under control.

It was Angeluna who emailed me instantly, telling me that these were collectors' items and I had to find that old machine NOW. As in THIS MINUTE. All of a sudden it became vitally urgent to locate it, get in touch with the past. You didn't exactly unlock the door, dear Angeluna - in your wonderful style you wrenched it open, shoved me through with a determined 'GO!'

But the machine could not be found. My brother, who still lives in the somewhat battered family home, trying to keep it upright against the ravages of time, searched but said it had probably been given away. I was heartbroken. Didn't expect to be, but was. Now that I'd remembered it, and especially now that blogging and Ravelry make such a family of us all, I wanted to bring this into the new world and share it with everyone. Well, if it was gone, it was gone, and that was an end to it. I tucked the new little plastic thingy on a shelf and didn't do anything with it. Didn't feel like it.

But it wasn't the end of it. Do you ever have those situations where you simply can't accept that something has happened? Where you just don't want to believe it, keep on hoping that somehow all will come right?

When my brother phoned a few days ago and said, 'You'll never guess what I've found', my throat dried and I was afraid to answer him. I was afraid he'd say, 'Oh no, not that, that's well gone.' But he didn't. It was true. The old sock machine had been found wedged behind the door in a small room full of rubbish. It was there, it was intact, it was dry.

It was eleven o'clock at night but I was ready to leave that instant. However, my brother wanted to have it to himself for a few hours, 'to see it's running smoothly, oil it a bit for you,' as he put it. I think he had a few ghosts to face up to as well, so I left it. Until the earliest possible moment next morning, that was, when I was pounding on the gates with my heart thumping. And he put it into my hands.

It doesn't look too bad after lying hidden for more than thirty years, does it? Dust, a bit of surface rust, no more. A few chips in the enamelwork probably occurred during its busy working career.

Here is the faded gold lettering from which I was able to establish that it's an AutoKnitter.

- and here, miraculously, is the instruction book, discovered a day later by my wonderful brother.

It's going to take a lot of loving attention to get this little survivor up and working again, but happily the Net and Ravelry are going to be of immense help. I've already ordered needles for it from Angora Valley - can you believe that these are still being made? You Americans are wonderful!

I hesitated before posting this last picture. But I think you will want to see it.

The Last Sock.

That little sock machine had been lying there for so many years, hidden and forgotten, the last sock still on its needles, waiting to be finished. It must have wondered if anyone was ever coming back to take it out, clamp it to the table once more, turn its handle, praise it for making such beautiful work. And at last, one day, someone did.

To get back a part of the past, something that you thought had gone for ever, is no small thing. And it matters more than can be expressed in words. I'm no technical whiz, and part of my heart fails me at the thought of trying to get to grips with working this little machine. But with everyone's help, I will. I can feel an encouraging hand on my shoulder as I type this, a hand I thought I would not feel in this life again. And yes, the first pair for my brother.

Joy At The Return Of The Wanderer!

Oh happiness is a small yellow hard-shell suitcase! At last, at long last, the much-travelled weary adventurer touched down in Cork and toddled into my eager open arms.

I'd made yet one more call to the baggage handling agents in Amsterdam. A minor miracle. First of all I got on within three rings and had to grab the receiver hurriedly to reply (usually it takes about forty to fifty before someone picks up and you can get in a round or two on the current sock while waiting). Secondly, the girl actually sounded friendly. She checked, checked again, and then said brightly, 'Oh yes, it has been located, it is coming to you this morning, from London.' Now call me suspicious, but I'd heard that before, so I asked for the flight number. It was an EI. That's Aer Lingus. Our national airline. Well that sounds tentatively more promising... Let's forget that it was supposed to come with Aer Lingus from Amsterdam a week ago. Let's bury the past, look to the future.

My yellow suitcase

Is it coming to me

From out of the skies

Will it be here for tea?

Rushed up to the airport. Aforementioned skies had opened in the meantime, in one of those customary monsoons we tend to get here in summer (that's why it's so green, you see). Left DH manning the car on the sidewalk to ward off officious clampers (it used to be far more relaxed but they're trying to train us here in Cork to be good thoughtful citizens and it's taking longer than they expected) while I tore into the building.

Another minor miracle. The girl at the Aer Lingus enquiry desk was also friendly. What's going on here? I'd had my fill of pursed-lip couldn't-care-less-ers, but here was someone sympathetic and optimistic, even to someone dripping all over her counter! The plane wasn't in yet, should be here any minute. Unless it had to divert to Shannon, that is, because of the high winds. I stared at the arrivals board, willing that flight to land, storm or no storm. Rushed out to the car again. 'Don't know how long I can stay here,' said DH worriedly, eyeing a uniformed figure immobilising a huge BMW across the lane. 'Try!' I urged, wading back through the flood waters. Caught a glimpse of the familiar green and white coasting on to the runway and shouted 'It's landed! That has to be it!' Tried to peer round the building to see them offloading luggage just in case I could see the longed-for bright yellow, but the storm drove me back indoors, looking more like a survivor of a shipwreck than a seasoned sophisticated traveller.

A large family of cross people besieged the enquiry desk with hundreds of questions. I waited, tensed like a coiled spring. Remembered the current sock. Hauled it out and started to knit feverishly. People glanced nervously at this drenched, bedraggled creature muttering to herself as she twisted lime-green yarn around dangerous-looking needles, and made wide detours to avoid her.

Then I saw the friendly girl signalling wildly over the heads of her irate clients. 'Go down to the arrivals gate! Someone will meet you there! I hope it's good news! Crossed fingers for you!'

I flew the entire length of that airport, trailing the forgotten lime-green yarn (no, I tucked the needles in my pocket, there are some things you do automatically, whatever the crisis. Can't afford to lose any MORE needles). I arrived panting at the arrivals gate. The security men looked at me, amused. Then - THEN - I saw -

A smiling member of staff coming through the security doors, wheeling a trolley, and on it - MY YELLOW SUITCASE!

I rushed down to her, hugged her, hugged my suitcase, said something incoherent about wonderful people, wonderful airport, wonderful world. The security men guffawed. Hauling it out past them happily, I said, sotto voce, 'You can laugh, but I've waited a month for this.' Not strictly true, but it ruddy well wiped the smiles off their faces pretty quick.

And so to the car, still mercifully free of the clampers' attentions, and home. To be lovingly attended to (had a pretty nasty gash in one corner but it was being brave about it), questioned, queried, and at last unpacked. There were stickers from British Midlands (British Midlands?) and Lufthansa (LUFTHANSA?) on it but none from American Airlines. Or Aer Lingus for that matter. Who cares. Little Yellow Suitcase was home. Some day it will tell me the whole story. For now, there was yarn to be taken out, cooed over, photographed (the rain had stopped for a while, and it seemed somehow right to picture them in the cool open air on grass after the trip they'd had).

Here are those Estonian yarns. Evilla may be the name, or it might be an indication that they are wool. (Note to self: brush up on Estonian.) On either side are two which I calculate are about worsted or sockweight, one in variegated greens, the other in variegated blues. They are flanking the central skein, laceweight in, I think, long gradations of blues. No idea of the yardage in any, and the weight varies from one to the next, which is nice, indicating handspun you think?

Here are four lovely jolly thick Norwegian yarns, two shades of green and a red/white combo, both destined for happy holiday gift items.

A rather lovely skein of silk in shades of turquoise and blue (it may be recycled silk, if I remember correctly it was with some of those big recycled sari-silk skeins in the shop in Vadsoe) which will make a glorious lacy neck scarf.

Had actually forgotten I'd bought this - five balls of a delightful white fingering weight which will make a very nice evening top in a lace pattern. Maybe the Frost & Flowers one I saw somewhere on Ravelry? Or Karabella's Feather & Fan? (Don't bother asking myself if I actually need an evening top, the yarn is gorgeous, OK?)

Here is the lovely big ball of Norwegian sock yarn gifted to me by Aurora when we met at Tana Bru on the Norwegian trip. That will make lovely winter socks, Aurora, and you're a darling.

And the socks! At last the socks in progress came home!

Here is Lonely Norwegian, lonely no longer, on the left, with his much-travelled brother on the right (you can see how much furious work got done on Lonely while we were waiting for his sibling to show up).

and here are the beloved Koigu, half done and reminding me in every stitch of that wonderful Norwegian trip. Gosh, am I ever glad to have them all home safe, not to mention their Addi Turbo needles.

There were lovely parcels from friends this past week while I was worrying about the fate of Little Yellow Suitcase and its contents.

Alynxia sent this mouth-watering package of goodies in exchange for some of my yarns. Just look at what's here: Sea Wool, Somoko and a tiny skein of vintage SeaSilk from Fleece Artist, Mission Falls buttons, Algonquin tea bags, and the most delightful original booklet of knitting instructions for wartime projects. What a creative girl you are, Alynxia, to think up such a gorgeous package.

And this package came from Raspberry, also in exchange for some of my stash yarns. Restrain your envy while I enumerate with glee! Kraemer with silver, destined for the most amazing black lace stockings; Wollmeise (yes, Wollmeise!) in shades of scarlet, some exquisite Fleece Artist cashmere/silk, and, as a final lovely touch, two knitters' coasters, one, as she said, for my tea, and one for the Baileys! You're a lovely person, Raspberry.

It's been said before and doubtless will be said again, but the world of blogging and of Ravelry is a wondrous place. It's opened up possibilities, made links, created friendships that simply could not have happened otherwise. I raise a glass to you all. Thank you for being you. And for being there.

Oh Horror, Oh Woe, Oh Grief! Some Of My Stash Is Missing!

I'd better warn the faint of heart right from the beginning that the end of this blog is truly terrifying. Cocooned in your sheltered safe little knitting world, you may not know that there are threats and risks out there which could endanger the very heart of your home - that is, your closely-guarded and treasured stash. Free-floating, entirely random threats which could strike at any moment, when you least expect it. For you, gentle ones, read on if you will, but only to the 'BUT'. For the serenity of your own minds, I don't recommend that you discover the fate of my beloved yarns and projects. It's better you don't know.

The more hardened among you, of course, can take it on the chin, and may even be able to rally round with words of comfort and good advice. Experience may, perhaps, be able to soften the crushing blow under which Celtic Memory currently lies writhing in mental agony. Perhaps.

But the happier portion first. Lots to tell you about of gift packages received from lovely friends, new ideas tried out, projects progressing. They, however, will have to wait for the next posting. You know how it is, when one major idea is possessing your mind, heart, soul, that's what you have to write about, or die in the attempt. So here goes with the Tale of the Trip To Northernmost Europe.

DH had long yearned to visit the natural home of the white-tailed sea-eagle. Well you do, don't you. Recently Ireland has been experimenting with their re-introduction here (they feature in our ancient poems and literature and we know jolly well they used to inhabit our sea cliffs and mountains, but they died out over the centuries). We have one or two pairs gifted from Norway who are currently trying to adjust to the Kerry climate and learn the language. But in the meantime, DH thought it would be wonderful to see them in their normal habitat. Which is the fjords and northern coastline of Norway. Very far north. We had to fly (by degrees) to Ivalo, the northernmost airport in Finland, and then drive on, on, on, over the border into Norway and up to the remote region of Varangerfjord, where you can peek at Russia just across the narrow strait of the Barent Sea.

Do you know what the most wonderful thing is about blogging and Ravelry? It's arriving in a strange northern town in the freezing wind and rain late in the afternoon and finding a friend running towards you with open arms for a warm hug.

Magaki had come to welcome us to her home town of Vadsoe. We'd been messaging briefly since I had known about the northern trip, and one text on arrival brought her right out to show me where the yarn shops were! Howzabout that for Ravelry comradeship?

I think I like Norway a lot. A small town like Vadsoe boasts not just one but two superb yarn shops. You can probably see pictures of one of them at least on Magaki's blog, since she goes to SnB there every week. Oh the yarns! Tons of gorgeous Norwegian labels, and also - and ALSO - some rare finds in the shape of Estonian hand-dyed laceweight (steady there at the back, no heart-attacks), and sockweight or worsted, I'm not sure which (you'll find out why later). Had a wonderful time. DH in the meantime was having the time of his life around the harbour, photographing eider duck with all their little furballs, rising and falling on the icy waves.

Eider very sensibly care for their offspring in creches, some parents going off to feed while others guard the little ones from predatory gulls and skuas.

Varangerfjord is a world all its own, a world of dramatic indented coastlines and craggy cliffs, tiny battered fishing villages and wild limitless skies. Often you can see echoes of a busier past, of whaling, fishing, people who lived and worked and survived in this demanding climate all year round not just on summer weekends.

There are echoes of far earlier times too: this area has been inhabited for thousands of years, and each millennium has left its records, even if we haven't learned to read them correctly as yet.

This is Ekkeroy, on a day when the clouds cleared and the sun made everything sparkle. It's so remote up there, so far away from cities and crowds and hurry and bustle and industry that you feel calmer just for breathing that tangy sea air. That just might be the Russian coastline across the bay but probably not - I think you have to be up high on a really really clear day to see it.

And this is one of my new favourite places in the whole world, Hamningberg, right at the end of the road. The end of Northern Europe. No more roads beyond this. The narrow track stops here. And it's only open May or June to September, when the snow has melted sufficiently. In winter, forget it. Those little windswept houses hunkering down there have sod roofs to aid with insulation, and weathered grey clapboard sides. The wind was so cold up here it took your breath away. Thought I'd planned ahead with silk thermals but this nor-easter just chuckled and went right through me, not bothering to turn aside for something as pathetic as Irish skin and bone.

Fortunately there was a cafe. A lovely snug little cafe, warm with the scent of fresh baking. Lovely practical people the Norwegians. I could work on my red Koigu socks while waiting for the apple pie to come out of the oven. They had little vases of herbs on the counter rather than flowers (most of those weren't out yet, come on, it's only late June after all), among which I saw nettles and another called (I think) sea cabbage, both of which are, I was told, excellent herbs. I knew about nettles of course, but not the sea cabbage. Never saw nettles as a display before, but how nice they looked.

Reindeer were everywhere, whether individuals crossing the road

herds wandering the seashore or sunning themselves on the shoreline (very strange to see reindeer by the sea, somehow)

or mothers and babies crossing the snowy slopes of the mountains.

How about the knitting, you ask? Well of course there was knitting. Knitting with warm wool really REALLY comes into its own in these chilly places. Suddenly I could see the need for thick cabled sweaters, hats, luxuriously long scarves. But, since I have joined Summer of Socks, socks it was.

Socks were knitted by raging torrents, fed by melting snow -

on weatherbeaten wharves by old warehouses -

and perhaps best of all, on the old straight track, probably the original route out along this fjord, which runs close to the main road. Wandering here on a sunny morning, warm enough to shed one layer of jackets (but not quite balmy enough to doff the woolly hat), with the scent of new heather and the song of newly-arrived birds all around was one of those moments in time that stay with you forever. You know the kind, when for that little while absolutely every worry disappears and you are completely happy just to be there.

All good things come to an end and we had to turn for home. One more quick meeting with Magaki in Vadsoe where she and her DH brought a picnic basket and gave us wonderful coffee and utterly delectable cake out on the headland from where many Polar expeditions set off.

Here we are performing the ritual comparison of socks - mine on the left are a fairly pedestrian pair of cabled in Claudia's Handpaint, and Magaki's on the right are a beautiful pair of Dominos - you can see them on her blog.

On our way south, a brief stop at Tana Bru gave the chance for a happy meeting with Aurora, another lovely Norwegian blogger and Raveler, who lives up at Batsfjord, a good drive from Tana Bru, but she took the trouble to come and meet me.

Here we are comparing socks -she's working on the current pattern from Six Sox Knitalong (hey, I'm in that too, better get going) in dramatic black and white, while I am showing her DH's grey socks in progress. And she even brought me a big ball of Norwegian sock wool too, in a lovely dark blue. How nice was that? AND she and her DH bought us coffee. What a warm generous people they are up in this part of the world.

BUT (and here is the point where the faint of heart should quit reading and return to their knitting - sometimes innocence is the best protection), the tale does not end happily. Or at least (trying to force an optimism I don't feel) it hasn't yet. We drove the long road back to Ivalo. We packed, emptied the car. We took the flight next morning (to the tiny airport of Kittila, to the big HUGE airport of Helsinki, on to Amsterdam. Where we stood at the carousel and waited for one bright yellow hard-shell suitcase to arrive. Which it didn't. And where I stood in queue for an hour with many many other stressed travellers to report its loss. (Dear heaven there are times when you are very very grateful for at least one sock to knit on - the single grey on an inoffensive lightweight circular that could get through security. If I hadn't had that sock to knit on, there would have been a riot at Amsterdam and I'd be in a Dutch jail right now, where you probably don't even have Internet access.) And where we had, perforce, to board our flight for Cork later that night, minus said bright yellow suitcase.

WHICH HAD IN IT ALL MY TRIP STASH PLUS THREE IN-PROGRESS SOCKS. (DH can be heard faintly in the background here, pointing out that it also contained his much-loved tripod plus numerous electronic accessories dear to the heart of any professional photographer, but we'll ignore that as irrelevant. Oh it also contained clothes, but who cares about clothes when yarn is involved?) That exquisite handpainted Estonian laceweight. Those skeins of ditto ditto worsted or sockweight I can't remember which and I would be only too delighted to be able to lay my hands on them to TELL you. Just as bad, and maybe worse because it's more personal, two lovely red Koigu socks in progress and one grey Norwegian cabled sock in progress. All on Addi Turbo Laceweight circulars! (I think three exclamation marks would not be overdoing it here, but academic training dies hard.)

We came home. Cork Airport reassured us that the second the bag arrived they'd ring. 'Don't worry at all now, sure 'twill be here before ye've woken up tomorrow morning.'

Rang next morning. No bag. Rang Amsterdam. 'Yes, it has been sent.' Oh good. So why isn't it here then? A pregnant pause while they checked, and Celtic Memory's heart tried to slow down. 'Ah yes, I have the record here. It went to London Heathrow (WHERE? WHY, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE?) and will come on to you with American Airlines. '

Oh-oh! That sounds pretty bad. For one thing, London Heathrow is the Black Hole of Calcutta where lost luggage is concerned. (If you don't believe me, check out the disaster they had on the opening of Terminal 5) And secondly, and rather more worryingly, just how do they imagine that American Airlines might be thinking of flying into Cork?

I mean - let's put it this way. Cork is an adorable airport. I love it to bits. It is the most welcoming, the most relaxed, the friendliest one I know. Everybody from passport-checker to marketing manager is a friend. It has a huge heart. But it doesn't exactly have a body to match. It's - do you say spatially challenged? Vertically challenged? Look, it's a TINY AIRPORT, right? You can see the full length of the runway in all its glory in the picture below (thanks Richard, that was short notice but you came up with the goods from your files, what a gem!)The thought of a transatlantic jumbo trying to fit itself onto the tarmac there is daft.

(Mind you there was one occasion when a transatlantic jumbo jet did just that. Land at Cork Airport, I mean. There was a crisis at Shannon, and it had to come to Cork. The runway was emptied, the emergency services were on full alert, and every viewing point was jammed with eager Corkonians who had heard about this on the radio and had come rushing up to see the once-in-a-lifetime event. The huge plane was heard in the distance. It approached. It made a gigantic and ponderous circle, presumably while the pilot looked down and said 'You mean there? You want me to land there? That's not a runway, that's a garden path for heaven's sake!' Then it began its approach. Tentatively, cautiously, as slowly as it could. It came lower and lower and at last touched down at the very first possible inch of tarmac. Rolling forward, you could hear every possible braking option being applied. One imagines the pilot was muttering, 'Get me out of this and so help me I'll never fly the Irish route again.' At last, heartstoppingly, it came to a standstill, one and three quarter inches from the end of the runway, a weed-choked rusty iron gate, and the inquiring eyes of Paddy Murphy's prize cow looking calmly into those of the pilot. A great day indeed, and one to remember.)

That digression was by way of demonstrating that Amsterdam might well have thought American Airlines could dump off my yellow suitcase en route to more exciting destinations, but it thought wrong. Oh heck! (That was not exactly the phrase used, but it will serve for the delicate ears of readers.)

That was on Tuesday. This is Friday. Somewhere out there, a forlorn yellow suitcase is waiting, wondering what has happened, why it isn't home telling of its adventures. Inside are (OK, OK, DH, your tripod and electronic bitsies, OK), that rare Estonian yarn, my poor socks, my Addi Turbos, and Aurora's gift yarn. Where, oh where is it? In the bowels of Heathrow, never to be seen again, like the Ark of the Covenant at the end of the Indiana Jones movie? Still in northern Finland? Gone boating on the canals in Amsterdam?

WHERE IS MY YARN? Don't they know what traumas like this can do? I WANT MY ESTONIAN YARN! I WANT MY ADDI TURBOS! I WANT MY SOCKS!

Oh yes. DH did get to see the sea eagles.

An Ancient Citadel on May Day

You know, with all this rush of summertime and gardening, and birds nesting, and foxcubs coming out to play, and all the fun groups on Ravelry like Summer of Socks , I completely forgot to tell you about going up to the Cathair on the first day of May (after washing my face in the dew, of course). Omission hereby rectified. With pictures.

The Cathair is a very ancient site of worship indeed, situated in the hills on the Cork/Kerry border, with spectacular views all around (like old Weathertop, for those of you who are Lord of the Rings fans), but particularly sited so as to see clearly the Paps of Danu, two smoothly rounded mountains dedicated to the old Irish goddess of that name. In more recent times, predictably, Christianity took over the site and its magical spring of clear water became an official holy well, but the tradition of going up there to celebrate the coming of summer, and taking water from the spring is recorded in the earliest texts. In ancient times, they would light bonfires and drive their cattle through the smoke, later taking water from the spring to anoint stables, byres and other places that their animals abode, to keep out evil spirits that might bring disease. Then there would be feasting and merrymaking throughout the night.

Rather reassuringly, there is no direct route there. You drive down across the Cork/Kerry border to Glenflesk, and then turn off into side lanes, following the route of the old railway which once ran to Kenmare (and they do say you can still hear the whistle of that selfsame train on moonless October nights, following the old tracks which no longer exist, down through Loo Bridge to Kenmare). Then you reach another road, turn again, and finally find yourself on this nice narrow winding lane, heading deep into the hills.

I went up there with my photographer friend Valerie. She's a Kerry girl and well used to hopping out and guiding cars past each other on the lane. Here she is advising on the hard ground and the more dodgy soft ground on the verge. All rather peaceful and relaxed, and well removed from the usual traffic jams and gridlock of motorways or city traffic.

It's a strange place, the Cathair (the name means simply 'City' or 'gathering place'), if you're used to organised historic sites with tidy surroundings and notice boards.

At the top of the lane, you find this old grey stone wall surrounding an open grassy area with only the uneven bumps suggesting that an archaeological team could have a whale of a time here. You can see a statue of the Virgin Mary carefully placed on the wall to the right over there, to remind worshippers of the established religion rather than the unapproved, far older one, and just in front of it, a large grey rock.

Over the centuries, in times of population pressure, people have even built houses right up against the stone ramparts. These houses are now fallen into ruin, but somehow they add to the atmosphere of this high windy place.

It was late afternoon when we arrived, but there were still people here, making their way to the spring with their bottles. Every country Irish household has its bottle of holy water from one well or another, so I assumed that was what they were collecting here too. In fact, as you will see later on, that wasn't quite the case.

Others were praying quietly.

Look at these stones, piled by the statue. Some are fairly new, others are very old indeed. You wonder when those crosses were first incised, and if there is another symbol underneath, deliberately blurred by the strong lines of the cross.

It's when you stand right by those carved stones, and turn your back to them, facing east, that you realise the full significance of the siting of the Cathair and its huge central stone.

The Paps of Danu, due east from the great grey rock. Can you imagine that at sunrise on May Day? I really must go up there again and get a picture for you at dawn. Established modern religions somehow fade into the background when you're faced with something as ancient and powerful as this.

It was quite difficult to leave that place, but evening was drawing on; a blackbird was singing sweetly, its voice echoing and re-echoing across from rampart to rampart, but the midges were out in force as well which is always a sign to get on the road home.

One last look out over the sweeping view from the Cathair, and we said goodbye to the ancient stones and the place of worship.

A last lovely touch: after Valerie and I went our separate ways, she back into Kerry, me headed for Cork, I stopped off at my favourite cafe, the Cruiscin Lan in Ballyvourney, for a restorative coffee. Of course I told them I'd been up to the Cathair and talked about the nice people I'd met there, getting their supply of holy water from the spring.

'Oh but that's not for themselves,' said the waitress immediately. 'That's for their cattle. It always has been. You get the water up at the Cathair on May Dayto bring health to the cattle . That's the way of it.'

It was a very good feeling indeed to have confirmed, by a waitress in a cafe on the busy Cork-Killarney road, that the old ways and the old beliefs are as strong as ever they were.

Been dyeing up yarns again: this time, perhaps inspired by thoughts of Weathertop and Lord of the Rings up there on the Cathair (and also by a divine new sock pattern, Rivendell, from the just-published collection The Eclectic Sole), I created them in Tolkien mode this time: The Rivendell Yarns.

Here they are, drying under the trees. Yes, the blackbirds and the mistle thrushes have fledged and left the nest, and here's a picture of a young mistle thrush on his very first flight to prove it -

Moments before I took this picture he had finally launched himself from the edge of the nest and flapped wildly across the garden to the safety of a tree. Big moment in his young life.

However, as I was saying, those two families had gone, but in the meantime, a bullfinch had taken up residence in the hedge, and now has six tiny babies. OK, hold the washing line for another two weeks!

Actually I'm getting rather fond of colourful skeins swinging in the breeze up and down the driveway. It has a good feeling.

Here are the Rivendell yarns close up: from bottom left, working clockwise: Arwen Evenstar, Tom Bombadil, Dawn in Elfland, Rivendell, and Lothlorien. Quite surprisingly, the ones I listed as Buy It Now on eBay sold instantly; the bidding ones are listed until tomorrow I think. Then I must get going on dyeing up some new sock yarn blends which have just arrived: a gorgeously soft alpaca/silk, and a merino/bamboo. Lots of fun ahead!