De Book Is Published, De Book is HE-E-E-E-RE!

At last, the happy occasion! Oh frabjous day, callooh, callay indeed! West Cork: A Place Apart, comes into the world today, September 6, 2010.




We are so proud, you wouldn't believe it. Yes, we've both had literary children elsewhere in times past, but this is our very first one together, and it couldn't be more welcomed and loved. There is something very special about working on a book together, each knowing exactly what the other means, what he or she is aiming for. Mind you, there were plenty of 'Oh no, I don't like the way you've written that at all', and 'No, no, I wanted the landscape to say this, not say that!', but overall there were very few difficulties. And we had a really superb publishing house in O'Brien Press who kept us going when we lost confidence, didn't feel like it, were sick of the whole long drawn out process. 'It'll be beautiful,' they said calmly and confidently, and weren't they right?


Here's a bit of truth behind the picture on the bookflap, just for you, because I know you enjoy insider information.




The general brown tinge to the landscape might hint that it wasn't exactly midsummer when we took this, but in fact it was an utterly freezing day at the beginning of February last. We'd been told we simply had to get the author shots in right away, so down to our favourite place in the world we went, Brow Head, overlooking the Crookhaven peninsula. (This was where Richard lived when he first came to Ireland from France at the age of 16, it was here we met, here our parents, now no longer with us, got to know each other, here many of our fondest memories are placed. Who would have thought that after all the intervening years, all the different corners of the world, we would after all find ourselves here again where we started, publishing our first book together?)

Oh but it was a gaspingly cold day, with a wind that would take the horns off a goat. The kind of day that froze your face the second you got out of the car. And we (because DH is a perfectionist) had to crash our way through gorse bushes and brambles, lugging tripods and lenses, until we found the perfect spot.


No, of course we didn't bring another cameraman. You think DH would allow someone else to take his picture? Look more closely. His right hand is holding a camera, his left is pressing a remote control. Cool, huh?


Trouble was, he wasn't prepared to doff his heavy coat for the picture, no matter how much I nagged. 'Quick', I cried through chattering teeth. Just take it off, throw it out of the frame, and it will all be done in a second. But he refused. Me, I got acute hypothermia during the few seconds it took to capture the picture. There are a heavy padded gilet, a thick jacket, a woolly doubleknit hat and a scarf all out of sight there, and they went on again, double quick.


All your favourite places (as I know from your lovely comments on this weblog) are in the book, and a few you haven't discovered yet, whether in person or from the comfort of your armchair, wherever you are.




The cool green woodlands of Glengarriff, where you can wander for hours amidst moss and ferns and ancient trees, meeting only the spirits that protect such a lovely place.

Galley Head on its dramatic promontory, again with a guardian spirit in the shape of that black cat watching the camera so keenly. This was considered for a cover shot, but in the end it was thought that it looked too posed. Cat owners, can you imagine a feline agreeing to pose obligingly for a photoshoot? No way. That moggie was there because it was his territory and we were the intruders.

And of course the strange unearthly Cailleach Beara herself, the old Hag who stands on a lonely peninsula beyond Castletownbere, forever watching and waiting for her lover to return from the sea. She's the subject of a very famous ancient Irish poem - here's a scrap from the translation by Lady Gregory in 1919:

It is of Corca Dubhine she was, and she had her youth seven times over,and every man that had lived with her died of old age, and her grandsons and great-grandsons were tribes and races. And through a hundred years she wore upon her head the veil Cuimire had blessed. Then age and weakness came upon her and it is what she said:

It is riches you are loving now, it is not men; it was men we loved in the time we were living... When my arms are seen it is long and thin they are; once they used to be fondling, they used to be around great kings...

Whatever time of year you visit the Cailleach, you will find little scraps of heather, twisted wreaths of reeds, coins, beads, placed in and around her enigmatic presence. People from all over the world come here, sometimes perhaps simply to see a tourist sight, but almost inevitably finding themselves drawn to leaving a gift, a sign, a token. The old ways are still very strong in this part of the world.

I hope people will love this book as much as we loved creating it. Oh I'm so thrilled. I keep looking it up again, on Amazon.com, on other sites, trying to imagine I'm somebody else discovering it quite by chance. What an idiot! You'd think it was the first baby ever born, wouldn't you?

Listen, if I don't catch up on Knit Nation and tell you about the fun we had there, I'll never do it. It was way back at the end of July, for heaven's sake, and here we are in September!

The next few pictures were taken on a tiny little camera because of weight issues on flights, so please forgive if they are not up to the usual standard.

I met up with Ros and Linda, two old friends from Sock Madness. Linda and I have met at several events before now, but it was the first time ever coming face to face with Ros in real time. Isn't it funny how blogging and Ravelry can make you such close friends when you've never actually met?

And Chrispindle and I had a wonderful night wandering through the deserted streets of Kensington hunting for a restaurant. No, really, it was wonderful, although we didn't realise it at first. Long quiet roads, only the swish of expensive cars passing by. Trees rustling gently. The Albert Memorial by moonlight. The Albert Hall all lit up for performance, with just a few black-tied ushers hovering in the foyer. A splendid palace-like town house with Rolls Royces pulling up outside and footmen ushering in elegantly clad guests. And us pottering happily along the pavement talking of everything under the sun. Yes, we did find a lovely little French restaurant eventually, and had a very nice time there. But the whole evening was part of the experience.

Took a lace class with Anne Hanson and that was wonderful too. Anne is another old friend from early on in blogging, and it was simply great to meet her in person. She's a pretty fine teacher, making everything seem so simple and obvious, even down to the difference the placing of a yarnover can make in a design. Learned a lot during that hot morning session (wouldn't you know there was a heatwave in London that weekend). And Anne, it was lovely to meet you. (I was the troublesome one out there on the periphery who kept talking.)


There were some wonderful stands at Knit Nation, selling all kinds of desirables, but the queues outside the door at eleven each morning had only one preliminary goal in mind - the Wollmeise stall at the furthest end of the hall. When the door was finally opened, there was a stampede - only word for it, and I should know, I was there - all the way down those resounding wooden floors, until a hundred or more eager yarnhunters arrived panting at the Wollmeise stand.



Bless her, she had brought absolutely tons of stuff over from Germany, and the overall effect was one of dazzlement, of confusion, of total inability to choose. You found yourself darting from the blues and greens to the scarlets and oranges, from laceweights to sockweights, and back again. All around were sighs and oohs and clamberings and pilings into arms... we were very courteously offered carrier bags to stockpile our choices.


In the end, the choice was too much. I limited myself to just four. No, don't chorus in horror, honestly, if you'd been there you'd have been confuzzled too. (I'm not going to tell you how much I paid later on for a skein of Fleece Artist Seasilk.)

These ladies didn't have any such confusion issues. They were having a wonderful time, going over their purchases and making sure they hadn't missed out on any utterly unmissable colourways before finally heading off.

My good friend Sarah from Babylonglegs was there, with her divinely dyed fibres and yarns. 'Why don't you have these for sale online?' I demanded. And of course she does. Has had for ages. Why don't I check these things instead of jumping to conclusions?

The adorable Andy from Bluefaced.com was sharing a stall with Jeni of Fyberspates (the only person I know who can master a sock knitting machine just by looking at it sternly). She was happily getting on with some knitting in between hordes of customers for her gorgeous hand-dyed yarns.

Bought several pairs of very good bamboo circulars in the smaller sizes, at exceptionally good prices, from Atomic Knitting. And one of those extended crochet hooks (Tunisian?) with a cable to it, just in case I feel like refreshing my memory on that technique sometime. I shall definitely get more supplies from her online - the bamboo has been tested and come out with flying colours. Finally fell for the siren song of The Enchanted Sole - who could resist a book which shows pearl-decorated socks on the cover? - and darling darling Sandy, who had used the excuse of Knit Nation to take a whole week away from Sweden, actually gave me her copy of The Intentional Spinner. Sandy, your sock machine awaits. We just need to be on the same land mass at the same time with motorised vehicles, right?

When the credit card refused to come out for even one more airing, I called it a day and set off for a little place I know down near Covent Garden.

Now there aren't that many little places down near Covent Garden. Most places there are large and brash and designed to separate tourists from their money. But Treadwells of Tavistock Street is a delightful little anachronism - or, rather, it's a delightful little relic of former days in old London, when small independent shops were the norm, not the exception.

It's a magical bookshop - that is, it exists to supply the practitioners of magic, Wicca, what you will - and surely must have provided some of the inspiration for Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter books. Dark, mysterious, peaceful and utterly welcoming, it positively invites you to browse, relax on a battered old sofa or armchair, read this ancient text, discover the latest research on that topic, even stock up on herbs, frankincense, oils, get a new set of rune stones... I spent hours here. Outside the roar of central London on a broiling Saturday, inside, the calm of the old ways. Gave me the energy I needed to face the Tube, the train, the airport security, before at last, thankfully, arriving home to the welcoming trees and green seclusion of Inshinashingane.

What, no knitting, you cry? Well, with all this going on you'd have forgiven me for not working a single stitch, but in fact it's been busy on that front too. With The Enchanted Sole, a skein of Seasilk, and an Atomic Knitting bamboo circular to hand, I cast on for the Tristan und Isolde socks before even leaving Knit Nation. The original pattern doesn't have pearls on it, but that was clearly an oversight. Celtic Memory is into pearls at the moment and they are going on everything. Pictures when there is something worth showing.

So why, given that Knit Nation was at the end of July, and this is early September, are the socks not completed? Well, shawl-mania hit this corner of West Cork rather hard recently. Blame the Ravelers who run 10 Shawls in 2010, Small Shawl Lovers, Folklore and Fairytales, and other irresistible groups. At the moment, can't seem to stop making shawls.

Here is Shaelyn, helping me to pick blackberries, as befits a sensible shoulder shawl worked in Shetland yarn.

Here is Annis, in a heavy silk which I overdyed with blues from the original basic turquoise.

And here is Pamuya in progress. Using my own hand-dyed merino/tencel fingering weight for this, and the sampler-style stitchery is a delight to work. At least another dozen patterns waiting in the wings. When shawl mania strikes, it strikes hard. Already I have ideas for some new shawl kits to tempt those not already struck down...

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go coo over a little bookbaby cot.

Season of Misty Yarns And Mellow Blackberries

One minute it's high summer, the next everything is ripening and it's inadvisable to leave the house without at least three plastic bags tucked in your back pocket. Long days of simmering, stewing, potting ahead. That's nice. Entirely the right thing to do as the circle of seasons rotates and we move towards the Celtic New Year on October 31.

While I think of it, if anybody knows a really good recipe for grape jelly that doesn't demand peeling the skin off every single tiny grape first, please let me know. Life is a bit short for that kind of thing, and you stew the skins anyway, before sieving the lot, so why, why, why? We look like having a bumper crop of sweet black grapes in the conservatory this year, and although the good folk of Macroom are now accustomed to receiving bunches at their desks, counters, front doors, there is still more than enough to make jelly. Home-made preserve surely has to be nicer than that over-jellified paste you get at breakfast stops in North America.

Had a birthday last week, and celebrated by dyeing up a whole new bunch of yarns to put up on eBay. They're up there right now if you want to go look.

One is such a gorgeous cashmere/silk laceweight that I'm rather hoping none of the watchers buy it, so I can use it myself. I called it Faery Hosting, because it's the kind of yarn the Queen of the Good People might commission to make a truly dramatic shawl for a midnight ball.

Here they are, drying in the sun...

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...and here are some of them with Sophy on guard, in another location in the garden. I took this one to keep on my phone, and it shows up whenever DH rings me from home. That's nice, if I'm somewhere busy and noisy and crowded. Reminds me of the quiet serenity and green calm of Inshinashingane.

Oh that phone. Decided it would really be a good idea to have one that received emails, so went for this trendy thing called the HTC Desire. 'It's absolutely state-of-the-art,' said techie DH enthusiastically. 'Everybody is looking for one of these!'

'Can it make good phone calls?' I enquired cagily.

The shop assistant joined in. 'Look, you can link up to Twitter and Facebook!'

'Don't want Twitter and Facebook. Does it make phone calls?'

'And look at this, you can download all these apps...'

'What on earth are apps? Does it make phone calls?'

'Now this turns into a spirit level. See, you can use the phone to check that shelves are straight!'

'And this, show her this one. You can set up a mosquito repellent!'

'And the flashlight, show her the flashlight.'

'DOES IT MAKE PHONE CALLS?'

Yes, dear reader, I gave in and got this trendy cute little thingy. And have discovered totally new levels of stress since then. Oh I can push across from one brightly-coloured screen to another. I can check the weather in Beijing and Tapei. I can go from Google Earth to XE.com in the flick of a finger. Or I could if I could work out how to get online.

Phone calls continue to be a bit of a problem. The numbers are all there, transferred from Old Faithful. In fact they're all in twice, for some reason into which I have not dared to delve. But try to choose one, and nine times out of ten you choose its neighbour, and find yourself ringing Great Aunt Matilda in Ulan Bator instead of the newsdesk. Really useful tricks like speed dialling your nearest and dearest has now morphed into 'who the heck is this and why have I just rung you?'

Oh technology, oh progress, leave me be. Let me go back to the woods with my hand-carved knitting needles.

Which I did. Or to Gougane anyway. Took Sophy Wackles down to see the little stream running through the woods of holly trees and venerable oaks,

and told her she was paddling in the upper reaches of the mighty River Lee.

Sophy said that was grand, and where was lunch?

You may notice that these two pictures aren't quite as good as former ones. That's because I used the phone's own camera, dear reader. 'Gosh, you've got a really neat camera on here, look it's easy, you just...' At least I now understand (or think I understand) how some of you clever clogs on Sock Madness managed to get your pictures to the moderators while on flights, on the road, in the labour ward, whatever. I couldn't do it myself, mind you, or not yet at least. But I dimly perceive that technology has moved on to assist sock knitters (that is why it moves on, isn't it? Saw an 'app' on Ravelry the other day which made it possible to design new knitwear on your phone. While waiting for a UN conference to start, presumably, or sitting through a boring lecture.)

Where was I? Oh, in Gougane. DH, bless him, took me there for the birthday dinner. It was as divine as before, and they even put a candle on the dessert plate.

It's lemon creme brulee with a lime madeleine (be-candled) and a scoop of Murphy liqueur ice cream. What a lovely evening. Thanks, dear heart. Life is good with you.

Got an unexpected birthday gift from my mother too. My brother arrived out to the house with something tiny that he'd found while clearing out one of the rooms at the ancestral home.

At first I couldn't think what it was, and then I tried it on a piece of paper and remembered. It's my mother's buttonhole scissors that she used for all her dressmaking and machine knitting. Any good suggestions on how to restore it to usefulness once more? I know I'll lose the silvering, and I'm not worried about that, but I'd like to use it. Carrying on the tradition. Now are you going to tell me that she didn't put it there for my brother to find? Of course she did.

Is there any knitting content to this post, I hear you cry? Well of course.

The cabled crop jacket in Elann Peru Soft got FINISHED! Yes, it did, it did, and let no-one say Celtic Memory is a hopeless WIP and UFO-er, 'cause she's not. Give her time, that's all...

Here's a closeup showing the cable and lace pattern and also my pride and joy, genuine handmade Dorset buttons! I always knew how to make these, but it only occurred to me when finishing off the crop jacket that they would look very nice on it. The Peru Soft would have been too thick for the buttons, but some leftover Panda Silk was idea. Aren't they ideal? I'm going to make lots more. Maybe shank them together, so I could interchange bright buttons on jackets? So many possibilities.

Oh gosh, I have to dash. I'll have to tell you about Knit Nation and all the fun there, in the next posting. And the new shawl on the needles. And the Tristan and Isolde socks with pearls...

Concerning Secrets of Speed Knitting, Supremely Sensible Supermarkets, and The Fox That Yearned For Kneesocks

I said I was going to track down the secrets of super-speedy knitting and that's exactly what I did. Got on a flight to furthest Norway (Finnmark to be precise) and went a-looking. Of course there were other aspects to the trip too. Wildife, for one thing.







The reindeer were everywhere, their big eyes reproachful as they lumbered out of our way. My landscape, not yours, they seemed to say. Take that noisy vehicle away.





This little stoat whisked across in front of us out on the Hamningberg peninsula, a place that deserves the title of The End of the World if anywhere does.




He even posed for a closeup, unable to resist the flattering temptation of a master photographer (no, no, not me, DH!)





The violet kneesocks really came into their own up there. (Jenny Lee's you may remember, from this year's Sock Madness). They were warm and fortunately so. Late May it might be in southern Europe (even Ireland) but it was still winter on the fells above Batsfjord.







This fox was totally enraptured by the same socks. 'I wonder now', he asked politely, 'would there be any chance of you making a set for myself? They would be ideal for the cold weather.' Three points here. Firstly, it is interesting he didn't consider the current icy conditions to be genuinely cold weather. Secondly, his words may have suffered a little in translation to Irish/English, for which blame this writer, not the Norwegian fox. Thirdly, if you are planning to make socks for a fox (or indeed a dog, cat, rabbit, reindeer) you need to think four, not two. And possibly adjust the toe shaping, if they're for a cat or dog rather than a fox. Just alerting you.




There were tantalising glimpses too of beautiful Lappish traditional dress dashing past in a snowy wood (I think she was shy).


The thing about this part of the world is that knitting is totally part of everyday life, and a necessary part at that, not an occupation for idle moments of amusement.






Look at this supermarket aisle in Ivalo, the northern Finnish town into which we flew before driving on into Norway. See that aisle on the left, where the woman is wheeling her trolley? Yarn, needles, and fixings, right in there with other household essentials.





And this? Now here we have a very small general store on the Finnish/Norwegian border at Utsjoki. Only the bare necessities. Which of course includes yarn. There on the right, opposite the fruit. Don't you just love these supremely sensible supermarkets? A pound of apples, two bottles of lemonade, and four balls of sock yarn, please. Certainly madam. Oh and I might as well take one of those 3mm wooden circulars too. Wouldn't want to run out.

Kirkenes is the place I remembered and shamelessly cajoled DH into revisiting. I said, wide-eyed, that it was for the scenery and the birdlife, but truthfully it was for this.






I would emphasise that this is a huge general store-cum-supermarket, selling food and drink, thermal underwear and diving gear, books and magazines, gardening equipment and spare tyres for 4 wheel drives. And it has a complete wall of yarn at one end. A whole wall!


If any of you are planning to visit Kirkenes (you might, if you're on a Midnight Sun cruise) then be warned - there is a very charming souvenir shop in the centre of the town which sells yarn as well as national dress and linen items and so on. But their yarn prices are two to three times as high as those of the Spar supermarket down on the quayside, for the same labels. I paid the equivalent of €1.40 to €1.50 each for most of the sock yarns and baby wools I bought here at Spar. That's about $1.50-$2 or thereabouts. The baby wools are almost nicer than the sock yarns - no sickly pastels for Norwegian babies, but bright vibrant primary shades, easy to see against the snow or fir trees. Yo for bright babies!


No, I hadn't forgotten. Speed knitting. This hunt was of course created by this year's Sock Madness where the Norwegian participants easily outdistanced the rest of us. I wanted to know why. And so I visited lots of yarn shops and watched and spied and asked discreet questions. Actually they were quite pleased to share their secrets and show me how they knitted.





This lady in Vadso was working on a complicated colourwork sweater for her granddaughter, and doing it at a frightening speed. She showed me. Ah, as I thought. Continental style, the yarn held over the left forefinger, not the right. Picking, not throwing. I can't do it. But yes, you can. Try again. See? But how do I purl? Like this. Like that? No, no, put the needle behind the yarn. Now! Good!


I bought one ball of really inexpensive thick yarn and a suitable circular (isn't it lovely, they have their own brand of bamboo circulars up there, appropriately named the Viking range) and worked for three days solid on mastering this new (to me) technique. Finally I thought I had it, and to celebrate cast on for a tie shawl which would be made entirely by the picking rather than the throwing technique.


In the meantime, I had packed every available corner of the car with spare yarn (well, you never know, and I did score a few balls of rare Faroese sock wool) and we had headed reluctantly back for Ivalo and home. But at the airport, what should I see in the souvenir shop?






This lady was knitting ribbed baby socks and although I had seen some speedy knitters up in Norway, this Finnish technique was supersonic! Her fingers simply flashed around the sock.






We hauled her up and made her pose in front of the shelves of tiny socks, felted boots, mittens, headbands and caps that she made for visitors to buy on their way home. Isn't that the best thing ever? To stock your shop not with mass-produced souvenirs, but your own handwork?


Huh? Oh yes, of course she was knitting by the Continental method. But so fast, so fast. And I did learn something new yet again. This is where it gets technical, so those who aren't really into knitting technique, skip the next bit. Generally when you purl, you put the yarn over the needle and then bring it in and through to make the stitch. Where she was working the purl stitches, she was bringing the yarn in from below, which is much faster - that is, bringing it under and up, not over and down, if you get me. And yes, that does create a knit stitch facing the other way if you're doing back and forth knitting rather than in the round, but so what? Knit it in the back. No worries. As long as you have uncrossed stitches, where's the problem?

OK, technical bit over. You can come back now.





The tie shawl a-la-Continental turned out superbly. It's in Knit Picks Andean Silk by the way, about a 5 or 6mm needle, I forget which. (And that cunning crochet two-colour twisted edging comes from the Traditional Danish Tie Shawl by Dorothea Fischer.) I was so pleased with it, especially as knitting it was fun and fast. And do you know something? It's wonderful to wear too. Tie it on whenever you feel the need, and you're warm without being smothered.





If you get hot, take it off or let it hang loose. Great. I love it! Consequently felt impelled to make several more by the same method, and thought I ought to share this with other knitters too, so listed a whole bundle of ideal yarns on eBay, trawled from the gigantic Celtic Memory stash.






These are the lovely homespun-style ones. They're on cones I sourced from a secret location, still with much of the original lanolin and factory dressing on them, but they're pure gold. Well, pure wool actually. They remind me most of Rowan Tweed. But nicer. Natural, denim blue, and a heathery lavender, all flecked with tiny lights of other colours, three different thicknesses, in that order, thickest to thinnest. The heathery one is about light worsted and the others go up from there.






And these are the beautiful Italian boucles. What I love about these is that the yarn and its colours do all the work. You can just whip off a quick garter stitch shawl in the simplest shape and it will look wonderful.







And finally of course the sock yarns some of which I am tempted to take off sale again and use for my own pleasure, to make little lacy shoulder shawls, to spice up whatever I'm wearing and suit the mood of the moment. If I haven't taken them off, you'll find them over on eBay. If the tweedy ones (ID 170506217549) have all gone, contact me and I might be able to skein some up for you.


The main purpose of this posting though is to alert you to several important points:


One. Never, but never neglect a close examination of Scandinavian supermarkets. Scan every shelf with a keen eye. You never know what you might find amidst the buns and the broccoli.



Two. If you want to improve your knitting speed, go Continental. Don't give me that 'Oh I couldn't possibly' defeatist line. You can, and you will. NOW!


Three. Start making shawls immediately. It could possibly become an addiction as serious as socks. And that's saying something.

Roan Inish Rediscovered

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

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

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

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


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



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



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

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





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

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

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




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




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



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



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



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

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

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




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




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




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


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

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