ugler

Just a quick note to let those of you who have been emailing me know that o w l s is now available in Danish (download link on the designs page). Grateful thanks to Charlotte for providing me with the translation, and thanks to Tanja as well, who kindly sent me a different translation just as Charlotte’s arrived in my inbox.

And if you haven’t seen the parliament of owls recently, may I encourage you to go and have a quick peek? To me, it is a wondrous and humbling sight. Owl knitters, I love you all.

pioneers

My sister Helen and her family are visiting this weekend. Yesterday we all went to New Lanark (I will seize any opportunity to go to New Lanark!) Helen and I hail from Rochdale, and I think she is as proud as I am to have grown up in the birthplace of international co-operation. There are important links between New Lanark and Rochdale — because of the textile industry, obviously, but also because both places are associated with the pioneering nineteenth-century movements that sought to improve the livelihoods and education of working people.

It was interesting to see that the steam powered machinery at New Lanark comes from Rochdale too.

As well as exploring the history of Utopian Socialism (my kind of day out), there are many other things to enjoy about New Lanark. For example, the wonderful riverside walks by the picturesque Falls of Clyde . . .

. . . it is a great place for kids . . .

. . . and then there is wool . . .

wool!

WOOL!

As will be evident from these pictures, my sister is also a knitter of the avid and excitable variety, and I am proud to report that my ten year old niece, Robyn, knits too. While Helen treated herself to the gorgeous heathery yarn (shown above), Robyn was able to buy a kit to knit herself a Harry Potter sweater (just like the one that Mrs Weasley knits for Ron). Robyn will soon be a Rochdale knitting pioneer!

We had a grand day out.

paper dolls

I’m glad the early mornings are becoming lighter, otherwise I (or rather, Tom) wouldn’t have been able to take these speedily snapped shots of my new sweater. Spring is definitely on its way . . .

Did I mention that, undoubted tweeness notwithstanding, I heart this sweater? I love the velvety braf yarn (particularly the semi-solid pale blue colourway I used for the corrugated rib). I love the ridiculous dancing doll figures (a modified version of a chart in the 1950 edition of my trusty Odham’s Encyclopedia of Knitting). I love the icord edging (O the wonder of producing that edge from those three knit stitches!). I love the light feel of the sweater (the yardage of bowmont braf is pretty amazing — even with the doubled-layers of the stranding and corrugated rib, this sweater weighs just 160 grams); I love the colourwork (wot fun it is) and, well, you probably know already that I love anything with a yoke. . .

In fact, the only shortcoming of this sweater (for me at least) is that there are a couple of places where my blue weaves show slightly through the cream fabric on the front. The legs of the dolls are 11 stitches apart — too far to carry the yarn — but if I knit the yoke again, I think I may manage to avoid this by alternating the spots where I place the weaves, rather than stacking them up (silly me). Still, I am really pleased with the general structure of the yoke, and with the effect of the colourwork overall.

The basic design of the yoke is a bit like the owl sweater, in that there are no decreases until 4 inches have been worked. But the back of the neck (which you can see here) is more structured and shaped than the owls, using a gazillion short rows, which I have hopefully calculated correctly. There is also some gentle waist shaping, but no bust darts. I am going to wear this lots this Spring! Now I just have to write up the pattern. . . .

Pattern: Paper Dolls (by me)
Yarn: Bowmont braf 4 ply in natural, indigo, and ‘ocean mist’
Needles: 3mm circ
Ravelled here

Oh, and here’s some obligatory throwing of shapes. . . .

EDIT! Pattern is now available here

sixes and nines

I’ve been tagged by two of my favourite blog buddies, Helen and Suzanne. Helen was kind enough to name me as a kreativ blogger (thankyou Helen!) while Suzanne’s tag involves doing something complicated – nay, well nigh apocalyptic – with six bloggers and the sixth photo in your computer’s sixth folder. Now, I know that Suzanne was hoping that the number of the beast would actually turn out to be that of Jesus (my cat), but unfortunately it didn’t – I’ll just have to make my feline household god pose for you another day. Anyway, I picked the folder that is sixth alphabetically on my external storage (I stopped keeping pics on my mac since it went ape last year) and that folder was entitled Coast to Coast. Here is the sixth photo.

To add another random six to the mix, this photo was taken on the sixth of the twelve days it took Tom and I to traverse the fine northern country from St Bees to Robin Hoods Bay, following the well-trodden footsteps of Alfred Wainwright. What you see here are a few of the mysterious cairns that give Nine Standards Rigg its name, and the figure of yours truly, leaning against one of them.

Though it is not half-way in terms of distance, Nine Standards Rigg is the psychological mid-point of Wainwright’s Coast to Coast Walk. It marks the historic boundary between Westmorland and the North Riding of Yorkshire and also sits on the Pennine watershed. Westward, rivers flow toward the Irish Sea, but from this point on, they empty East into the North Sea. It affords spectacular views across spectacular country. To the West, you see the dome-shaped sleeping giants that are the Howgill Fells, and to the East lies green and lovely Swaledale. “The attainment of Nine Standards Rigg is an occasion for celebration,” writes Wainwright, “if you are carrying a can of beer, prepare to drink it now.” We did not crack open the ale, but I recall that I did guzzle two mars bars (obligatory walking fuel) shortly before this picture was taken.

On the matter of what exactly the Nine Standards are, many walking books say something like “their origins are shrouded in mystery”* before claiming (with sadly predictable Englishness) that they acted as a warning to marauding Scots with (one presumes) terrible eyesight, since wee Jimmy was supposed to mistake the stone “standards” for those of a waiting army. Wainwright pooh-poohs this notion, but notes that the cairns are clearly not Victorian follies as they appear on much earlier maps. I myself have seen them marked on eighteenth-century topographical surveys, but to be honest, I quite like not knowing just what they are. Because to me, the standards are simply the best kind of folk art — spontaneous built-things, marks on the landscape, structures and signs with a purpose quite other than that of human shelter or the shelter of beasts. They are incredibly characterful cairns — stubborn, stolid, querulous, even — and when we were up there, the original nine had been joined by some proudly teetering additions of much more recent construction.

Before this picture was taken, we had walked across the Westmorland limestone pavement– a landscape I love. Our path took us past stone circles, tumuli, and the mysterious remains of Severals Settlement. As we neared Kirkby Stephen, the Nine Standards came into view on the horizon, and I remember finding them just as evocative as all the other signs of earlier lives — earlier feet and earlier hands — that we had seen that day.

Well, before I spiral off an into orbit about the Wonder of Ancient Stones or something, let me return quickly to the photo. Tom took it with one of those crappy disposable cameras (pack-weight is a serious issue on a long distance walk) — and given that, I think its pretty good — all I did after we had it developed was scan, desaturate, and turn down the brightness (it was a bit flare-y). I’d also like to mention that despite my near-rapturous account of Nine Standards Rigg, shortly after this photo was taken, things took a turn for the worse as I reluctantly traversed eight hideously boggy miles across Whitsundale. By the end of the day, I recall that I was forced to turn to my thing of last resort in these situations — what I must do when the mars bars run out — which is to silently narrate The Love Match, scene by scene, in order to to stave off sheer exhaustion (seriously, don’t ask).

There are far too many blogs and photographers I enjoy to name just six of you. Please consider yourselves well and truly tagged if you are reading this, and dig out the sixth of the sixth of the sixth photo. . . . or whatever, and write about it. Fun!

*Re: the puzzling origins and function of the Nine Standards, while writing this post I discovered that this Kirkby Stephen scholar has apparently Revealed All in a recent publication. . .

twee

twee, a. Now only in depreciatory use: affectedly dainty or quaint.
(Oxford English Dictionary)

I’ve just knitted something that is undoubtedly, incredibly twee. But I am really hoping it falls on twee’s acceptable side. Because however “affectedly quaint” it is, I love it! I have had a serious thing about patterns that feature repeating figures since I bought this fabric last year . . .

These Madeiran dancers look like paper dolls to me. And there’s just something about the flatness, and the repeating geometry of paper dolls that I find incredibly pleasing. And as with all dolls, there’s also something a little bit sinister about them too. They have a clone-like quality, as well as the suggestive potential of repetition, self-generation, usurpation . . . like those unruly brooms in the Sorcerers Apprentice. . . .

. . . Anyway, I was unable to resist incorporating a string of paper dolls into the new sweater I’ve now made for Spring. Given my current fondness for — nay, obsession with — Bowmont Braf and stranded colourwork, this sweater features both. It is also finished with corrugated rib (I love it!) and lots and lots of icord. Since I made those fiddlehead mittens I have developed something dangerously close to an addiction to icord — it produces such a neat edge! I just had to use it for every cast-on and bind-off.

The sweater is blocking now, but I couldn’t resist showing you a quick peek before I put it on and (no doubt) run about in it, throwing some foolish shapes:

This really is one of those instances where knitting makes me stupidly happy. Clearly I have also been bitten by the designing bug, as I thought I’d write this up into a pattern to fit anyone from 4 years old to full-grown woman, who doesn’t mind sporting something just a wee bit twee.

remember . . .

These? I had forgotten just how much I liked them until I stitched up another. This one was made for my friend Mel, who I am thinking about today.

You will recall that the basic construction of these pincushions is Japanese, but the aesthetic of this one has (to my mind, anyway) somehow morphed toward the USA. I think this is probably because I recently fell in love with the marvellous ‘huswifes’ that Theresa has been making (examples of which can be seen here and here). Now I look at it again, though, one might just as well read those colours as Italian . . .but in any case, I am about to make another pincushion, with other national connections — with a particular link to a particular aspect of British textile history. I’m also writing up a tutorial for the cushion, and you will soon be able to find this here.

tea!

Now, you know I am a sucker for many tea-related things, and in this instance I couldn’t help myself. I was wandering through the food hall in Fenwicks, and a box just spoke to me . . .

This stuff is made by Stockport DJ, cartoonist and tea-obsessive, Mr Scruff. His small company has great ethical credentials, from the tea’s fair trade sourcing to it’s recycled packaging.

“Very nice,” said Tom, when I showed him my new purchase, “I see the box has a picture of you on it, but is the tea any good?”

Happily I can confirm that it is. The breakfast tea is a robust organic Assam — strong and malty — my kind of cup of tea. Cheers, Mr Scruff!

snowcat

Poor Jesus seems confused by the white stuff. But then, he is easily confused . . .

piccalilli

While Tom made piccalilli, I thought about pickles in Rushdie and Arundhati Roy, and then spent a happy couple of hours investigating the condiment’s eighteenth-century origins. The earliest instance I could find of a recipe resembling what we now know as piccalilli, was in the 1768 edition of Hannah Glasse’s Art of Cookery, where it is listed as Paco-Lilo. I also discovered a picca-lillo recipe in Mary Smith’s Complete Housekeeper (1772). In numerous other eighteenth-century cookery and housekeeping books, it appears as Indian Pickle: a name which gives you some sense of its obvious colonial-imperial origins, and explains the mangos of these early recipes.

Recipe for Indian Pickle, from Susanna Macinver’s, Cookery and Pastry, as Taught in Edinburgh by Mrs Macinver (1784)

As Indian Pickle morphs into piccalilli in nineteenth-century cookbooks, so the colonial fruits disappear from the recipes, which predominantly feature domestic produce: cabbages, cauliflowers, apples, plums. Turmeric is still crucial, though . . .

. . . and in Tom’s version, the chillis are definitely key.

This stuff really is delicious, and bears no resemblance to that cornflour stuffed, radioactive-looking gloop that goes under the same name at the supermarket. Tom says it is definitely at its best with some home made bread, a good cured ham, and a tasty ale. I’m off to test this proposition. Cheers.

spinning further

(Several Hamiltons. By George Romney)

I so enjoyed the discussion on the last post, I thought I’d continue the theme. Above you see a few more of Romney’s Hamiltons. I think you can see how Kirsty’s point — about the essential kinkiness of the spinning portrait — is reinforced in most of these paintings of Hamilton. So much of her is about performance, and certainly the most persuasive way of reading her famous ‘attitudes’ (in which she embodied the essential characters of classical and eighteenth-century heroines for an assembled audience of connoisseurs) is as a form of elegant striptease. She would start off upright, as the repellent figure of Medea, but end up on the floor as a Bacchante, in a sort of sprawling disarray. Anyway, the more I look at her spinning portrait the more entirely about fantasy and artifice it becomes.

(here she is again)

Hamilton is not spinning in a cosy domestic interior, but in the artist’s studio. She is depicted against a generic leafy backdrop, a woodland and a hillside with the suggestion of a cottage in which her labours might more appropriately take place. This is spinning at one remove from itself: it is spinning on a stage. And the frank exchange of glances between the spinner and the watcher — the use of her work as an opportunity to display for us her wrists and hands — suggests an awareness of herself as a confection. The way that this portrait produces its own fantasy of the spinning woman is interesting to consider in the light of those fabulous, luminous French genre paintings that Rhian mentioned. All of these images seem to call up questions about what it means to watch women performing activities (spinning, knitting, crochet) that are not just laborious, but contemplative. The women are not idle (and therefore they are not sexually dissolute) but still: their minds are not entirely on their work. Though their hands are busy all of them are clearly thinking about . . . a something else. And these images feed the nineteenth-century viewer’s fantasies (about feminine industry, performance, desire, whatever) by positioning them where they think they know what that something else might be.

Elizabeth Graeme Fergusson

Not entirely unrelated, and as (I hope) a sort of treat for you American spinners, I here reproduce Elizabeth Graeme Fergusson’s song The American Spinning Wheel. I doubt you’ll have seen it before, and I hope you like it. This song appears in several of Fergusson’s manuscripts and is included in one of her commonplace books (that I’ve been editing). Unlike Hamilton, Fergusson was herself a practiced spinner — of fleece and of flax — and was well-aware of the political implications of producing American homespun. She engaged in her own revolutionary performance in the winter of 1777, when the linen thread she spun on her wheel at Graeme Park was sent to be woven into cloth to clothe the American prisoners of war then held in British-occupied Philadelphia. Fergusson wrote the song for the people of Horsham (close to her contested estate) and in her headnote says it is: “to be sung at a country spinning frolic, written in the late war when it was the custom for the young people to collect to help to spin and then in the evening be joined by the lads of the neighborhood and have a little hop.”

Fergusson is so much in my head at the moment, that if I start talking about her — her economic and political position; what it meant for her to spin, or indeed to write this song — I’m afraid I’ll never shut up. So I leave it up to you spinners to make of it what you will.

The American Spinning Wheel

1
Since Fate has assigned us these rural abodes,
Remote both from fortune and honor’s high roads;
Let us cheerfully pass through life’s innocent dale,
Nor look up to the mountain since fix’d in the vale.
When storms rage the fiercest, and mighty trees fall;
The low shrub is sheltered which clings to the wall.
Let our wheels and our reels go merrily round,
While health, peace, and virtue amongst us are found.

2
Though the great deem us little, and do us despise;
Let them know it is wise to make little suffice.
In this we will teach them, though ever so great;
It is always true wisdom to yield to your fate.
For though King or Congress stand to carry the day;
We farmers and spinners at last must obey.
Let our wheels and our reels go merrily round,
While health, peace, and virtue amongst us are found.

3
Our flax has it’s beauties, an elegant green;
When it shoots from the earth it enamels the scene.
When moistened and broken in filaments fine,
Our maidens they draw out the flexible line;
Some fine as a cobweb, while others more coarse,
To wear but on work days for substance and force.
Then the wheels and our reels go merrily round,
While health, peace, and virtue among us are found.

4
Since all here assembled to card and spin;
Come girls, lets be nimble and quickly begin,
To help neighbor Friendly, and when we have done,
The boys they shall join us at close of the sun.
Perhaps our brisk partners may lead us through life,
And the dance of the night end in husband and wife.
Let our wheels and our reels go merrily round,
While health, peace, and virtue amongst us are found.

Graeme Park, 1782