seeking owlet

The model I was going to use is now unavailable, and all the other bairns I know at the moment are very young. Are you, or do you know, a kid of 12-14 months that would like to try on this golden owlet? Are you in Edinburgh? If so, please stop me from approaching random mothers in the street and email: wazzukiATgmail.com.

b s t

Well, you know Spring is here when the clocks go forward. And last night, my subconscious decided to mark the occasion with a series of strange dreams. In the most disturbing one, peculiar birds pecked holes in my knitting. Pecking beaks! Ruined knitting! Horrors! Then one particularly evil birdie flew off with this:

I’ve been working on two new o w l s — one that will fit kids aged 4-10, one for bairns aged 9 to 36 months (the latter in a lighter-weight yarn). In my conscious mind, issues of sizing were merely an interesting conundrum. Little arms. Square bodies. Big swedes. I’ve spent the past week staring strangely at the heads of infants in the supermarket. I have carefully measured the dimensions of the kids of friends and colleagues. I have knitted yokes and necks several times over to determine the best fit and shaping. Owls have appeared, disappeared, and reappeared on my needles. Personally, I thought I was just getting on with it — and, in fact, had finally cracked the sizing puzzle when I went to bed last night. But I suppose it must have been the source of some unacknowledged anxiety, or my subconscious wouldn’t have invented my avian knitting nemesis — a kind of evil cuckoo to my goodly owl. I awoke with a start at 6am (5am in ‘old time’) and had to go and check that my prototypes were OK. Both mini owls were happily blocking in the living room, free from the unwelcome attentions of either bird or beak. I had a few cups of tea. Then I went to meet my wee pal Eva.

Eva is a sensible, no-nonsense individual. She just stuck one of the sweaters on and assured me it was all going to be OK.

gaugain again

(Dean Cemetery)

Just to say that my Edinburgh walk “In the steps of Jane Gaugain”, is now live over at Twist Collective. Discover centuries of knitting heritage while you stomp about the city! There is a map linked to the walk, which you can download (for handy reference). It has arrows, and everything.

ishbel

I made my Ma an Ishbel for mother’s day. Now she has it, I can show it to you. I use the word ’show’ in purely relative terms however. . .

These are poor photos, taken in rather poor light. I do admire the many peeps who take great pictures of themselves. I am not one of them. My method is as follows: focus the camera on a cushion, set the self timer going, dash across the room throwing cushion to the floor, stick self in place of cushion and assume the pose before the shutter clicks. The results are ‘interesting’. In the picture above, only a small area around my right elbow is actually in focus; you can’t really see the shawl, and I look rather peculiar and glum. Not much I can really do about the peculiar, and one can only imagine what my face was doing in this next shot, as my hands appear to have decided to do a little dance:

Shortly afterwards, I gave up and tried to take a picture of the lace in the mirror:

In any case, it felt rather odd taking photos of myself in what was, by that point, someone else’s shawl, so I stopped. It is probably time I bought remote and tripod. Or just took a picture of my fabulous Ma, (who I will be seeing in a couple of weeks – hurrah!).

Ishbel is a lovely pattern. I particularly like the way Ysolda designed it to combine shallow depth with wide wingspan, meaning that it can feasibly be worn as a scarf. The yarn is a gloriously luxuriant handspun suri, from the Port Mor alpacas, and spun by the wonderful Anne Kemp of Tormisdale Croft on Islay. It is amazing stuff. I love the way the slight variations in fleece colour add depth and texture to the shawl, and Anne’s handspun was very satisfying to knit as well as being great to look at. This was the first time I’d worked with suri, handspun or otherwise, and I found the way that it knits up really intriguing: though the finish is slightly fuzzy (and alpaca-y), there is also something in the feel of the fabric as well as the way it drapes, that is very like raw silk. Curious and not unpleasing. Ma likes it anyway.

Here are the specs.
Pattern: Ishbel by Ysolda (worked sections A, B, A, C, D, E)
Needles: 4mm addi lace (so pointy! so speedy!)
Yarn: Handspun suri Alpaca, from Tormisdale croft, Isle of Islay. Around 75 grams.
Ravelled here.

seasonal

you can tell it’s Spring . . .

. . . Jesus’s plum tree is coming into bloom.

first pitch

(Old Bridge, Dumfries)

This weekend was the first time this year we’ve had the chance to really get outside — by which I mean, not just go for a walk, but get in the tent. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. We’ve had such a nice couple of days. There were ruins to explore . . .

(Dundrennan Abbey)

(Sweetheart Abbey)

(grave at Dundrennan)

. . . there were textiles in the Dumfries Museum for me (I like local museums and this is a very good one.)

(‘receipt’ book. 1840s).

. . . there was a hill race for Tom. . .

(Warming up for Criffel Hill Race. . . )

And best of all, we found a well-placed pitch, complete with red squirrels scampering in the trees above. Watching squirrels from my tent with a giant cup of tea! What could be better?

(tea!)

knitter 66

Those who’ve read it might remember that the plot of Jane Austen’s Persuasion turns on Mrs Smith: Anne Elliot’s former schoolmate who, widowed after an unfortunate marriage, has fallen on hard times. Mrs Smith’s difficulties are compounded by physical pain: Austen describes her as an “invalid,” who is clearly suffering from what today we’d call arthritis. When Anne visits her friend, she finds her living “in a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind…in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society.” That “of course” says so much about the position of a nineteenth-century woman like Mrs Smith: her situation means a particular kind of social exile is inevitable. The difficulties of penniless widowhood are compounded by disability, and while her polite education might have fitted her for marriage, it has excluded her from the kind of paid employment a woman of labouring rank might seek.

Anne is surprised to find Mrs Smith both cheery and resilient. After a period of observation, she attributes her friend’s attitude to an “elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself.” The employment that carries Mrs Smith “out of herself” is making, and being paid for the things that she has made. She is able to sell sewn and knitted items through an intermediary, a nurse who, Mrs Smith tells Anne, is “an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases, pincushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about.”

Women like Mrs Smith abound in nineteenth-century fiction. Because they are of a certain class, they are excluded from the division of labour, and their only means of any sort of financial independence is through the sale of their own plain or fancy work: an acceptably feminine employment in which all women of virtue might apparently participate (for the grim fate of those whose domestic virtues are questionable, see Lily in Wharton’s House of Mirth). In nineteenth-century novels (and indeed, in nineteenth century reality) these women retain the respectability of their rank by not undertaking the grubby business of buying and selling themselves: remember for example, how important it is that Cranford’s Miss Matty is saved from the fate of the shop by the interposition of her long-absent brother. However dire her financial circumstances, then, a gentlewoman stays a gentlewoman by not being seen to sell stuff for money. Mrs Smith happily has the nurse to do the selling for her, and other women might preserve their anonymity though the mediating actions of charitable institutions like The Royal Edinburgh Repository and Self Aid Society, which still exists today.

Founded in 1882, the Royal Edinburgh Repository and Self-Aid Society was established “to assist those of limited means to achieve an independent livelihood by promoting the sale of their own handiwork.” Originally managed by two New-Town sisters, the Society sold on the work of its indigent members at bazaars whose “tea cosies and Shetland wool cravats,” were satirised by a young and waspish Robert Louis Stevenson. Since 1946, the society has operated from a well-placed shop on Castle Street. Though its general social context has (thankfully) radically changed — making and selling things for money is no longer a source of shame for a woman of any class — in spirit and reality, the society remains remarkably true to its original aims and ethos.

(Mrs Vanderbilt’s charity bazaar)

Today you do not have to be a gentlewoman (or even a woman) to be a society member — but you do have to be of limited means, and be able to knit (or sew, or crochet) to a certain standard (everything sold by the Repository is ‘passed’ for quality by its executive committee). The member-makers are identified by number only, and all receive the full proceeds from any sale of their work. The Repository’s commercial politics seem quite complex to me. On the one hand, there is more than a whiff of the Victorian in maintaining the fiction of exchange relations between an anonymous maker and a charitable patron. Yet on the other, there is something incredibly contemporary and utopian in the Repository’s support of co-operative enterprise, its celebration of craft and making, and in ensuring that each maker receives the full amount from any sale.

Ysolda and I visited the Repository last weekend, after she had the genius idea of producing The Definitive Craft Tour of Edinburgh (of which much more later). We were completely blown away by it. The shop is known as “the treasure trove” — and this is indeed what it is. We found amazing Fairisle gloves, tams and sweaters: all luminous and intricate, the work of incredibly talented knitters. There are Shetland christening shawls, and wonderful aran sweaters; baby clothes and blokes cardigans; colourwork, cables and lace.

(Ysolda in the Repository)

Today, it is often hard to buy hand-knitted items without worrying about the labour practices that produced them. While admirable organisations like Thistle and Broom ensure that craftswomen and men receive two-thirds of the profits of their labour, there are many other less scrupulous organisations in the UK and elsewhere who, in remunerating per finished item rather than time expended, are not only paying knitters poorly but illegally. While I personally feel that the Repository would be well within their rights to charge quite a bit more for the things that they sell, you still know that if you buy a handmade item here, that you are directly supporting the maker.

(gloves made by member no. 66)

So I am now the proud owner of a pair of gloves made by member no. 66. They are beautiful. My only wish is that I might pass on my thanks to knitter 66 directly, but perhaps that anonymity which, a hundred years ago was there to protect the knitter from the taint of the shop counter, now has another function entirely: if I were knitter 66, I probably wouldn’t want to be bothered by the likes of me in full-blown rhapsodic knitting mode.

I am still musing on the fate of Austen’s Mrs Smith, and wondering how the modest financial independence she gained from making might have been rather differently inflected, or perhaps enhanced by the collective and co-operative structure which the Edinburgh Repository provided, and indeed still provides. I feel some research coming on. In the meantime, I urge everyone, whether in or near Edinburgh, or if planning a future visit, to make your way to 23A Castle Street, where you are sure to be inspired.

(Tam made by member 245. Now owned and worn by Ysolda)

the toon

(One more hazy shot from the train window yesterday.)

Just to say that I hope the narrative of my commute did not suggest a certain kind of preference for the town in which I live, over the one in which I work. There are a few reasons why we live in Edinburgh, and while I love Auld Reekie (who wouldn’t?) I am also immensely fond of the the toon and very proud to work there. The photo shows the Tyne Bridge, perhaps Newcastle’s most iconic landmark, and the eagle-eyed among you may also spot the equally iconic Trinity Square Carpark, which famously featured in Mike Hodge’s film, Get Carter (“Goodbye, Eric”). Newcastle abounds with iconic buildings and structures, including what is, to my mind, some of the best Georgian architecture in the country. “Not a lot of people know that.”

commute

1. Home

I’ve been a bit lax updating my walking-project of late, so today I picked up the thread again, and photographed my whole commute. This is a journey I make four times a week. From door to door takes 2 hours, 45 minutes, and covers a total distance of 120 miles. 3 of those miles are on foot, the rest are spent at ease, on a train zipping down the East Coast Mainline. I do exactly the same on the way back. Its a long journey (and can seem so in the winter), but the trains are quiet enough to work on, and one can usually sit by oneself. The singular bonus of this trip is the amazing scenery of East Lothian, the Borders, and Northumbria. I see this wonderful coastal landscape almost every day, but never tire of looking at it. Surely this has to be the most spectacular train journey in Britain? I think so, anyway. The photos of Berwick and Gateshead were taken this evening, the rest this morning. Photos 3 through 9 were snapped from the window of a fast moving train, hence the hazy-fuzziness of some. Well, that’s my excuse anyway. Here come the photos . . .

2. Waverley Station

3. East Lothian

4. Coast

5. Golf at the Border

6. Berwick Upon Tweed

7. Northumbria

8. The Sage, Gateshead

9. Grainger St, Newcastle

10. Work

I keep forgetting

To show you a few photos from the St Abbs wool festival on March 9th. It is great to see regional events like this taking off (thanks to Louise). Beasties! Yarn! Spectacular coastal scenery! What more could one want? Tom liked the goats . . .

I heart alpacas . . .

. . . and there were some great humans there too. It was lovely to meet Anne and Lindsay

(sorry for chopping the top of your head off there, Anne. I think I became distracted by the wares in front of you . . )

. . .and I had a nice chat with Natalie from the Yarn Yard

(yarnyardyarn)

Natalie was talking to me about an interesting project. I’m going to put my mind to it, and will let you know more soon.