needled

One of my birthday gifts was this lovely skirt designed by Rob Ryan for. . .yes, Clothkits. (I am so predictable). I made it up a few weeks ago — cutting and sewing it neatly and without hitches in (ahem) just three hours. (Sewing hubris? Wot? Me?)The facings and linings worked slightly differently in the pattern instructions than with the big birdie skirt. Not having to match up, pin and sew curves on the facings makes for a much speedier skirt. And what a skirt it is. Absolutely delicious.

I would show you some more pics of the process of making the skirt — but I can’t (missing computer issues continue, O, when will it end?). But one of my favourite things about this garment is its lovely scalloped edging. I obviously needed a top with scallops to match. So I knitted one up.

The top is a sort-of copy of one I saw sported by a knitting comrade at K1 yarns a few thursdays ago. Hers is a version of “Elf” in this Marie Wallin book for Rowan. It has lovely, elaborate crocheted scallops. Mine is a lo-fi seamless raglan, knit from the bottom up, at 5 stitches to the inch, using one strand of kidsilk haze. I just made it up as I went along and crocheted on the scalloped edging using two strands of yarn and a simple repeat. But this is merely because I’m not a very good, or very experienced, crocheter. The edging in the original pattern is much more impressive.

Now, a word about knitting black kidsilk haze: DON’T!. It was like dealing with a fractious, elusive, woolly creature. I couldn’t see my stitches. I couldn’t tell the right from wrong side. I couldn’t see a berloody thing. And that’s to say nothing about the prospect of pulling back stitches or frogging the stuff. The yarn is pure evil! At least the body and sleeves were mindless tubes of stockinette — I just went round and round — but imagine the horror of the crochet. Sheesh. Never again.

So this was not an enjoyable process at all, but the end result is fine, and precisely what I wanted.

We’ve been down in Lancashire for the weekend, and I had a nice walk to Lytham yesterday. I was wearing the top and skirt. It was very windy. I mention this so that you don’t think that I’ve suddenly gone all tufty, or turned into some kind of cone head. And the skirt just wouldn’t hang flat either. But this is simply the effect of a brisk north westerly coming at me head on down the Fylde Coast at 80 miles an hour. Bracing, as they say.

Anyway, here is the whole black and white outfit:

The building I am standing in front of, wearing its own black and white outfit, is, of course, the Lytham Windmill. Along with the Blackpool Tower, it is one of the Fylde’s iconic landmarks. You can go inside, peruse exhibits about milling and regional history, and chat to the nice folk from the Lytham Heritage Group, as we did yesterday. Here’s one more pic.

So:
Pattern: my own made-up seamless raglan tee with crocheted edging. See instructions for similar bottom-up seamless prototypes by EZ or Ann Budd.
Gauge: 5 sts to inch, 3.5 mm addis.
Yarn: Kidsilk haze, black, 2 x 25 g. Yes, this is a top you can make with just 50g of yarn.
Edging: two strands of yarn, 4.5 mm hook, working a repeat of 5 tr, skip 1, 1dc, skip 1 into a round of double crochet.
Ravelled here

Hurrah! Apple have agreed to replace the logic board on the computer. We do not have to shell out. There is An Adventure planned for later. But I have a few hours this morning for reading, knitting. . .

. . . and taking a new direction with Belle’s quilt

So, you know when one thing goes wonky, lots of them do? This is a tedious topic, so I won’t say much about it, but suffice it to say that, among a bizarre range of techno irritants, I’m still stuck with the ancient laptop. I’ve insisted that the poor machine gets with the 21st century and uses firefox and photoshop but doing this is rather like pulling teeth.  At least I can blog again. After a fashion. Hey ho.

I’m writing A Big Thing at the moment, and its rather messin’ with me mind. In the evenings there is no head space for anything but the most mindless craft activities. I’ve been enjoying my lace projects recently, but needed something not too taxing — this Shetland Triangle was ideal. It took me a week to make and was both mesmeric and relaxing.

I used my little camera for these pics as the SLR is in use elsewhere (techno irritant no.43). The results are, um, Ok, but try as I might, I couldn’t get a decent wingspan shot of the shawl. I threw some interesting shapes though:

stern . . .

functional . . .

minatory . . .

furtive . . .

um, coy . . .

Ladies and gentlemen, I present a plug socket!

thats quite enough of that. Here’s one last shot, though, of the lace.

Most of the other versions of this shawl I’ve seen leave off the pointy edging. But I quite like the points, and knit the pattern exactly as written right to the last row. I used Artesano Alpaca 4 ply, and used almost all of 2 50g balls (touch and go whether I could complete the edging, but just managed it!). This is quite heavy for a lace weight yarn, but makes just the sort of shawl I like (a warm one), and it is lovely to knit with. Because my cast-offs are always too tight, and because keeping the flow and pointiness of the edging was crucial, I used an enormous 12mm needle to cast off with. This worked well! The points are indeed pointy.

Pattern: Evelyn Clark, Shetland Triangle (fir cone lace).

Yarn: Artesano Alpaca 4 ply, red.

Needles: 5mm addis. 12 mm for cast off.

Ravelled here.

(warning: long post!)

Guess where I’ve been this weekend?

(Bruno, the North Ronaldsay ram).

. . . to marvel at some wonderful beasties . . .

(these two lovely ladies belong to Robin and Caroline Sandys-Clarke of Why not Alpacas)

. . .and the stuff that comes off their backs . . .

. . . yes, I was at WOOLFEST!

This year I am writing an article about Woolfest, and this gave me an opportunity to meet and chat with some really lovely people, and to hear about some inspirational businesses, projects, and initiatives. My piece will be about what makes this show so distinctive: its contemporaneity and energy coupled with a deeply held respect for regional identities and long-established craft and textile traditions. And all of this is thanks to the women of the Woolclip co-operative who organise the show.

Woolfest is wonderful! But I have to save its bigger picture and my thoughts for the magazine article. So heres some stuff about what I did and (gulp) bought this weekend.

Some of my work at the moment involves writing about a group of Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-century women whose attitudes to consumption are hesitant at best, and I think that their negative view of shopping (as something in which you are inevitably exchanging/ losing part of yourself) rather rubs off on me. As a consequence, I tend not to talk about my stash, or about buying yarn or fabric on this blog. And my not-buying-clothes-for-a-year project-thing has also made me regard stuff and its acquisition with a weird, nigh pompous embarrassment. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I discussed my stash-ambivalence with Felix, who among her many other talents, is a fount of tremendous Good Sense. In response to my problem with yarn as just another soul-sapping commodity, she spoke articulately about 1) how her stash represented a series of promises of time saved up, time that was going to be well spent in the future; 2) how her stash spoke to her of a whole world of creative possibility, enabling any project or experiment that might spring to her mind; and 3) how it was an incredibly positive thing to be spending one’s money in support of yarn producers, spinners and dyers — the artists and artisans one respects and admires. In the face of this wisdom, my concerns about commerce, stash guilt, and yarn p*rn all seemed rather foolish, frankly. Why should I be embarrassed about the stuff that I buy?

My experience as a Woolfest consumer was Immensely Satisfying. So I thought I’d show you the stuff that I bought, and why I bought it.

Evidently I am in my blue period, or summat, as I bought a lot of blue things.

1) Bowmont Braf 4 ply. A few skeins in a few different colours — enough to make a fairisle-ish top. Bowmont Braf is a new Welsh cross-breed and the wool these sheep produce is completely amazing. It’s a shame you can’t really see how it feels — otherwise the knitters among you would be making peculiar appreciative noises. It is incredibly soft and springy and, knitted up, has a very pleasing velvety, matt quality that is very distinctive. It feels like cashmere, frankly, but with much more loft and body — it behaves like wool — which of course it is. I saw and felt a sweater knitted in it at last years Woolfest and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I had to get some. It is spun and dyed in Wales too.

2. Linen embroidery thread from Mulberry Dyer. The dye is woad and on linen it is luminous and lovely. I can stitch with it and foolishly imagine I am back in the early eighteenth century.

3. Several skeins of wonderful Blue Faced Leicester DK from Artisan Threads. (My photo here does not do the range of subtle blues in this yarn any sort of justice). Jill and Penny are two talented textile artists based in Nairn, in the Scottish Highlands, who just launched their new company selling naturally dyed fleeces, yarn and thread. (Their website is not up yet, but should be very soon). Most of what they sell is locally sourced and produced, and they talk about the animals from which their yarn originated as articulately as they do about dyes and dying. Their knack with colour is really amazing and their yarns are all utterly beautiful — subtle, and slightly semi-solid. At every stage, process is an important part of the end product — and the end product is very good indeed. Perhaps the best compliment I can give this yarn is to say that the only place I’ve ever seen anything remotely like it is at Shilasdair. It is truly beautiful stuff and, if I was a spinner, I’d have been snapping up a fleece or two as well.

Top and bottom left are laceweight cashmere/silk and bluefaced leicester ‘dazzle’ sock yarn, both from the Natural Dye Studio. Their yarn is Very Nice. Top right is merino sock yarn from The Yarn Yard. Natalie is based just outside Edinburgh, and this is the first time I’ve met her or her yarns — which are gorgeous. She runs a sock club which is unlike others I’ve come across as you can drop in and out as and when you like. Tempting. Bottom right is rather a poignant purchase — this is Cheviot Aran dyed by Carolyn Rawlinson, who established Woolfest in 2005, and who recently sadly died. I actually bought two skeins of this same raspberry coloured yarn last year at the WoolClip’s shop in Caldbeck and have been playing around swatching with it and thinking that two skeins just weren’t enough to do justice to the yarn — which clearly wants cables. I bought a few more skeins in exactly the same colourway yesterday with mixed feelings — this was the last of her yarn. When I make something with this, it will have Carolyn Rawlinson’s memory knitted all the way through it.

and finally . . .

. . .no, I did not buy myself a ram. In fact, I only purchased the last item — a herdwick-themed gift for Mr B. The other three pics provide context for his Herdwick obsession. Item one is a noble animal I saw at Woolfest on Saturday; item 2 is himself cavorting in his Herdwick sweater, knitted by me from the wool from Pam Hall’s Herdwicks, and item 3 is his proudly-owned Herdwick tie, bought last year at the Woolclip. He likes Herdwicks. So I bought him item 4 — a rather nice china mug with the phiz of a herdwick upon it — just one of many new products designed by the talented team behind Herdy, an interesting new initiative now lending these quintessentially lakeland animals a new identity and, through their range of lovely bespoke wool products, a vital new lease of life as well.

Other weekend highlights included these beautiful hand-carved sticks on show at the Ullswater Country Fair. . .

. . . and the lush variety of colours in the Cumberland Pencil Museum in Keswick.

Did you know you can see the world’s largest coloured pencil there? Well, you can . . .

Wot? Actual knitting content? Warning: I’ve got a little over-excited by the fact I’ve actually knitted something, so this post is picture-heavy.

Given all my quilting/ stitching / sewing activities, knitting has been taking something of a back seat recently. It is nice to stitch when the evenings are so light and this is a novelty I feel I should take advantage of. So this shrug thing has been on my needles for some months, now. I’ve been rather faffing around with it — knitting it on and off — and finally finished it last week.

The pattern is built around the basic shape of the shrug in this book (see pic in purple toward the bottom of the page) but there are a few mods.
1) The stitch pattern is different: I used a 10 row back-and-forth version of the lace pattern in Cookie A’s ubiquitous Monkey, alternating with a 6 row front-crossed cable.
2) Why is there so much berloody seaming in these patterns? I just picked up the edging and knitted it in 1×1 rib one one circular needle, in the round, all the way along the back and two fronts. This has drawn the front in nicely and gives a good fitted shape. Can’t see what would be added by knitting the back and front edgings separately. This is a garment that needs to hug the body. It would not benefit from tailored seams. Weird.
3) I knitted this with thinner yarn, at a tighter gauge, on smaller needles: 3.25 mm and 6 stitches to the inch. I used Rowan 4 ply soft. Not a particularly interesting yarn, but I am actually quite fond of it. It comes in some nice colours, wears well, and has super stitch definition.

So I got to wear the monkey shrug out for a nice lunch in Leith. Here come the pics.

(Nce view there of my midge-bitten calves. Highland walking wounds. Oh well . . . )

And because I felt you should see some of Leith as well as me:

This is Paul Grimes tribute to Leith, its working people, and their history. I am very fond of it.

Pattern: Debbie Bliss Shrug (with mods)
Yarn: Rowan 4 ply soft. 4 x 50g. (I used exactly 4 balls).
Needles: one 3.25 circ for the whole thing.
Ravelled here.

I really like it — all except the shoulder seams — which I reckon it would look better without. If only I had thought beforehand I might have devised a way of kitchener-ing it together, or just having a seam at the underarms. Shrugs and boleros do not need seams. Hmm. I am now very tempted to knit Ysolda’s lovely Briar Rose which neatly illustrates how this is the case.

A conversation the other day about the stereotypes associated with women and knitting in film got me thinking about Double Indemnity (which I’ve watched repeatedly . . .almost as many times as 3 Days of the Condor). There is just one reference to knitting, but it is a good one. For those of you who haven’t come across it, here it is. Canny insurance salesman, Walter Neff, is about to be trapped in the homicidal web of cold, conniving, Phyllis Dietrichson, caught on the twin promise of a superlative blonde and the thrill of creating the perfect crime. Phyllis entangles Neff by explaining her need for an escape route from her loveless marriage:

Phyllis: Sometimes we sit here all evening and never say a word to each other.
Walter: Sounds pretty dull.
Phyllis: So I just sit and knit.
Walter: Is that what you married him for?
Phyllis: Maybe I like the way his thumbs hold up the wool.
Walter: Anytime his thumbs get tired . . . Only with me around, you wouldn’t have to knit.
Phyllis: Wouldn’t I?
Walter: You bet your life you wouldn’t.

I think I probably used to read that exchange from Neff’s normative and masculine point of view: that is, there’s no way that Barbara Stanwyck (who plays Phyllis with tremendous, bristling, icy allure) should ever be knitting. Knitting? With that anklet? For Neff, knitting points to her domestic entrapment and her lack of sexual fulfilment. His thumbs would hold her wool up so much better. But what he, and the audience fail to get at this point in the film, is just how perfect and appropriate an activity knitting is for Phyllis Dietrichson. In fact, far from suggesting her stifling confinement, it hints at what we later discover—her terrifying sexual autonomy. In this context–that of the powerful, sexually controlling femme fatale–knitting is about plotting, scheming, planning—and it is also about a certain creative (albeit malignant) independence. So, in fact, Phyllis doesn’t need any bloke’s thumbs to hold up her wool. She’s more interested in how she can wind them round her fingers.

Just look at Stanwyck’s restless and incredibly sexy fingers in this still. She’s quite obviously a knitter!

Hmm. Does anyone know of any good articles on the knitting femme fatale?

I recently found a reasonably priced copy of a very interesting book

This is the first volume of Jane Gaugain’s Lady’s Assistant, in the 1842 edition. I have been intrigued by Gaugain for a while. I read about her a few years ago in Richard Rutt’s History of Handknitting as well as, more recently, in Jane Sowerby’s book on Victorian Lace. Gaugain popularised knitting and crochet among Britain’s middling and upper ranks, devising a unique system of pattern notation. The class politics of the Lady’s Assistant are very interesting indeed, as is the focus on elegance, rather than speed. . .

Despite the groundbreaking nature of Gaugain’s work — her Lady’s Assistant went through 22 editions — not much is known about her, or, indeed about the popularity of knitting in mid-nineteenth century Edinburgh (where Gaugain lived. . . and so do I). Gaugain ran a large shop on George Street, then (as now) a prestigious spot in the New Town, where she sold notions and yarn, as well as teaching knitting, netting and crochet. So anyway, I intend to spend some quality time with Gaugain and (as if I didn’t have enough to do) have set meself a wee project to retrace her Edinburgh steps, check out some of her techniques and patterns, and explore, in more general terms the culture of knitting in middle class, mid-nineteenth century Edinburgh. More of all this soon. . .

Spring is here! It is time to get outdoors. For the past few weeks I have been knitting a sweater suitable for this purpose. This is because, with the notable exception of garments made by the wonderful New Zealand company, icebreaker, I loathe and despise “outdoor wear.” It is generally pricey, usually ugly, and tends to be made of hideous synthetic fibres. It is not that I don’t appreciate the superb functionality of these items. I own a fleece and a goretex shell. But I am also someone who actually likes clothes. How can I wear pants that have a waistline higher than Simon Cowell’s and make me arse look huge? So what if they are made of quick-drying lightweight superstuff, zip off at the knee, and niftily double as shorts? That’s just a pant too far.

OK, I admit it: I actually own and wear such pants. But in them I feel that my identity is being sapped away, as if I were in the garb of some repressive institution. The problem is not just that I am (to my shame) a terrible style snob, but that outdoor clothing is still a predominantly masculine affair. These clothes are just not often designed with women primarily in mind. In the world of outdoor wear, its assumed that women want a top that was originally designed for a feller, but that is usefully coded ‘feminine.’ This usually means that it is pink, mauve, or covered in gaudy floral swirls. But I do not want to wear a floral nylon baselayer, however brilliant its wicking properties. Frankly, I’d rather have a navy one just like the blokes.

helly

But I can’t wear what the men wear. And I am actually rather jealous. For there is both an ease and a definite identity associated with men’s outdoor wear (particularly here in Scotland). Blokes in the hills tend to wear exactly the same things. I mean exactly. These garments are worn primarily because they are tried, tested, durable, and reliable. But they are also signs of seriousness and badges of belonging: they are a uniform. I have seen the way that men look at each other at races and on mountains. While the man who sports expensive gear and the latest hi-tech item may be sneered at as a novice, a man wearing The Uniform will greet another as his brother. For the uninitiated, the four essential components of The Uniform are 1) Helly Hansen baselayer, usually in blue with white flash. 2) Ron Hill tracksters, usually navy with red stripe. 3) KIMM (now OMM) sack. Usually in yellow/black; 4) (if running) a pair of yellow/blue walshes.

ronsters.

The Uniform really is a predominantly masculine affair. This is due to the obvious fact that men outnumber women in the hills by at least five to one, but is also because a woman of short height and small frame will be frustrated in her efforts to acquire some of the essential items. She might easily find a ‘ladies fit’ pink helly or ronsters with a pale green stripe. But who wants that? The Uniform this is not.

Anyway, as I began by saying: I have knitted myself an outdoor sweater. In my stash I had several balls of navy cashmerino aran that I bought back in 2005. At 33% microfibre, this stuff is almost a fleece already and eminently suitable for a light and warm outdoor sweater. I liked the matelot-like feel, the shape of the neck, and the workman’s pockets on kaari, a Norah Gaughan sweater from her first Berocco book. The versions I saw on ravelry were lovely, but the fit seemed quite big, so I knit the cashmerino on 4 and 4.5mm needles, also attempting to reduce the pilling associated with this yarn. Its a satisfying, simple pattern and knit up very quickly. I finished seaming it last week, and over the bank holiday, wore it walking in North Antrim.

Here it is a couple of days ago at lovely Whitepark Bay

(note: monkey socks above the boots)

. . . here’s the front . . .

. . . and here’s a shot of the almost boat-shaped rollover neck, which I like very much indeed:

To my mind, this is an ideal outdoor sweater. It is very soft and luxe; has a pleasing fisherman’s sweater look and is also completely functional. It was cosy in the wind, but packed up small and light when the sun came out. It also doubled as my pillow in the tent at night. I wore it solidly for five days and so far it is wearing very well. Mr B (a traitor to The Uniform) observed it with envy and now wants one for himself. He likes the pockets. It is Ravelled here.

A while ago I won the designer knits ‘Knitting in the Wild’ competition for this photo of me knitting atop Ben Lomond. (Roll on Spring weather, and more mountain knitting). Today a nice prize package arrived, containing this lovely skein of Araucania

. . . this lantern moon keyring . . .

. . . and these knitting notecards.

Hurrah! Thanks Irene!

I have been working like a mutha of late, so little time for crafting. But on trains and in the evening I have managed to fashion this.

a woolly eggbox?

a collection of knitted bobbles?

no, its Norah Gaughan’s Jyri scarf.

Made in cashmerino aran from my stash it is incredibly soft and squishy. The ‘mountain’ stitch pattern is satisfyingly sculptural, with no need for blocking. The texture also echoes that of shibori felt, in a way I find very pleasing.