needled

A few weeks ago, Mr B made mead. Now, I am suspicious of mead. My only experience of it is a riotous new year some years ago at Belle’s. Having run out of booze in the early hours, we raided the prop supplies of Mr B’s younger brother, who at that time liked to spend his weekends re-enacting medieval battles. We found mead. We drank mead. It was not a pleasant experience. Thus the re-enactors lost their props, and we gained terrible ‘govas.

Anyway, I am assured that *this* mead will taste nothing like the hideous, gloopy concoction we drank that new year. This mead will be light and sparkling and refreshing. It will resemble nothing less than champagne. It will be a beverage revelation. I remain to be convinced. But it does, it has to be said, look rather lovely in the bottles into which we put it yesterday:

It contains elderflowers, lemongrass, and raspberries, hence the pleasing pink colour.

One of the reasons Mr B is so enthusiastic about this mead is because of Charlie Papazian, by whom it was inspired. For those of you who do not know, Papazian is some kind of home-brewing god, and his brewing bible, The Complete Joy of Homebrewing (yes, I know) contains a long, and very animated, section on home-made mead. The mead about which Papazian is most rapturous is made with prickly pears (none of those here, unfortunately), and he has a novel method of bottle-aging. He buries it near the summit of one of his favourite mountains and, at carefully chosen intervals, ascends the mountain to uncover, and sample his creation. I quote:

“In October 1992, two friends and I had the privilege of enjoying a bottle of prickly pear mead that had been aged on a mountaintop. Among the clouds swirling around us, threatening rain and snow, we opened one well-aged bottle, and cautiously sipped. There never has been nectar tasting as close to godliness as that mead. Without any exaggeration, I must confide that we all agreed that this mead, on this day, on Mead Mountain, was unanimously ‘the best drink we ever had.’”
(Complete Joy of Homebrewing, 3rd ed., p.341)

Can you guess what happens next?

Yesterday we went up our own mead mountain, and buried the mead. This was a precise and careful operation. There was much discussion about the most appropriate location. Having settled on this, we ascended mead mountain at dusk with trowel and bottle. A hole was dug close to the summit, and the mead placed ceremoniously inside.

And we made extra sure we would be able to find the mead’s location again, by placing a virtual flag on the spot with Mr B’s GPS device.

The mead will wait for us until Winter on mead mountain.

On Christmas morning, we intend to ascend mead mountain, to sample the mead. I am full of expectation already. Has anyone else done anything similar with their home brew? If so, I’d be really interested to know.

(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 . . .

Did I mention the weather is superb in Scotland at the moment? We took advantage of it yesterday, climbing Meall nan Tarmachan, and the four tops that make up the Ptarmigan ridge. I remembered my knitting this time. Here I am working on a sock at 3422 feet.

Yes, folks, that is a clothkits hat I’m wearing. I admit it — I am a clothkits junkie. I liked the birdie so much I was compelled to buy a hat kit as well (the hats are designed for children, but clearly this doesn’t bother me). However, hat and skirt are probably best not worn together, unless one really likes the slightly crazed, infantile handmade look. . .

Oh! Liberty tana lawn, how I heart you. . .
It is a good hat.

Returning to the matter in hand — we had a fabulous day’s walking yesterday. It was warm enough to hang about, knit, and take our time over lunch at the top (unusual, that). There was one moment of slightly hair-raising scrambling (I am not great at descending feet-first into the abyss) but the wee ridge was lots of fun:

(Mr B on the ridge. Note: he sports the uniform of outdoor-man)

It was a very clear day and the views were absolutely wonderful. We could see Ben Lui (which we climbed a couple of weeks ago), the whole of the highlands north to the Mamores, and the great snowy hulk of Ben Nevis below the clouds in the distance. I do like to stand on a mountain, looking at all the other mountains I have climbed at other times. I think of my earlier selves climbing those hills, negotiating corries, colls and ridges. I think of other days and other walks, and the peaks look back at me like old friends.

Yesterday we walked to the top of this:

I forgot to bring my knitting (bah). But the view was very good:

Then we camped here:

And saw several of these:

Apologies for the gratuitous highland coo shot. I have a real thing about the *colour* of their hair (hair? coat?) at the moment. I seriously want to knit something cow-coloured.

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.

This is the kind of mess I really like

I find textile waste really very beautiful and like selvedges so much that I cannot throw them away. One day I shall find a use for them. As favourite messes go, sewing waste comes a close second to this kind of textile-related mess:

This is rucksack and tent and sleeping bag mess. It will stay messy until it has aired, or until I can be arsed to put it away. It is a pleasing indoor mess which signals that a good time has been had outdoors. And indeed a good time was had this weekend, both in the North:

(snowdance by Loch Assynt)

. . . and in the South

(Pentland skyline)

Here are some photos of my weekend in windy Lytham-St-Annes.

East Linton is finished.

I am very pleased with it indeed.

Apologies for this next shot, in which I appear to be thanking the god of felted tweed . . .

. . . but you do get to see more of the yoke and the neckline.

I really like knitted dresses, but, like a lot of people, was concerned about knitting a garment with a tendency to hang and sag. For example, I thought Rannoch in Rowan 42 looked amazing. I was considering making it, but then saw a baggy and badly fitting version worn by a disgruntled model at the Knitting and Stitching Show, and had second thoughts.

Still looks lovely pictured up there on Rannoch moor, though.

The problem with this dress when I saw it, it seemed to me, was that it was worked in an un-springy yarn (kid classic), at a loose-ish gauge, and it drooped simply because there was an awful lot of it. Or perhaps it was just too big for the miniature model who wore it. In any case, I decided that my dress would have less skirt, and hence less droop; would be worked at a tight gauge; and would be reasonably close fitting. I knitted the felted tweed at 6-and-a-bit stitches to the inch. This has produced a nice firm fabric. I was brave with the fit, and worked the sleeves and the body at a size smaller than usual, with hardly any intended ease. The result was a slim fitting, not-at-all droopy dress.

As well as the East Linton landscape, I must also acknowledge the influence of Lene’s nocturne in the dress’s design. This lovely sweater was knit in a yarn I’ve never encountered but which, in its combination of alpaca and viscose, seems quite similar to felted tweed. I loved the muted palate of nocturne, and its stripey sleeves.

The design is based on EZ’s seamless yoke, with help from Ann Budd with the sizing, and Barbara Walker with the shaping. It has a turned hem, for stability, and picot edging at the neck and sleeves. It uses 6 colours of felted tweed - whose yardage really is pretty amazing. It took under 4 balls of the main colour, and there is over a third of each ball of the contrasting stripe colours remaining. Perhaps I could make matching stockings. But then I really would look utterly ridiculous.

Anyway, I love this dress. It is warm, a great fit, and really easy to wear. It took a whole lot of relentless stockinette, but, oddly, I’ve found knitting it quite comforting over the past few weeks. I also find it incredibly evocative of the landscape of East Lothian, and, weirdly, its light as well. But this is probably just me. I now realise, however, that this is the fourth time in less than six months that I’ve made myself a seamless yoked garment. Does this count as an EZ addiction? Time to move onto something new.

Earlier today I crouched, covered in snow in an 80mph wind at the top of Arthur’s Seat, and felt a near-spiritual sense of thankfulness for my Walshes.

These shoes are deservedly a design classic (well, among the hill running community at any rate) because of their incredible combination of form and function. They are really one of the most favourite things that I own. They have a glove like fit, a feather-like lightness and are really, really grippy. You can scamper up a hill and zoom down it without worrying about where you are treading, for in the Walshes your feet will stay sticky as an insect whether on grass or mud or rock. They are shoes designed by hill runners for hill runners. The design is basic, unfussy, and entirely functional, and thus has stayed the same for more than thirty years. Many runners sneer at the Walshes ubiquitous blue and yellow, but I find the lo-fi look of the shoe rather pleasing. The pyramid-like studs produce a footprint that is as immediately recognisable as a rabbit’s paw when one is out in the hills, and I like this unobtrusive and temporary way that runners’ feet can add to the language of a landscape. And Walshes are also made in Bolton, not far from where I grew up, so I feel an absurd and meaningless sense of Lancashire pride as I pootle about in them.

They did some pootling today. Here is a view of the hills from my back window after I returned:

Arthur’s Seat is there, just behind the chimney. There were no walkers up on the peak at all. Visibility was nil, and charging off the top into a white-out felt strangely like insanity. But the Walshes did their job skimming over icy stones, through sticky bog and squelchy grass. In them, I hardly notice the grim conditions, for I am nimble as a weasel.

odd socks, who cares?

It being a beautiful, bright day, we went walking in the Borders — around the cliffs at St Abbs Head.

The first thing we saw, in the thin winter light at the top of the harbour, was Jill Watson’s moving memorial to the Eyemouth fishing disaster.

During a terrible storm on October 14th, 1881, over 200 local men were drowned, many in plain sight of their female relatives who waited on shore.

After this sombre reminder of the human cost of Eyemouth’s spectacular landscape, we walked up over the cliffside. Out of the wind, there was just the whit whit of curlews calling inland and things were very still. It was so quiet, in fact, we could hear the jaws of these sheep steadily munching their way east:

The colours and textures of the wave-battered rocks in Starney bay were amazing:

And I was blown away by the sight of the criss-crossing coastal geology as we rounded the cliff head:

Against the stark winter sky, the tall marsh grasses we encountered by Loch Muir seemed almost exotic

There is something very special about a winter walk. A landscape can seem rather bleak at this time of year if you are passing through at speed, and particularly in the illusory bubble of a car. But on foot you find things of life and loveliness everywhere you look.

And then, as we tramped back towards the village we met . . . Nico!

Nico is owned by Peter Marshall, who runs Berwickshire Llama Trekking. You can book Nico for a breathtaking trip around the St Abbs cliffside!

On the way back down to the harbour, we made the fortuitous discovery of Woolfish. I swear I had no previous knowledge of its existence, but clearly I am able to sniff out a yarn shop at 50 miles. There was much woolly goodness inside but I only acquired 100g of some unyed DK from some local alpacas near Melrose.

It being twelfth night, and all that, this lovely walk marks the very end of our holidays and the start of (one hopes) a productive new year. . .