outing

It has been a very frustrating week. I’ve not been up to anything much, and have been unable to go outdoors. Tom decided to cheer me up with a non-taxing outing, and we drove to Hawick. I love to walk in the Borders, but when one cannot walk, pootling around in the car will do just fine. In a curious way, the landscape reminds me of home (Lancashire) with its hedgerows, its dry stone walls. By this, of course, I mean that what is familiar to me is the way that the land is parcelled up — the way that property and productivity are visible in it — and in this sense the steep valleys, the mill buildings, the nineteenth-century workers’ housing, are very familiar to me as well. Like Lancashire, this is textile country. What industry remains — in the brand-led processing of luxury yarns — is a mere vestige of what it once was, and yet the past inspires a tremendous amount of local pride. This is very evident in the new Borders Textile Towerhouse, which has recently opened, and is well worth a visit. The building (a restored sixteenth-century fortified tower) is truly fabulous, and the historical exhibits are thoughtfully and carefully put together. I liked the wheels, frames, and looms. . .

. . . and you can’t go wrong with a Trade Union Banner — particularly one that depicts and celebrates the stocking frame.

Tom inspected some knitwear. . .

. . . found himself a new bonnet.

and pondered the practicality of the kilt combinations.

Upstairs, there was an exhibit exploring the ‘future’ of Borders’ textiles, which largely focused on golf sweaters, and Vivienne Westwood. Now, the sweaters aren’t really my thing, but I will say (having examined them carefully) that they were beautifully designed and exceptionally well-made. However, I was so disappointed to encounter berloody Westwood, yet again. However hard one tries, one just can’t get away from her! I can think of several other exhibitions in several other Scottish institutions, all of which explore the past and future of Scottish textiles — and all of which conclude with some obligatory tartan / argyle / tweedy gubbins designed by Westwood. Whether or not one wants the ‘future’ of Scottish textiles to look like Westwood’s parodic aristocratic costumes, one certainly has to question whether Scotland really wants to celebrate a designer whose bespoke ‘Scottish’ materials are often not what they purport to be, and whose shameless appropriation of the Harris Tweed Orb has probably done more harm than good. (Yes, you can tell I talked to the weavers of Harris when I was last there). But whatever one thinks of Westwood, to have her represent the future of Borders’ textiles to me suggests a certain paucity of imagination. Over the past few years, I’ve met so many superb independent Scottish weavers, designers, artists, and makers — all of whom are graduates of the Borders’ textile college at Galashiels. Why not devote this fine, new exhibition space to some exciting, contemporary, truly forward-looking and local talent, rather than a hasbeen of metropolitan high fashion?

(spot the difference!)

Invigorated by anti-Westwood feeling, we went outside and bought some Hawick balls for my cough, and I got Tom to take a picture of my new hat.

This is the much-made Sideways Grande Cloche from Laura Irwin’s Boutique Knits. It was a quick knit, but — as I was attempting to manipulate a super-bulky yarn on 5.5 mm needles — not a particularly enjoyable one. I wanted to create a very dense, firm fabric — and it is certainly that. Following Mel and Sarah’s advice, I cast on 27 stitches (rather than the 45 recommended), and made several knitterly modifications to a suprisingly non-knitterly pattern (casting on provisionally; joining the brim with 3 needle bind off; knitting the crown in the round &c). I won’t be making another one of these in a hurry, but this is a very jolly hat, that goes well with a jolly coat, and which I can hide my non-jolly flu-ridden phiz in. It is ravelled here.

Eildons

I’ve been yearning to get properly outdoors all week. I find that a customary sort of melancholy takes hold of me when the clocks go back, and that my daily routine of rising and returning in the dark starts to seem a bit relentless. So it was very good to take advantage of a lovely golden day, and go walking in the Eildons. As we took the path out of Melrose, we spotted this message on the hillside.

Clearly the proposed crematorium is unpopular . . .

The Eildons are very pleasing to walk in at this time of year. The hills themselves are shapely and interesting, and there’s a great variety in the landscape: blustery tops, steep scree-lined slopes, heathery moors, and rich, rich woodland. The latter was particularly glorious today. When one is feeling a wee bit grey, it is so good to absorb oneself in Autumn’s crazy colours. I love to see the last leaves go out in a blaze of gold . . .

. . . . the wine-red haze of berries on bare branches. . .

. . . outlandish lichen . . .

. . . seasonal oomska . . .

. . . and the fabulous prospect view across the border. . .

. . . all most restorative.

Tom’s legs were also in need of a good stretch: last Monday, he ran the Dublin marathon in 2 hours 58 minutes! Both the legs and their owner are feeling very pleased with themselves.

Enjoy your Halloween, everyone! There’ll be no guisin‘ here: I am looking forward to an evening of rabbit pie and Winstanley. . .

walking in Philadelphia: 2

(William Birch, Views of Philadelphia, 1800).

This is an account of a walk covering eight miles over one day in Philadelphia. Warning! This post is long, and chock-full of personal nostalgia and eighteenth-century references!

I started by strolling up Broad Street, past City Hall, and turned East on Arch, where I stopped at the Fabric Workshop and Museum, which I had not previously visited. In their ‘New American Voices’ exhibition, I was singularly underwhelmed by the work of Robert Chambers (large egg, swirling ribbons, John Deere Tractor) but enjoyed Bill Smith’s pieces a little more — felt that he evidently had a scientist’s feel for the aesthetic, and thought that his work had a sort of internal mobility to it which rendered its interactive bells and whistles a bit superfluous — not to mention potentially self-destructive (while I was there, one of his “metamorphic complex interaction models” threatened to set fire to itself.) In the museum shop, I bought myself one of these brooches, left, and continued along Arch Street.

Further along Arch, I was completely baffled to see the focus of the new exhibition at the National Constitution Centre: Diana, A Celebration. Di’s giant, winsome phizog smiled down from every lampost on a three block radius. The irony of celebrating an icon of British aristocratic privilege in the birthplace of American democracy had clearly been lost on the show’s curators. I did not go inside.

I went to visit some old friends in Christ Church burial ground. The worn grave of Francis Hopkinson is deeply moving. Those of Deborah Reed and Ben Franklin are close to the churchyard entrance, and the street. Passers-by throw coins through the churchyard railings at Franklin’s grave, in the manner of a wishing well.

This act of coin-throwing (for luck?) seems to me symptomatic of the almost universal warmth with which Franklin is popularly regarded. It is noticeable that, while the plaques one sees about Philadelphia of Franklin’s face are worn smooth and shiny by the weight of many children’s hands, those of William Penn are not.

In an eighteenth-century mood, I continued to the Friends meeting house at Fourth and Arch . This is the home of the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, and the largest Quaker meeting house in the world. It is an early nineteenth-century building, and Charles Brockden Brown is buried in its grounds. Now, I am a person of no faith at all, but the space which once held the separate women’s meeting draws from me profound affection and respect. Among these bare boards and benches, with the good smell of wood and the sunlight flickering in through the windows, sat many wonderful Quaker women writers, intellectuals, philanthropists.

I like the graffiti, too.

While I was sitting there having my moment, a woman came in looking for Franklin’s pew. The mild octogenarian at the entrance reminded her of Ben’s religious affiliations. Discovering that she had mistakenly wandered into a Quaker meeting house, the woman started up a rabid harangue about the death penalty, that “turn the other cheek crap” and how America had “gone too soft.” I rose to leave and, on my way out, couldn’t resist saying that I found her comments rather disrespectful, “I can say what I like where I like,” she shouted after me, “this is America. We’re free here . . unlike other countries.”

A Union Jack flew proudly from one of the houses on Elfreth’s Alley. This amused me, but not as much as the lone coat hanger I found swinging from a holly bush. Had someone hung something there to air? In the past, I’ve found Elfreth’s Alley a discomfiting kind of place — a tiny, tourist-packed thoroughfare sandwiched stoically between the Delaware Expressway and several parking garages — but today it seemed a haven. There was no one about but me, and I spent a happy half hour examining the brickwork and the fire-insurance marks.

On Second Street, I stopped at a picket line to chat to some carpenters who were protesting about their contracts which had been summarily cancelled. Then, with some excitement, I turned onto Market Street, and walked West for a block: to the location of Hannah Griffitts’ apocalyptic dream (which formed the focus of my lecture at PSU). Appropriately, at the intersection, I found a man in eighteenth-century costume. He seemed a little lost.

But he could count himself lucky he wasn’t a figure in Hannah Griffitt’s subconscious on 18th April, 1775. “There appear’d a most extraordinary phenomenon—a ball of fire in ye air, ye houses all ready to take fire in flames, & ye people fainting & dying in ye streets. . . ” No fireball today, thankfully. In fact, the only thing vaguely apocalyptic about the intersection of Third and Market was SUIT CORNER at its South and East.

(compare the south / east corner of third and market to William Birch’s depiction of 1800, at the top left of this post).

Thinking about Hannah Griffitts, I continued down Second to the place where her small house had once stood. It was Norris Alley then. Now it is Sansom Street. Her house was located where the blue car is parked.

By now I was thirsty and a little overwrought, so I popped into the famous revolutionary drinking hole on Second — the city tavern. There were no radicals there now, however: indeed in the tavern foyer, I spotted a framed copy of the Princess Diana commemorative issue of Hello! magazine. Had Di somehow taken possession of the soul of Philadelphia?

Against my better judgment (and certainly my eighteenth-century political inclinations) I tried a glass of Alexander Hamilton’s federalist ale. The chap in breeches behind the bar insisted that I also have a small taste of the George Washington Porter (very good) and Ben Franklin’s Spruce Ale (not so good. I like my hops). I didn’t realise quite how strong these ales were (over 8%, apparently), and confess that they left me feeling a little worse for wear. I departed swiftly when a bloke of Irish extraction joined me at the bar, and, upon hearing my accent, seemed desperate to establish some sort of connection with the old country. As I left, I may have also stolen a beer mat bearing the (to me) appealing slogan: “Ales of the Revolution.” On leaving the tavern, I had a sudden desire to see the face of Elbridge Gerry (perhaps as a corrective to the federalist ale) so I popped up to the Second Bank of the United States to say hello.

This impressive building now houses some great eighteenth- and nineteenth-century portraits. But like Susan Stabile, when I see the Bank, I think of the childhood home of Deborah Norris Logan that once stood here. South, on Walnut Street, there is a small “eighteenth-century garden”. I am fond of box, but confess my my taste in eighteenth-century gardening is a little wilder than this.

I bought a bottle of water, walked past Washington Square, and turned South on Ninth Street, West on South Street, then North on eleventh, and loitered around Spruce and Pine. This was my old neighborhood.

I recalled a lovely evening, eating supper with a friend in the garden room at Effies, with the snow falling quietly outside. By now I was hungry. I walked up Quince, turned West on Locust, North on Broad, and West again on Walnut Street. I popped into a bakery off Rittenhouse square to buy myself a couple of snacks. Then I walked past Anthropologie, and up Nineteenth Street (no, I did not enter the hallowed mammon-temple of Anthropologie. Rather, I muttered darkly as I passed its open door, holding my breath to avoid the migraine-inducing fug of scented candles. That’s right, ladies: I do not like Anthropologie. One day I may elaborate further . . . ).

Moving at my top walking pace, I strode up the Benjamin Franklin Parkway (bah), heading for the Philadelphia Museum of Art. By this point I was on a personal pilgrimage: to see Cy Twombly’s Fifty Days at Iliam. The first time I stood before the Achilles canvases, I felt faint and had to sit down. It is a work I often think about. I wanted to see it again.

I sat with the Fifty Days for a while, and then some ten year olds appeared in the antechamber, in which is displayed the Shield of Achilles (which prefaces the nine giant canvases of the Fifty Days). I listened in on their class discussion and they were truly brilliant — not only did they seem to know an awful lot about the Trojan War, but they got the rage, energy, intellect, and emotion of Twombly right away. I left them to it. Outside, it was Autumn.

. . . and it was time to go home.

Walking in Philadelphia: 1

Philadelphia is a city best appreciated on foot. With the exception of Edinburgh, in fact, it is the city in which I most love to walk. Its street life is vibrant, varied, and cosmopolitan, and it is obvious that Philadelphians appreciate the pedestrian-friendly nature of their city. It is a place which, with its many walking tours, sponsored walks, and “Walk! Philadelphia” (the largest pedestrian wayfinding system in the US) celebrates and encourages the peripatetic. This is in stark contrast to some other US cities in which I have spent time. In Los Angeles, for example, I would often set off for a walk, only to be stopped by a colleague from one research institution or another — or in a couple of instances, by complete strangers — who would either insist on giving me a lift, or tell me that I Really Shouldn’t Be Walking There. My landlady, who finally figured out that my strange habit of getting about on foot was serious and ingrained, told me that if If I would insist on walking, that I should at least try to look inconspicuous when doing so. “Don’t wear a suit,” she suggested, “try sweats instead.” What underwrote her remarks, and indeed the actions of the lift-offerers — who were all like me white and middle class, was the assumption that a woman like me should not be walking about the city. This deeply offended me on two scores: as someone who feels it is her right to move about the street on foot as and when she wishes, and on behalf of the street, which was assumed to inevitably pose some sort of a threat to someone like me. After a few of these encounters, I became a militant Los Angeles pedestrian. I walked everywhere I could, and when I couldn’t, insisted on taking public transport (an act which similarly baffled my car-bound colleagues). For a while, I commuted between West Adams and San Marino, a long journey I accomplished every day partly by foot, partly by bus. I can’t say that walking beside eight lanes of traffic on a tiny, dusty strip of pavement is always pleasant, but I can say that I never had any sort of problem, and that I met and chatted to some really lovely people on my daily rides and walks. And I never wore sweats.

(Walk! Philadelphia incorporates more than 2,200 sign and map faces to assist on-foot navigation)

I lived and worked in Philadelphia for much of 2006, and one of my greatest pleasures during that year was walking about the city. I particularly enjoyed, after an evening seminar at U Penn or Temple, returning to center city on foot, alone with my thoughts, admiring the flickering lights at a distance, seeing them draw closer, then walking among them at close quarters. The streets of Philly are full of life at all times of the day and night, and the idea that I shouldn’t walk about them did not really occur to me. Yes, of course there are crack weasels on street corners, but I have no business with them, nor they with me. And frankly I’d rather walk on a street with people on it (for whatever purpose) than one that seems desolate or empty. I agree with Rebecca Solnit* about most things, but not with her view that a woman walking at night is inevitably disenfranchised by her sex, her sexuality. In fact, I sometimes think its much worse being a bloke walking about after dark: speaking purely from my own experience, it seems that men are certainly more likely to be set upon on the street for no reason at all. And while men rarely express their legitimate fear of the street for fear of appearing unmanly, women routinely express a fear of attack: a fear that itself perpetuates the cultural assumption that women should not walk about at night. All of the women I know (and there have sadly been a few) who have endured anything of this appalling nature have not suffered at the hands of a nameless attacker but at those of someone who was, in one capacity or another, known to them.

(Broad Street at dusk)

That said, as an Englishwoman, I think I may well have an odd sort of advantage walking about an American city: indeed, in a weird way I carry my foreign-ness self-consciously about me as a means of feeling safe. In several instances I have opened my mouth on an American street to ask for directions or whatever, only to be greeted with “honey, your accent is SO CUTE,” or similar. And, perhaps even more oddly, I also feel safer being wee and nippy: this isn’t just because I think I can run away or something — in one instance, a homeless chap on a Philadelphia corner actually stopped me simply in order to pat me on the head. Here, two things I normally wouldn’t be too happy to associate myself with — viz, being rather short, and being very English — make for a street identity I am actually happy to embrace. (I don’t feel the same way about the Englishness in Scotland, or indeed elsewhere in Europe, as one might imagine).

(pedestrians on Market Street)

There are so many distinctive things to love about Philadelphia that can only really be appreciated as a pedestrian. Top of the list has to be the art of the street: the city’s remarkable Mural Arts Programme celebrates its 25th anniversary this year.

(7th & chestnut; South & Alder; 13th & Arch; G-town)

The city’s signage interpolates the pedestrian at every turn, and enhances the art of the street. Through every season, Philadelphia’s lamposts are festooned with civic banners advertising community projects, Kimmel center concerts, the nation’s first liver transplant at Jefferson Hospital in 1984, the AIDS walk on October 19th, and so on. Creative commercial signage adds yet another dimension. I love Reading Terminal’s relentless neon; the self-conscious kitsch of Eddie’s Chinatown Tattoos; the dry take of the cut-price kitchen supply store on 2nd on its neighborhood’s historic associations. . .

If you are driving around the city, you are really missing out, because it is only on foot that you can appreciate the quiet beauty of its neighbourhoods. Parts of Philadelphia seem, to me, quite utopian in their pleasing combination of the private and the public. People live right at the heart of the city, whose red-brick row-houses incorporate an interesting mix of the domestic and the commercial. There are fabulous public parks in which to promenade, run, or listen to impromptu concerts. There are trees everywhere; spaces for kids of all ages to play; thriving community gardens. There’s a deserved sense of pride in the spaces of these neighbourhoods, and this is evident in the way the public and the private seem to speak to one other, to interact. Rather than the hideous gated communities of some American and British cities (a determined method of keeping the outside out), in Philadelphia the inside spills over to the outside in the seasonal decoration of private homes, and the adornment of the street.

Architecturally, Philadelphia is incredibly eclectic, and affords lots of interest to the eye through its own brand of the urban picturesque. It is not a great Modernist city like Chicago, nor a Post-Modernist one, as Los Angeles is sometimes assumed to be (though personally I could never really get what Frederick Jameson meant about the Bonaventure Hotel*: it seemed to me dull, prosaic, entirely navigable). There is little architectural unity in Philadelphia, but to me this is symptomatic of its general lack of pretension and its industrial past. In both these things it reminds me of my favourite British cities (Sheffield, Newcastle), and like them, Philadelphia also possesses some truly fabulous eighteenth-century buildings. As you can imagine, I have a deep fondness for the red-bricked colonial and federalist buildings of the old city, but I also love the ludicrous excesses of the Wannamaker interior; the glorious glass arch of the Kimmel center; the 1930 facade of Suburban station. And even those buildings of which I am not fond look spectacular to me when set off by a sky of the kind of blue one doesn’t see much in Scotland.

But lest you think I view the pedestrian experience of Philadelphia through ridiculously rose-tinted spectacles, here are a couple of things I really do not like about walking in the city:
number 1: Parking Garages.

Despite Philadelphia’s celebration of the walker, and thoughtful accommodation of those who like to get about on foot, in certain places it does feel as if the city is merely a series of interconnected parking garages. Unbelievable amounts of the center city footprint are given over to parking . . . which suggests just how many cars pound the streets each day. Central Philadelphia is flat, compact, and incredibly easy to walk around. Just imagine if the city’s pride in its public spaces extended to a true prioritisation of the pedestrian and the exclusion of the car! I dream of congestion charging, and park & ride schemes, but know that it will never happen.

number 2: The Benjamin Franklin Parkway.

This Haussman-esque attrocity was designed by a Champs-Élysées loving Frenchman in 1917, to enhance Philadelphia’s sense of public space. But in fact, what it has done is render the agora entirely sterile by effectively excluding those on foot. Picture Ben Franklin himself, fresh off the boat with his three great puffy bread rolls, wandering down the parkway that bears his name. Ben would be very unlikely to meet or greet another jolly pedestrian, and all he would be able to hear is the rumble of the parkway traffic and a dull roar suggesting the disturbing proximity of Interstate 676. Flags of the world and a hideously Napoleonic incarnation of George Washington in equestrian mode further confuse Ben’s sense of place. Then, attempting to traverse the road for respite, Ben finds that the pedestrian crossing mysteriously disappears in the middle of six lanes of traffic, leaving him stranded in an unwelcome island of moving cars. The only good thing about this hideous boulevard, Ben thinks, (and I would definitely agree with him), is that one of Philadelphia’s many great cultural institutions — the Museum of Art — is to be found at its end. Oh, and the Rocky Steps, of course.

*Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking (2000)
** Frederick Jameson, Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (1991)

An Cliseam

One of the highlights of our Hebridean camping trip was a walk on An Cliseam (Clisham), and the tops that make up the Clisham ridge. This ridge, connecting the highest hills in the outer Hebrides, crowns the wild and beautiful landscape of North Harris. Our route was circular, and you can trace it on the map below, beginning at the green arrow.

The route follows a well-marked trail, then turns West at a small lochan to reach the grassy summit of Tomnabhal. From here Clisham assumes a thrilling, near-insurmountable aspect — all cliffs and gullies — but as you begin to climb up its steep boulder fields, a neat little gap appears, through which you can reach the top. You can see the gap at the centre of this photograph:

In cloud, the rocky summit is spooky and spectacular.

But the fun bit of the walk had only just begun. There was a swift descent West onto the bealach . . .

. . . and then an enjoyable zipping up and down along the ridge’s highest points, following the roller coaster of Mulla-Fo-Dheas, Mulla-Fo-Thuath, and Mullach an Langa as they twisted their way North. The cloud was low, but when we glimpsed the view, it was amazing.
done

Amidst all the gold and green and russet of these hills, the band of quartzite at the top of Mulla-Fo-Thuath seems quite unexpected. It spills its way like snow across the mountainside, white as the skin of a dalmatian.

I love what the lichen has done.

This horseshoe-shaped ridge walk is incredibly enjoyable — a little exposure, and lots of variety and interest. I would heartily recommend it to anyone (with reasonable hill-walking experience) as a great way to get a feel for these marvelous North Harris peaks. But do be warned about the particular route we took: what is not quite so fun (when one has been out in the hills all day and is looking forward to a beer and some sort of tasty snack) is the long return walk that it requires — particularly when the lower slopes are absorbing the effects of a couple months of very wet weather. We contoured round Mo Bhoiogadail (avoiding its steep side) through an ankle-twisting landscape, leaping boggy pools and streams, and trudging stoically through the oomska. Our walk concluded with a speedy two-mile march back up along the road past the Scaladale centre. You may find a better way.

These are fabulous hills. I am already looking forward to going back to Harris.

experiments

#1. Jam. I blame Sarah. She brought a jar of her homemade jam round for lunch, and it was so damn fine I had to try my hand. These jars combine the last of our allotment raspberries with some extra from the farmer’s market. Jamtastic! It set, and everything. We have already guzzled our way through one of the six jars.

#2. Baking. I blame Felix. She turned up here a few weeks ago with a jar full of sourdough starter, and her characteristic culinary enthusiasm. Since, then, I’ve not been able to stop baking. I’ve made several loaves, flatbread, a victoria sandwich, scones, a marmalade cake, and, um, buns . . . with varying degrees of success. The less said about these buns, the better.

#3. Technique. I am researching knitting accessories, and since acquiring one of these am keen to discover exactly what using it involves. As my own experiments have been rather clumsy, I defer to someone with superlative expertise, who is here pictured mastering the makkin, and knitting with two strands in the right hand, Shetland style.

#4. Colour. I am completely obsessed with colourwork, and blame the current depth of my obsession on Alice Starmore’s Hebridean 2ply, with which I knit this experimental hat a few weeks ago. My experiment was not entirely successful, but it has certainly whet my appetite for further experimental forays with this yarn. To make the hat, I simply selected four colours that I liked, measured my head and my gauge swatch, picked out a few 10 stitch peerie patterns, and cast on. (I didn’t cast on in icord — but found that I had to add some later — I just couldn’t stop myself . . .). Now, while the palette I chose is perhaps too muted to be successful, and while the crown shaping is certainly not quite right, I really learnt a lot when knitting this hat: about colour behaviour and placement, and about the relationship between colour and pattern. I also finished knitting it with a confirmed sense of Starmore’s genius. Her colourways really are amazing. For example, ‘pebble beach’ – the pale colour that I tried to make pop out of the centre of the first few sets of peeries — is a truly gorgeous mercurial shade. It looks greenish here, but its colour dominance shifts dramatically depending on its placement. I’ve tried it in other combinations since, and against different colours it can look fawn or mauve, gold or pink (much like the pebble beach behind me, in fact). These shifting tones are apparently produced by a blend of more than thirty shades. The funny thing about this hat is that, despite the fact that it is a sort of large swatch with several design deficiencies, I have developed a deep fondness for it. I brought it to Islay, and I barely took it off my head. I think the precise and thoughtful relationship of Starmore’s palete to the Hebridean landscape has a lot to do with my affection. Anyway, my peerie-sampler-hat-experiment is ravelled here, and the colours I used were capercaillie, fulmar, pebble beach, and driftwood.

I am now knitting experimentally with an allotment-inspired colour pallette. I also find Felix’s wise words about knitted vegetables very inspiring. More soon!

looking down

We had some fine weather on Islay, and on Sunday enjoyed a glorious day’s walking. When we last visited this part of the world in May, we sat by the water at Ardfin, and gazed across the sound of Jura to some very good looking Islay hills which we had never ascended. So we decided to ascend them. The hills in question sit in a corner of the island that, in comparison to other parts of Islay, feels incredibly remote. Our walk started at Ardtalla and our route (North-West, then South-East) is marked by that wiggly red line:

This is a great walk, but it is not for the faint hearted. While the hills are not particularly high, and nor, at 10 miles, is this a particularly long route, the terrain — involving a characteristic mix of bog, rock, and waist-high bracken — is consistently challenging. . .

. . . but rewarding in every way. After tramping a couple of miles round the coast, we came down to the water to have a look at the old abandoned farm at Proaig.

. . . which is not quite as abandoned as it looks.

A tin roof and some rudimentary furniture make this quite a serviceable bothy, and the swallows nesting in the beams certainly seemed to like it. While I enjoyed the graffiti (“no writing on wall”) Tom found a notebook in which visitors had marked their recent presence in the building in pen and ink.

We were interested to see that Dave G had visited Proaig that morning, though we saw no sign of him — or anyone else for that matter — all day. Perhaps he had already returned to McArthur’s head and the otter.

After crossing the water along a conveniently placed girder, we began our climb.

This is where the walk got really interesting. The sides of these hills are steep, and that solid-looking heathery undergrowth is deceptive. Beneath the heather is moss, beneath the moss is bog, and beneath the bog is The Unknown. The Unknown may be water, it may be loose rock, or it may be a Nice Big Hole just waiting to sprain your ankle. Ascending up such hills can be quite a tricky business — very much like climbing up a large, slippery sponge. This is the kind of walking where one must look down frequently, to see on precisely what one is stepping. But I like watching my feet. There are amazing things to see.

I was not quick enough to photograph the fat cream-and-chocolate adder who appeared out of the heather, and the camera also missed the bright yellow lizard that darted across Tom’s boots. But that gigantic caterpillar wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were the fungi or the flowers.

I love the way that the peat and water that shape this landscape bring things to life in such outlandish colours.

There are incredible greens and browns and oranges everywhere you look. And the shades of rock and lichen are equally intense. Sun-yellows, reds and peaches. Quartzite, pink as a giant roast salmon.

When one reaches the tops of hills, one begins to look down in a different way. If the day is clear, there is the reward of a fine expansive view. And whatever the weather, there is that heady sensation of traversing the curve where the earth meets the sky.

Sometimes the point of a walk seems the prospect, and in this case, it was a delicious one: back across the Sound to the three paps of Jura. We could see the place where we sat three months ago, anticipating this superb Islay walk.

But I’m in a nuts-and-bolts kind of mood at the moment, and however great the prospect view, I think that its the nuts-and-bolts of this landscape — the things that I noticed by looking down at my feet — that I’ll continue to muse upon.

Yes, I did knit that hat. It is my new favourite walking hat. I’ll perhaps say something about it another time

lyttelton

Hello! If you don’t come here for the knitting and are bored with talk of garment construction, stitch patterns, and the like, then my apologies. Move along please! Nothing to see here!

I can now report that another pattern is ready. This was a very interesting project for me, as it is the first garment I have designed in which I began by thinking about what writing a pattern would involve. Shrugs are pretty much a summer essential in my wardrobe: personally, I find that they are more wearable than shawls, and look neater than a cardigan over the dresses that I tend to favour at this time of year. Lots of knitters (like my sister) seem to make shrugs to match individual outfits, particularly those that they intend to wear at summer weddings. I’ve noted quite a bit of shrug-related discussion along these lines over recent months; for example here on stash and burn and here over at fig and plum.

Shrug-construction is an intriguing matter. Once one moves on from the basic idea of a side-to-side seamed rectangle, they can be formed in a multitude of ways: from centre to sides (as in Lisa Daehlin’s perenially popular Viennese Shrug), as a square or lozenge with a knit-on edging (as in Mel Clark’s lacy hug me tight), or in a novel modifed T-shape (as in Alice’s Ester). The diagram shows the construction I’ve used here. I started with a provisional cast on, knit up the back, increased stitches to shape the sleeves, put the centre stitches on hold for the neck, worked over the shoulders and fronts, and knit back down again, mirroring the back shaping. The seams are joined under the arms (where you don’t see ‘em), then stitches are picked up all the way round the front and back openings, and joined to those on-hold, before adding a ribbed edging which is worked in the round. The key to this construction is a stitch pattern that looks exactly the same right-way up and upside-down. I had such a one in mind, and built my shrug around a modified version of what Barbara Walker calls ’tilted ladder’, but which has other names elsewhere. This is the kind of lace-and-cable stitch that I really like. It is logical, it is rhythmic, it is fixed in my scatty brain after just one repeat, I can immediately see where I am in the pattern, and its so berloody simple even I can knit it on a train in a near-comatose state after a long day at work.

Its also one of those deceptive stitch patterns whose visual and textural interest suggests more complexity than it actually possesses. Ah yes! My very favourite kind. I’ve used a yarn with a bright, sharp stitch definition that I really like: rowan 4 ply soft. It shows off cables and lace superlatively well, is easy to care for, and comes in a good range of colours. One thing to note (if you are looking at the way the shrug sits in this photo) is that one of my physical peculiarities is a short torso, matched with comparatively long legs (long? who am I kidding? for I am 5 ft 2″). Anyway, the garment’s finished length is between 15 and 16 inches, and the back will look shorter on anyone whose torso is longer. There are just three easy fitting sizes in the finished pattern, which will accommodate any chest measurement from 28 to 44 inches. That’s it for the detail, then, but can I just say that from start to finish, this has been an immensely satisfying project? I enjoyed thinking about the design, loved knitting it, and am very pleased with the end result and indeed the finished pattern (though I do say so myself).

The design name is Lyttelton, and I shall now tell you why (though I fear my reasoning has a degrees-of-separation quality which makes it completely inexplicable). Here goes, anyway:
1) the pattern involves a lace trellis
2) the word ‘trellis’ kept popping into my head while I was knitting.
3) this put me in mind of Mrs Trellis of North Wales, the eccentric and mysterious correspondent of Radio 4’s long running antidote to panel games, I’m Sorry, I haven’t a Clue.
4) until his sad death last year, this show was chaired by the incomparable Humphrey Lyttelton, jazz trumpeter and comedy genius, who has held a place in my affections since my Dad took me to hear him play a gig in Todmorden in 1985.
5) this shrug’s for you, Humph.

Now to what you are all wanting to know if you have actually stayed with me thus far: where the hell were you throwing those shapes? Well, yes this is Scotland, and these photographs were taken a couple of weekends ago on Traigh Lar beach on the Hebridean island of Harris, a location of unique and tremendous beauty to which I am already looking forward to returning. That beach really is that incredible — the weather was hot, the sea was cool, the views were amazing, and there was no-one else around.

So to anyone who fancies knitting themselves a Lyttelton: the pattern is now available through ravelry or above from the designs page. And to my mother who has an unshakeable idea of Scottish island weather based on one blustery school trip to Arran many, many moons ago can I just say: Yes, Ma, Harris is just like Barbados.

in colour

I’ve been thinking a lot about colour of late, and about how closely one’s experience of colour is tied up with one’s experience of landscape. I had a conversation with Mel the other day — concerning the crazy hues of the lichens she’d seen in a particular West Highland location — and was reminded of another recent landscape encounter, and the incredible colours it involved. We enjoyed a fleeting visit to Lewis and Harris a few weeks ago (we will be back for a proper holiday later in the year – hurrah), and were lucky enough to visit the standing stones at Calanais. Stone circles are breathtaking spaces, of course, but among these stones at close quarters, what I was most struck by was their varying textures, shades and colours.

Human hands moved these stones into position more than four thousand years ago, but the rock from which they are formed is much, much older. This is some of the most ancient stuff in the world in fact — Lewisian Gneiss, more than three billion years old. For those of you who, like me, find geological time so mind-boggling that it is virtually meaningless, this rock has been around since before the earth cooled down and the mountain-wrapping work of continents began. Lewisian Gneiss is a metamorphic rock, with a foliated and coarsely granular character. And if you are wondering about my geological vocabulary, its partly from the GCSE I did many moons ago (thankyou, Mr Boardman), but mostly drawn from Hutton’s Arse , a book that I quite enjoyed — Malcolm Rider’s deeply dodgy politics notwithstanding. While I found his particular brand of localism offputting to say the least, he knows a hell of a lot about gneiss. Discussing some notable late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century geologists, Rider talks about how their accounts of the landscape of northern Scotland as monochrome and “sterile” really missed the point. The rock that at a distance seems to be a “familiar weathered grey” turns out at close quarters to be something else entirely:

“a closer look . . .shows that the gneiss has a fine banding on a centimetre scale, in greys, whites, and dark colours, beautifully picked out by a combination of ice smoothing and several thousand years of rain and weather. The climate of Scotland is very good at this.”
(Huttons Arse, p. 178)

Rider describes Lewisian gneiss as a “terrestrial mille feuille” and I remembered this when looking at the standing stones at Callanais.

I spent a long time looking at the intrusions of pink granite against the banded grey. And closer inspection of the stone revealed a shimmering mass of many colours: dark flecks of magnetite and mica, luminous quartz and feldspar. This is the composition of the rock itself — and then there are the hues of a changing climate — the stone folds weathered and darkened by wind and water; pale pin pricks of butter and pea-coloured lichen. Around the stones are purple and yellow and white wildflowers, and beyond them, the deep blue-green haze of the ground, lochans, and hills of Lewis.

The banded pinks and greys of the gneiss at Calanais have stayed with me, and I’ve been thinking about them more since I began reading Alice Starmore’s Book of Fairisle Knitting a few days ago. I’m still digesting the implications of Starmore (I lack the words right now) but all I can say is that the woman is a genius, and that her genius is bound up with the Lewisian landscape that surrounds her. There are many things to like about Starmore, but her eye for quotidian detail — for the beautiful and colourful in the ordinary — is really something else. The shades of this tam were inspired by those of a sprig of clover that had pushed its way through the cracks in a strip of tarmac. It just about kills me.

© Alice Starmore.

best fest

There has been much talk over the past few days about the general handsomeness, and nobility of the ovine. Here is a supreme example. Just look at that marvellous phizog! So calm, so gentle, so self-contained, so . . .sheepy! I spent a long time admiring this fine herdwick at woolfest the other day, and find it hard to articulate for you quite how much I like him. He is a bit like woolfest itself, then, which has sort of left me lost for words.

It was the best fest because it was spent in the company of friends.

Felix & Monkl

Lara. (I failed to capture a corresponding morning-head-in-tent shot of Liz — seen below in her gorgeous hand-made halter-neck dress — crack of dawn does not capture how early she rose. . .)

From left to right: Sarah, Mel, Liz, Lara, Felix. . . and Frida Kahlo. Six great women, five great knitters (I don’t know about Frida).

Inside la fest there were so many people to meet, and I was particularly excited to run into Amanda and Lily, who was also sporting her paper dolls (Lily is absolutely lovely). It occurred to me after I’d seen her that the sweater I was wearing was made from yarn I’d got at last year’s woolfest: I acquired my bowmont braf from the man at bowmont braf. I was able to talk to him about the character of the breed, the properties of the wool, and the qualities of the finished garment it might produce. We also talked about the economic realities of small-scale yarn production, and the future of projects and flocks like his. I went away thinking about those questions, and inspired by both sheep and wool, designed and knit up my paper dolls sweater. These conversations are what makes woolfest so amazing.

(Shetland markings. Designed by Sue Russo and available from the Shetland Sheep Society)

The material and sensory impact of the interior of Mitchell’s livestock centre is completely overwhelming. Faced with all that bounty, its quite hard to stop oneself running around, shouting and cooing, squeezing yarn, fundling sheep, and throwing oneself at fleeces like a crazy lady. . . But I found an oasis of calm among the stands of the coloured sheep breeders, to whom I was repeatedly drawn. The proximity of the sheep themselves certainly had something to do with it, but I also really enjoyed chatting to the representatives of the different breed societies, particularly Joy Trotter, who keeps the Rivendell flock of Shetlands. After talking to Joy, I had a sort of moment concerning the sheer range of shades in the fleece of British sheep, and spent much of the rest of the day reflecting on this, and being inspired by these colours: the creamy blue-greys of the north ronaldsays, the choclatey browns of the jacobs, the soft, almost powdery ginger of the manx loghtans, and the breathtaking non-technicolour dreamcoat range of shetlands. These colours were everywhere: on the backs of lovely beasties, in the deft hands of spinners, in plump finished skeins of yarn, in beautiful knitted and woven items.

(Yes, that cake and those chocolates are fashioned from coloured Shetland. Delicious!)

It is fair to say that I am on a shetland roll right now, and that you will no doubt see and hear more of this in the coming months. If you are interested in quality natural-shade British shetland, I would warmly recommend getting it from Garthenor Organics. Chris King is such a thoughtful man who knows his wool, and this knowledge really tells in the finished skein. More of his yarn later, meanwhile, here is a picture of the only dyed stuff I took home:

I met the lovely folk from Artisan Threads last year when I was writing a piece in which they featured for Yarn Forward. Their sense of colour, and the feel they have for the process of natural dyeing is just fantastic. They have such a marvellous Autumnal palate, and I shall be doing something with their lovely muted shades this Autumn.

(Lara taking a fest-break with a swift pint of shandy — it was such a hot day!)

After the fest, we retired to the Bitter End in Cockermouth for some much-needed refreshment and de-briefing. Really, I can think of no better way to spend a Saturday evening than surrounded by yarn, in a good food-and-ale serving pub, in the company of friends, discussing the political economy of British wool. I will say it again: great women, great knitters. The excitements of the day were more than matched by a night full of stimulating conversation. When the menu came round, we all put our money where our mouth was, and chose lamb. I had such an amazing time and am still reeling and thinking — both about woolfest itself, and the conversations it provoked. I sort of feel like I spent the whole weekend following the narrative thread of John Dyer’s seminal 1757 Georgic The Fleece which traces the economic, political, material, and indeed intellectual journey of wool from the sheep’s back to the human’s. Perhaps I shall bore you with John Dyer — and the vexed question of how to produce poetry about “the care of sheep in tupping time” — on another occasion. But that’s me all fested out for now.

**Bee-bag competition winner will be announced shortly!**