winter light

I love to walk in the winter light. I love the way the sun transforms things by glancing rather than illuminating. . .

. . . making long shadows.

Light brings the landscape back to life in the declining part of the year.

In the winter light, you can appreciate the truly heroic form of trees. . .

. . . and those of lone fishermen.

. . . enjoy the colour of a cow’s russet pelt . . .

. . . and crows against the quiet fire of an early evening sky.

more on mauds

(photo from J.G. Martindale, The Scottish Woollen Industry, (1954))

You may remember that a while ago I got all excited about the maud — the traditional shepherd’s plaid that’s woven and worn in the Scottish Borders. You can see one above being used for its original function — protecting the shepherd and his lambs from the elements. You may also remember that my enthusiasm about the maud extended to making myself one. It is a garment of which I rapidly became very fond, and since then, it’s been pretty much maud crazy round here. Using a variety of tweeds and linings, I’ve whipped up maud-shaped gifts for many of my friends and relatives. These mauds have been a real hit with all the women who’ve received one. They are more substantial and cosy than than a pashmina, but much easier to manage about one’s person than a gigantic shawl. Pat, who gets around in a wheelchair, was particularly pleased with hers: she told me to tell you that she finds heavy coats difficult to wear, but that in her maud she can zip about in Winter in a manner both warm and stylish.

A few of you have also emailed me to ask me how I made my maud. It is very simple. Here’s how:

You will need: sewing machine, basic sewing skills, two rectangles of warm tweed fabric, (18 inches x 40 inches) and the same amount of light lining fabric.
Begin by cutting out your rectangles of tweed, and lining to exactly the same dimensions. Take your time: cut slowly and neatly!

Click on diagram to see a larger version! (Diagram shows steps 1, 2 and 3).

1. Place the two tweed pieces right sides together as in the diagram. Pin.
2. Using 0.5 inch seam allowance, stitch together.
3. Open flat, press seam to the side.
4. Repeat steps 1 to 3 with the two lining pieces
5. Right sides together, pin lining to tweed, — take your time over this step, matching up corners and edges, ensuring the fabric is entirely flat, and using lots of pins.
6. Starting half way down one long edge, and using a 0.5 inch seam allowance, stitch all the way round your maud — leaving a 4 inch gap for turning.
7. Trim corners. Turn maud out to right side. Press all seams flat.
8. Press raw edges of turning point to inside. Pin.
9. Hand-stitch the turning gap closed, using invisible slip stitch.
10. Press again.
11. Finally: using a scant seam allowance, overstitch all the way around the edges. This gives a neat, professional finish, and ensures the lining lies nice and flat. Take your time and keep your stitching even!
12. Press for a final time.
Bingo!

Here is my Ma, happy in a maud. She is wearing it with the point just behind her left shoulder, but, as you can imagine, there are many ways to drape a maud, depending on your preferences. You could also easily make your maud longer, wider, or narrower, by simply cutting smaller or larger rectangles. My inner YorkshireWoman feels compelled to tell you that this particular incarnation is made from stitched together waste lengths of Hiningan tweed that cost me *less than a pound*. (I splashed out on a tana lawn lining, of course, ahem). My Ma’s brooch (which I love) is designed and made by Edinburgh textile artist Saskia Gavin, and you can find her work at Concrete Wardrobe.

If you are interested to hear a bit more about mauds, here with the permission of Sew Hip is the text of a feature about Border’s tweed I wrote for them a few months ago (it appeared in Sew Hip 4. This is my original text, not the published edit).

Oh, and I mustn’t forget to mention: if any of you stateside peeps are interested in meeting me in person, the lovely ladies at Rosie’s Yarn Cellar have invited me round to their place next Sunday afternoon. This is very exciting for me: whenever I’ve been in Philadelphia for work over the past few years, I’ve always looked forward to visiting Rosie’s. I’ll be bringing the original o w l s sweater, and a few other designs along, so do drop by for some knitting and a chat if you are out and about in Philly next weekend — I would love to meet you!

And finally, for those of you who have been asking, the neep is indeed imminent. . .

tweed

So, you didn’t think I could travel to Harris and Lewis without mentioning tweed?

Tweed is woven through the landscape of these islands and its important traditions are still very much alive. I spent several days in tweed heaven. Just imagine the sensory overload of this fabric-filled warehouse in Tarbet. Tweed as far as the eye could see! It was such a delight to spend some time here, amidst an incredible range of hues and designs — individual skill and creativity is apparent in every very different bolt of this glorious handwoven fabric.

It was a privilege to see Katie Campbell weaving at Plocrapol.

In Stornoway, I was very interested to find the work of many young artisans at the New Harris Tweed co-operative, and also enjoyed the exhibition of this beautiful quilt, made by residents of a local care home, at An Lanntair.

I am currently thinking and reading a lot about Harris tweed. And I don’t know if you saw the first part of the BBC4 documentary which aired the other evening? If not, it is available to watch on the iplayer. It is quite gripping stuff.

I acquired some tweed, of course, and I am looking forward to some tweedy sewing and thinking this weekend. More soon.

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.

from the Uists

creatures in the landscape.

places that suffered brutal clearance . . .

. . . neolithic tombs recall these islands’ human losses . . .

Barpa Langass.

darkness in the place of bones.
done

But outside, a living landscape full of light and colour. . .

yoke-yellow lichen on a fence post.

stuff of the shoreline

saltwater

sky

Vatersay – Barra

The islands of Vatersay and Barra are beautiful and arresting.

Camping on the Vatersay machair, there are beaches to the East:

and to the West.

The East beach is good for swimming and strolling. The West beach is more exposed, and a little more compelling: all pounding waves and gneiss boulders with fabulous ice-cream swirls. The beach is overlooked by an unmistakable iron-age broch, which looms dully on the horizon. The pools and waves run red with Rhodophyta — which seems suggestive of the beach’s sad history, and reminds you of the nineteenth-century bodies that are buried in its dunes.

Following the coastline on foot for a few miles, you will see many other signs of humans in the landscape: the standing stone (or is it a gate-post?) above Uidh; the abandoned village of Eorisdale; and the ruins of the laird’s house, whose absentee rule was overturned by the collective endeavours of the remarkable Vatersay raiders.

If your feet lead you to the hills, then walk up from Castlebay, where the highest of Barra’s island range (Heaval), lives up to its reputation as a materhorn in miniature:

From the top of the range there are stunning panoramic views. On Heaval, Jesus and his mum (whose effigies can be spotted all over the Southern Outer Hebrides) have nabbed one of the best ones.

It is fun to climb up to the highest point on the island.

But when the sky starts to darken, you can come down from the hills and head over to Cafe Kisimul. Here you might enjoy a Hebridean beer, great music, and some tasty scallop pakoras, in the location made famous by the 1949 Ealing comedy, Whisky Galore.

Barra is brilliant.

camping: a short, personal history

Phase 1. Here are myself, and my sister (Helen), circa 1979. Back then, family tents were gigantic bungalow-ranch-style constructions, with separate sleeping pods, living/ kitchen areas, faux glazing, and obligatory orange curtains. Putting up one of these babies was a process quite close to building an actual bungalow. To expedite matters, my mother devised a system involving several different coloured stickers — unfortunately, this code was so precise and so complex that it was it unknowable to anyone else but her. While she, dad, and the tent poles battled it out, Helen and I amused ourselves at the far reaches of the campsite. . . if we were really lucky, our canvas bungalow would be up by nightfall.

Camping is cheap, and we went away several times a year, to North Wales, to Devon, to the Isle of Man, or far, far afield to Yorkshire. Helen and I played and walked and swam in many different British landscapes. My overwhelming recollection of these familial trips is that 1) they involved a lot of laughs (we are all as daft as each other) and 2) they allowed me to taste the pleasures of independence. When one is seven, it is marvellous to pootle about the campsite or the beach, just doing your thing.

Phase 2: I am second from right, sporting the first of many terrible perms. Helen is under the umbrella. You will note that one tent has become many — less giant bungalow, more village settlement. I am not sure at what point we made this radical architectural shift, but for my parents, any small degree of privacy must have been a bonus. To my right is my good friend Julia and I’m afraid I can’t remember the name of the girl on my left. We had met her on this Anglesey campsite: she was slightly older, slightly glamorous, and therefore intriguing. During this era, we tended to camp on large family sites like this one — the sort that extend to several hundred acres, with a range of ‘luxury’ accommodation options for the mums, on site ‘country club’ for the dads, and a camp shop the size of a supermarket in which to spend one’s money on ice cream and shandy. The best thing about these places is that they are designed for – and full of – kids, and it is good for kids to knock around with lots of other kids. We formed large gangs, whose petty rivalries and attachments shifted with the passage of our stay. Camping is a transient activity, and there is something about this transience that enables possibilities. Camp friendships were quite unlike the rigid rules of association that one observed at school.

Phase 3: You will note that a lot of dye has been added to the perm, and that I am up a hill in inappropriate footwear. I still loved the camping, though. When one is a student and spends most of one’s time in libraries, it is very good to get outdoors.

Phase 4: I moved to Scotland with Tom. We began camping a lot. We enjoyed it a lot. I am pictured above in a transitional phase, when we still camped on sites, and before I realised I could just leave the cosmetics and jewelery at home.

Phase 5: The happy era of wild camping. You may recall that I wrote about the pleasures of wild camping just over a year ago, and I feel I must extol its benefits once more. If you are the sort of person who drives 200 metres to the toilet block in your 4×4; if you like to play Chaz n Dave’s ’snooker loopy’ for everyone else’s benefit from your camper van; if you can’t leave home without your hairdryer (how depressing was the recent camping episode on the Archers? I ask you! ); or if you are one of those eejits who calls out mountain rescue when you are feeling a wee bit tired half way up Helvellyn, then wild camping is probably not for you. However, if you prefer solitude over a shower, don’t mind walking with your gear, enjoy genuine proximity to wild flora and fauna, and are capable of developing resourceful hygiene habits, then it really can’t be beaten.

(Berneray)

Thanks to some very progressive outdoor access legislation, wild camping is tolerated all over Scotland. This does not mean that you can just camp where you like, or do what you like while camping. But it does mean that you can enjoy the marvelous landscapes of the highlands and islands as public spaces, rather than worrying about their status as private property. While urban Britain witnesses the rise of gated communities and private gardens; when our common land is daily eroded, degraded, and privatised; and when creative, productive, and community-oriented uses of wasted space are prosecuted as trespass, public access is something to be strongly championed. And, when one gets off one’s soapbox, one can enjoy glorious sights, in glorious spaces like this: from the cosy comfort of one’s tent, and completely alone.

(Harris)

Here are my top tips for enjoyable wild camping:

1. Do not build fires. I know there are good ways and there are bad ways, but burnt ground takes a long time to recover, and I feel profoundly depressed when I see blackened patches on the rare and beautiful Hebridean machair. We carry a lightweight stove everywhere, and it is excellent.
2. Be particularly careful about choosing your spot in Spring: do not camp near nesting birds.
3. Keep away from crops, and (I have to say after our only bad experience) conurbations, cliffs or outcrops.
4. Sheep very good. Cows not so good. Keep away from cows.
5. A bit of exposure is fine. Personally, I would rather camp in a gusty spot than in a damp valley — just as I would rather be buffeted by wind than attacked by swarming midgies. Secure your guy ropes and enjoy the blast.
6. Avoid other people. If you spot camper vans or tents steadily gathering in a likely location, then find another place. This is a matter of environmental sustainability as well as probable misanthropy.
7. Hygiene resourcefulness. Tissues and cleanser are an absolute necessity. And when all else fails (ie, you are on a three day walking trip, miles from any conveniences), you must, I am sorry to say it, face the evil rigours of the trowel (groan). Read this guidance issued by the lovely people at the Scottish Mountaineering Council.
8. Take as little as possible, and take the best stuff you possibly can. My essentials include: good boots, good 2 litre waterhose thingy; good down sleeping bag; wool socks, wool base layer, thick wool sweater, light wool shawl, wool hat, wool gloves. Oh yes, and (non wool) lightweight waterproofs. Obviously, I like wool. But, from close personal experience I can assure you that, quite unlike its much-touted man made counterparts (synthetic fleece and base layer) wool does not reek after several days of repeated wear. Tom thinks this may be a wool too far, but I do have serious plans to fashion myself a fully woollen and eminently serviceable winter walking outfit. More of this anon.
9. Leave no trace at all. Don’t camp in the same spot for more than a couple of nights, and remove all litter (including that of others, if you spot it). Yes, I am one of those people who gathers up other people’s sweet wrappers on mountain tops.
10. Enjoy the view.

(Lewis)

tea and knitting

For many of us, tea and knitting go together like . . . well, like tea and knitting. Personally, I can think of no better beverage to accompany the activity of knitting than what Dr Johnson (a great tea drinker) would have referred to as a dish of fine bohea, (or in my case, Yorkshire). Knitters love tea. Like many other shops, my local yarn store also serves tasty pots of tea, and does what can only be described as a roaring trade in tea cosies. This connection between teapot, yarn, and needles seems so self-evident to knitters that it has even inspired a recently published book of patterns (which I have not seen, so can make no remarks upon).

But I’ve been pondering the connection between tea and knitting in a rather different context of late, while reading about the knitters of nineteenth-century Shetland. We have all probably absorbed one stereotype of such women, from these frequently reproduced images of creel-laden figures, knitting while walking, and gathering fuel.

(postcard, c. 1910).

Through the second half of the Nineteenth Century and into the Twentieth, such postcards lent Shetland workers the status of picturesque curiosities (in a manner not dissimilar to those depicting Welsh women with spinning wheels and stove-pipe hats). Yet despite the novelty-value of such images, they reflected a certain reality, while also suggesting a (largely positive) notion of the women of Shetland as models of virtue, industry, and physical capability. This image of the Shetland knitter as an indomitable multi-tasker perhaps still persists, but far less familiar today is another stereotype — just as persuasive and pervasive in depictions of Shetland — of the women of those islands as inveterate addicts of tea.

In 1840, Edinburgh children’s author, Catherine Sinclair wrote about the “marvellous excess” of the tea drinking she had encountered on Shetland. Sinclair’s writing was generally lively and emotive, but on the subject of tea-imbibing working women particularly so: “the indulgence amounts to an absolute vice!” she remarked. Sinclair followed up these histrionics with a few examples of Shetland’s purported tea excess, including the story of “a poor man in the parish of Bressay, who had the expensive affliction of a tea-drinking wife, and was cheated by her secretly selling his goods to obtain tea.” For several decades after her book appeared, Sinclair was cited as the principal source of evidence for many other publications making similarly misguided claims about the crazed-tea-dependent women of Shetland. For example, her “poor man of Bressay” appears in Chambers’ 1854 Compendium, his story embellished as follows:

“Although intemperance in the use of intoxicating liquors could be cited as an unfortunate feature in some departments of the population, Shetland is still more remarkable for the ineconomic use of a beverage which is ordinarily considered the antagonist of intemperance -– I allude to tea. No kind of beverage is so much relished by the female peasantry of Shetland as tea. To get tea they will venture as great and unprincipled lengths as any dramdrinker will go for his favourite liquor.”

A couple of years later, Sinclair was cited again, backing up the claims of the Statistical, Topographical and Historical Gazetteer of Scotland that: “A passion for tea, to the extent of feeling the narcotic influence of the herb, seems so strong and general as to threaten that country [Shetland] with serious disaster.” In Sinclair’s tour, and in the host of other publications that followed her lead, the working women of Shetland were described as obsessed with, addicted to, and ruined by tea. Women had, in fact, made tea “the curse of Shetland.”

Tea was indeed the curse of Shetland, but not as Catherine Sinclair would have it. It was at the heart of the islands’ pernicious truck system, a legacy of the Dutch fishing trade, in which labour and goods were bartered rather than paid in cash. The merchants and shopkeepers of nineteenth-century Shetland had transformed tea into specie: the currency which women received in payment for their hard work — and that hard work was, of course, knitting. The fine hosiery and shawls that Shetland knitters produced were valued in tea, and paid in tea. Thus the claims of Sinclair and others that, “excessive indulgence [in tea] keeps the Shetland peasant lower in the scale of poverty,” completely missed the point. In fact, what reinforced the poverty of Shetland knitters was not tea-addiction or indulgence, but the fact that they received no other form of payment for their work. In the words of Lynn Abrams (to whom my discussion here is indebted): “The consequence of this system of payment was that hand knitters were forced to spend much time and energy turning the payment they received for their hosiery into items they needed, or into cash – – a family could not live on tea alone.”

Image courtesy of Shetland Museum and Archives, © R03026.

Truck had been illegal in Britain since 1831, but the law had proved notoriously difficult to enforce. In 1872, the UK truck commission visited Shetland, and their report makes sobering reading. Shetland women spoke articulately of the tyranny of knitting, and the baleful economic effects of payment in tea. Despite the findings of the commission, truck persisted in various forms on Shetland for several decades, and women continued to receive no other remuneration than undrinkable quantities of tea that they were forced to sell on to their neighbours at a loss. No wonder then that, in the words of Lynn Abrams again: “knitting evokes little sentimentality among Shetland women for they are conscious of its alternative symbolism — of the exploitation of women’s labour and skills by merchants.” Tea and knitting are one of today’s happy luxuries. But I’ll remember before I stick the kettle on that they were, in living memory, also the agents of women’s economic oppression.

Further reading / viewing:
I strongly urge anyone with an interest in Shetland knitting to read the chapter on ‘work’ in Lynn Abrams incisive and insightful Myth and Materiality in a Woman’s World: Shetland 1800-2000. (Manchester University Press, 2005). You can ask your library to order it, or acquire it on interlibrary loan if it isn’t locally available.
Alice Starmore, Book of Fairisle Knitting (1988). Happily for everyone, soon to be reprinted.
Catherine Sinclair, Shetland and the Shetlanders, or, the Northern Circuit (1840).

Also see:
Rosie Gibson, “The Work they Say is Mine” (1986). Award-winning documentary about Shetland working women.
Jenny Brown (Gilbertson), “Rugged Island,” (1934). Both films are available through the BFI.

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.