needled

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, here is the whole black and white outfit:

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

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

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.

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.

We went on a jaunt to the National Museum of Costume outside Dumfries, to see the “Hip Knits” exhibition. In the Museum’s permanent collections, there were some fabulous nineteenth-century dresses and shoes on display, but my favourite thing of the day was this:

incredibly fine linen whitework, backed with pink silk, and made by one Jenny Grant in 1724.

I have to say that the so-called knitting exhibition was something of a disappointment. As it was being held in a branch of the National Museum of Scotland, and given the rich variety of knitting traditions Scotland has to boast, I was hoping to see at least something about the history and techniques of Scottish knitting. But no. There was not a Sanquar glove, a Shetland shawl, or a Fair isle Sweater to be seen. The emphasis of the exhibition was firmly on the contemporary commercial appeal of machine knitted and woven woollen products. This would have been fair enough if there had been some sort of curatorial direction as to how to interpret the objects on display. But the viewer wasn’t given any sort of context to aid understanding of the small range of garments arranged about the room. A catalogue, or display cards, might have told us, for example, about the history of machine knitting and weaving; the emergence of distinctively Scottish modes of textile production; the evolution of industrial techniques; the importance of different regional knitting traditions, and so on. But there was very little of this nature for the viewer to get a handle on. There was no exhibition catalogue, and the information on the display cards told us only, in the briefest of terms, about the designers and producers of particular garments.

Donna Wilson’s Cuddly Clouds

While there was an overkill of the sort of brightly coloured, machine knit cashmere that tourists to Scotland seem to find endlessly appealing, objects and artefacts made in distinctive locales by innovative new Scottish designers were relegated to the edges of the exhibit. The most interesting things there (for me at least) were Donna Wilson’s witty machine knitted objects (Wilson also collaborates with the successful Orkney company Tait & Style) and Andrea Williamson’s beautiful muffler, influenced by both Shetland and Scandanavian design traditions. I liked looking at these things, but I wasn’t sure, in the end, what sort of relationship I was meant to conceive between these objects and the Vivien Westwood suit made up of jigsaws of woven tweed, or the pair of turquoise cashmere knickers. And while one could buy, in the musuem gift shop, Sarah Dallas’s Scottish Inspirations , in the exhibition proper one saw very little Scottish hand knitting at all. In the end, all these “hip-knits” said to the viewer was: here are a few woolly things that happen to be made in Scotland. And given how vital and intriguing the contemporary world of Scottish textiles is at the moment, that’s not really saying enough. . .

On a different sort of wool-front, the spring fields were alive with sheep and lambs all the way from Edinburgh to Dumfries. I ate this non-woolly one.

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.

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. . .

Today was very bright — just the day for a walk — so we went to Melrose and ascended the Eildons. Each of the hills has a very different character. I don’t know about King Arthur sleeping under the Eildons but there were certainly lots of rabbits beneath the most westerly one — the ground was riddled with warrens. All around us, the Borders were laid out like patchwork, and despite the freezing wind, the light was very beautiful:

The landscape has suddenly become very wintry indeed — the heather burnt from the hills and the bracken all brown and cripsy. Most of the trees we saw today were bare like this one:

But below us in the valley we saw one still covered in yellow leaves:

Shining stoically in the thin afternoon light, this tree seemed the last gold thing of the year.

. . . but there was actually one more golden thing . . .and we certainly needed it after walking up and down three hilltops:

A tasty fat rascal I bought in Bettys yesterday while visiting the Knitting and Stitching Show. In fact, I even managed to fit some textiles into today’s proceedings: following Helen’s recommendation, we visited Hinnigans in Selkirk on the way home . . . more of all this later . . .