Gansey Nation

I read a headline in the Guardian newspaper online this week, which stated that the French finance minister had warned that if we vote to leave the EU it would result in the “Guernseyfication” of Britain.

Well, I thought, at last! Finally someone has recognised the importance of the gansey-knitting vote, and I read on eagerly to discover more about how circular knitting would replace sports in the national curriculum, with modern languages dropped in favour of teaching three needle bind-offs. Hitherto a staunch member of the Remain camp, but scarred as a child by the physical and mental torture of cross-country running and irregular verbs, I prepared to switch my vote.

Black Guilemot in the harbour

Imagine my disappointment when I realised that all he meant was that Britain would be as important internationally as the island of Guernsey. Quel—as we students of modern languages say—dommage. No wonder people have lost faith in politics.

Oh, well. We rise on stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher things, as the poet said—in this case to a navy gansey with a rather fetching leaf pattern. I have finished the back and am about to embark on the front, which will (probably) be identical, so if you like you can go on holiday for the next fortnight and not feel you’ve missed anything important.

Front garden foxgloves

This is one of those designs that when the light catches it just so the pattern stands out like medieval pillow mounds in a field illuminated by the low winter sun, and what seemed like random bumps in the landscape suddenly reveal themselves as a definite pattern, snapping into clarity like one of those 3D magic eye puzzles. (Of course it means when you wear it you have to keep shifting position through the day so the sun is always coming in over your left shoulder, but that’s a small price to pay, I feel.)

This week we received a lovely visit from Song and Chris of this parish. Unfortunately the weather more closely resembled someone spraying a fire hose into a wind tunnel than the kind of thing you might expect if you looked up “summer” in a dictionary. The wind and rain at John O’Groats came hard from the north—due north, so that any tall straight object (lampposts, a phone booth, and once, when he stopped moving, Chris himself) acquired a curious thin, straight “shadow” of dry ground stretching away southwards.

Wool on the hoof

There’s a scene in the Lord of the Rings where the quest is defeated on the mountain of Caradhras by malign storms of snow and bitter winds—I wonder if Tolkien ever visited Caithness in June…? But if nothing else it reminded us why ganseys were invented; also, of course, why so many people have moved elsewhere.

In parish notices, I’ve been contacted by Tina of the Cornish Gansey Company. Their strapline is “heritage knits to make, wear and share”, and that’s exactly what they offer, traditional and contemporary patterns and kits, as well as designs by Liz Lovick and others. Please check out their website, and pass the word around: and we wish Tina every success.

Finally this week, Lois has sent me pictures of a very elegant lace beaded shawl she’s just completed, whose colours, style and pattern remind me of very expensive things I’ve seen draped over mannequins in Cape Cod boutiques. A doffing of the cap is due to Lois for such a splendid creation, and many congratulations.

And here it is—our homage to Fergus’s gansey, washed and blocked and ready to go, the patterns properly visible at last. (And bearing in mind that the original is even more detailed, and more finely-knit, than this, you really have to doff your cap to the original knitter.) You know, the more old photos of Wick fishermen I see, the more convinced I am that Caithness provides a “missing link” between the Scottish Fleet patterns of the mainland and those of the Hebrides.

I read with sadness this week that Dave Swarbrick, the great English folk fiddler, had died aged 75. Other major cultural icons, from Bowie to Muhammad Ali, sad losses all, have naturally dominated the headlines; but it’s the passing of Swarb, as he was affectionately known, I find, that has touched me most deeply.

His music has been part of the soundtrack of my life for over 40 years. I saw him play live any number of times: in small, intimate folk clubs with Martin Carthy and Simon Nicol, or at the Fairport Convention reunion festivals at Cropredy, near where I grew up. (The abiding image of his playing was, apart from the effortless ability, the way he kept jerking his head around, chin jutting out, as he tried desperately but unsuccessfully to prevent ash from his cigarette falling onto his violin; well, that and the vast round of drinks on a nearby tray…)

Thurso from Holborn Head

Anyway, in honour of his memory, here’s a link to the classic Fairport track Crazy Man Michael which he wrote with Richard Thompson, from their 1969 album Liege and Lief. The fiddle is perfectly understated, accompanying but never dominating, giving the singer (the late, great Sandy Denny) and the lyrics room to breathe. Other tracks demonstrate his skill more flamboyantly, but this shows how delicate and sensitive he could be.

Well; the world is a little bit smaller today. RIP, Swarb.

Finally this week, a historical anecdote that made me smile. It’s from Iain Sutherland’s book on the Caithness fishing industry. He tells of a pompous harbour trustee in the 1920s who used to stand self-importantly down at Wick harbour, as if overseeing all the activity, but really not having a clue. One day a tourist searching for a public convenience came up to him and asked if he knew where the Urinal was. The trustee scanned the crowded docks lined with boats before asking, “Is that a motor boat or a drifter…?