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Filey IV, Week 2: 27 February

I was chatting to God the other day over afternoon tea, and I happened to ask Him about our Caithness weather: to wit, why it was so unpredictable. He smiled in an ineffable sort of way and brushed away a few crumbs from his beard—angel cakes with pink icing—and by way of answer pulled out a pack of greasy cards from inside his robe. When I turned them over I saw that each depicted a particular type of weather. Most showed heavy clouds, or rain, or gale force winds; a few showed all three. But some—perhaps one in a dozen—showed blue, cloudless skies and more or less unbroken sunshine.

Well, on Monday He shuffled the deck again and dealt us one of these. It was a bright, clear day, not much wind—for Caithness—and you could see for miles. Much too nice to stay indoors. So we jumped in the car and drove to Bay of Sannick, on the far northeast tip between John O’Groats and Duncansby Head. The bay sweeps round between those two points, all rocks and sand and sheep-cropped grass, and is as secluded as you could wish, with the land at your back and nothing before you but the open sea and the islands of Stroma and Orkney.

It was high tide, and the waves came rolling in, as regular as the grooves in a long-playing record, breaking on the rocks and exploding in a chorus line of spray all along the curve of the bay. Apparently seals sometimes come up onto the beach to laze about and bask in the sun, but there were none today; only flocks of seabirds riding the heaving swell. We’re pretty used to the sounds of the sea, the suck and sigh of the tide, but here another sound underlay it: the clatter of stones being rolled to and fro as the tide withdrew, rocks being ground down over time to tiny pebbles.

As you’ll see from the photos, I’ve now reached the yoke in the current gansey. The gussets are almost finished (at my standard rate of an increase of two stitches every fourth row), and in half an inch or so I’ll divide for front and back. But I’ve started the pattern, which will slow me down (all those purl stitches). This is a pattern I’ve always wanted to knit up. It comes from Gladys Thompson, page 33, and is her “Filey Pattern X”. She calls it “one of the best Filey patterns”—and I rather agree. It seems perfectly suited to the colour, too. (I’ll have more to say about the pattern next week, and will post a chart.)

Meanwhile in parish news, we have not one but two new ganseys to celebrate. The first is from Julie, in denim colour, and is a combination of patterns of her own devising. The second is from Judit, in cream, and realises the Filey lifeboatman’s pattern as a full-body design. They are quite different and each is splendid, and again go to show the infinite variety of ganseys and their patterns. Congratulations to Julie and Judit!

And outside the sun is still shining; but the wind has got up, and there are suggestions of some angry clouds on the far horizon. If I listen very carefully I fancy I can detect, just on the very edge of hearing, the faintest sound of a deck of cards being shuffled…

Filey IV, Week 1: 20 February

The sun happening to shine one day last week we packed up our troubles in our old kit bag, took it down to the river, filled it with a choice selection of heavy stones and threw it in. After waiting several minutes for the bubbles to subside—for if you’re going to drown your sorrows it’s as well to do it thoroughly—we went for a stroll over the ruined Castle of Sinclair Girnigoe.

Gordon explores the goe

It’s situated just a mile or so north of Wick, commanding the entire sweep of Sinclair’s Bay in a half circle from the stacks of Duncansby all the way round to the tip of the promontory of Noss. (Noss Head juts out in a narrow spike between Sinclair’s Bay to the north and Wick Bay to the south; with the ocean on three sides and the wind blowing it’s like standing on the bowsprit of HMS Caithness under full sail.)

Sinclair, or Girnigoe Castle is stunningly sited on one of the fingers of land that splay out from the coast in these parts (the name means the green goe, or inlet). Standing on the narrow sliver of rock, looking down at the sea angrily churning away at the base, the weight of centuries concentrated in just a few square yards of floorspace, you can’t help wondering how many men were lost down the centuries when they sleepily got up in the middle of the night and popped out to relieve themselves, never to be heard of again (only the sound of a medieval fly being unzipped, a despairing scream and a distant splash). Quite a lot of the castle survives and it’s obvious that, unable to expand sideways, the only way was up. Now after centuries of conflict the ruins are home to nesting seabirds—which seems appropriate, somehow: visiting a ruined castle is like looking at old school photos; it’s pleasant to be reminded now and then of something you’ve outgrown.

I have meanwhile started my next gansey project, a Filey pattern in Frangipani claret for an old friend. I love this colour: like so many gansey yarns, it changes hue with the prevailing light. Sometimes it resembles red wine spilt on a tablecloth; but then the sun floods the room with sunlight and it glows with a sort of ruddy luminescence, as though I was knitting a wooly cover for the Holy Grail. I have perhaps another week of plain knitting at this rate before I start the yoke.

Finally this week, I’d like to say thank you to everyone who’s been in touch, both below the line or by email, wishing me well in recovering from my present illness. Depression is an isolating feeling, and it means a lot to know that so many people care enough to let me know. So thank you; people can be very kind. And speaking of which, I’ve been thinking a lot about an old Cambridge University anecdote Stephen Fry relates in one of his books: as a philosophy of life it seems pretty good to me right now. It goes like this. One day a new Fellow of the College was being welcomed to the senior common room by the other academics; one took him aside and said, “A word of advice: don’t try to be clever. We’re all clever here. Only try to be kind.”

Castle Sinclair Girnigoe

Wick VI – Scottish Flag, Week 5: 13 February

First of all, the good news: I’ve finished the Scottish Flag gansey, darned in the ends and it’s now been washed and is pinned out on the blocking boards to dry. I’ve never knit a gansey in so short a time—I started it on 13 January and finished it yesterday, 12 February; all in all, less than a month.

Dunes at Dunnet

Secondly, the not so good: the reason I’ve been able to knit it so quickly is, of course, because I’m still signed off work. In fact, I’ve now been diagnosed as suffering from a form of depression. This was news to me: but I’ve had to learn that depression comes in many guises and can sneak up on you over a long period of time, dragging you down incrementally. (There’s a theory that if you place a frog in a pan of cold water and heat it up gradually, the frog will never actually realise it’s being boiled to death until too late; this is apparently a myth, but I think it’s a good analogy.)

Signs of Spring

I’m told I should make a full recovery, and to aid that process I’ve just started a course of antidepressants to return my serotonin levels to normal. (Touching wood, I’ve so far avoided the worst of the side effects such as blurred vision and nausea; though I do wake up each morning with a mouth that feels, and tastes, like a week-old cat litter tray, and I’m as tired as if I’ve been shot with an elephant tranquilliser.) But as far as I’m concerned, an illness is an illness—mental or physical—and to quote another doctor, if I’d broken my leg would I feel any differently about it? (And if so, why?)

Sleeve detail

Well. Returning to happier matters, namely ganseys, it was good to see them getting some publicity on the BBC’s Countryfile programme yesterday, even if it was only for a superficial 5 minutes, as John Craven visited Margaret Taylor, gansey knitter of Filey. For UK viewers the programme’s available on iPlayer, and the gansey feature comes right at the end.

Finally, I’ve been speculating on the Scottish Flag pattern of my latest gansey. In a certain light it reminds me of a skyscraper of glass office windows catching the sun; at other times the inside of an egg carton. My favourite idea is that you could also use it as a chess board, so that at quiet times in the fishing the skipper might say, “Fancy a game, Jim? All right, Gordon, lie down on the deck and we’ll get the pieces out…”

Wick VI – Scottish Flag, Week 4: 6 February

I read the other day that back in 1979 Mrs Thatcher, the late British Prime Minister, attended the premiere of the play “Amadeus” which shows Mozart as both potty-mouthed and immature, and was not amused. Afterwards she roundly upbraided the director of the National Theatre, Sir Peter Hall, for portraying the composer of such beautiful and profound music in this way. But Prime Minister, he replied, Mozart really did behave like that—he used obscenities. His own letters confirm it. But Mrs Thatcher was unmoved: “Mr Hall, I don’t think you heard what I said. It could not be!

Seaweed & Driftwood, Dunnet Beach

Now, given that Mozart’s catalogue includes the piece, “Leck mir den Arsch fein recht schön sauber” (K.231—look it up), I think Mrs Thatcher was talking out her—that is to say, I think she was mistaken. But the interesting thing is the way we can get an impression of an artist from their work that doesn’t necessarily tell the whole story.

When I listen to Wagner’s music, for instance, the long, ponderous operas about gods and legends, I can’t help remembering they were written by a man who used to slide down the banisters when he was happy, and do handstands, and climb the trees in his friends’ gardens for fun. Dvorak was a keen trainspotter. Beethoven used to count out exactly 60 beans every time he had a cup of coffee. Brahms was a notoriously shabby dresser and allegedly once had to use his tie to stop his trousers falling down. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, except that it seems to make their music more human, somehow.

Meanwhile in gansey news, while I’m still off work I’m continuing to make rapid progress. So I’ve finished the body, joined the shoulders with a standard rig ‘n’ fur shoulder strap, completed the collar and am a long way down the first sleeve. I may even get it finished by next time, but there’s a lot of knitting in a sleeve, so we’ll see. (As I’m knitting at approximately 8 stitches to the inch I picked up 144 stitches round the armhole, and am decreasing at 4 stitches every 11 rows.)

Waves at John o’Groats

In parish news, Mariah has sent me pictures of a splendid gansey knit for (and stylishly modelled by) her father, a striking combination of ladders, double moss stitch and cables; the colour really brings out the pattern very effectively. Many congratulations to Mariah, and apologies to her too for having to wait for Margaret’s return before we could post them.

And now I think I’ll go and listen to some Mozart. And imagine that, somewhere up in composer heaven, Margaret Thatcher is paying Mozart a visit and hasn’t yet realised that he’s put a whoopee cushion on her chair as he politely holds it out for her…