By way of distracting myself from my toenails—which, if allowed to grow, end up more like a selection of Swiss army knife blades made out of keratin than anything human—and the cutting of which, as I get older, increasingly resembles someone trying to defuse an explosive device using robotic arms while trying not to sneeze—we took a trip over the border to the lovely coastal village of Helmsdale in Sutherland. It was a fine day, so we parked in the middle of the village and went for a walk a mile or so up the strath, along the banks of the broad, shallow River Helmsdale. We’d hoped to see some wildlife, and in a way we did, for every hundred yards or so there was a fisherman up to his knees in the water, casting his line.
Sandy Goe
I remember when I was little reading something about the art of fly fishing, how the fisherman “pitted his wits against the wily salmon”; and even at the tender age of twelve that struck me as odd. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have the highest respect for the pastime and those who practice it—it’s the closest humanity has come to turning meditation into a sport. But I can’t help feeling that, generally speaking, a random specimen of genus homo and species sapiens ought to be able to defeat salmo salar in a battle of wits, surely? It’d be like me boasting that I beat a labrador in a game of Monopoly; or scoring higher than, say, an ocelot in a cognitive test that might be considered hard even by an American president.
Fly Fishing at Helmsdale
You never see a salmon knitting, either; I suppose the yarn would get too wet. Anyway, I continue to make good progress on the Flamborough gansey. I’ve finished the back, and am well embarked on the front. The speed at which I’m knitting can be explained by two things: this gansey is rather narrower than the ones I usually knit, so the recipient will have to swear off junk food for the foreseeable; and as I’m working from home I can use my commuting time and coffee breaks to knit a row here and there, which results in half an inch extra a day by this stage.
Heading Out
Now, about that duel of wits with a salmon. Try asking it to count to twenty and I bet it’d struggle, even if it took its socks off—that’s one nil to humanity. But ask me to navigate my way back to the breeding grounds where I was hatched without GPS and I’d be hard put to it—that makes it one all. Let’s see what another US President, George W Bush, had to say in 2000 on the subject: “I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully.” Hmm. Tell you what, let’s call it a draw…
I’ve been thinking recently about famous last words—not, I hasten to add, because I plan to utter any in the near future, but rather because there are more of them around than I’d imagined. Of course, we all know Oscar Wilde’s witty last words: “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.” (Although knowing Oscar’s habit of preparing his witticisms carefully in advance, I have a vision of him being carried in extremis from hotel to hotel until he found a room sufficiently ghastly for his quip.) In terms of dying as you lived, the French grammarian Dominique Bouhours is one of my heroes. As he expired he said, “I am about to—or I am going to—die: either expression is correct”.
On the deck
Imagine going down in history as a black joke, your last words revealing how badly you’d misjudged things. This happened to the American Civil War general John Sedgwick, who berated his men for taking cover under fire with the immortal words, “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist—”. Running him close in the misplaced optimism stakes we have William Pitt the Younger, British Prime Minister, whose last words were, “I think I could eat one of Bellamy’s veal pies.” (Spoiler: he couldn’t.) It’s also a good time to settle old scores. Told that his time was short, the Spanish playwright Lope Félix de Vega Carpio memorably exclaimed, “All right, then, I’ll say it: Dante makes me sick!”
Hogweed at Sarclet
Leaving last things for a moment, it’s time to ring in a new gansey. It’s another old favourite, Flamborough III in Frangipani pistachio yarn. I’ve amended the pattern slightly by narrowing the diamonds from the previous time I knit it, because the intended recipient is somewhat less broad across the beam than yours truly. It’s a truly classic pattern, one of the best, and the pastel shade really suits it. (Of course this isn’t really week one: I’ve been beavering away quietly on it for the last few weeks.)
Duncansby Stacks
Staying green for a moment, Judit has been busy in Finland, turning corona-lockdown to advantage. She’s sent pictures of this green gansey, a future Christmas present. The pattern is taken from Beth Brown-Reinsel‘s book, and is a really effective combination of bands of different patterns which set each other off to a “T”. Congratulations once again to Judit! And a reminder that if anyone has a completed gansey they’d like to share, please send us pictures (completed ganseys only, I’m afraid).
Turning back to last words, the French, as ever, do it with the most style. Take the philosopher Bernard de Fontenelle. His last words were the marvellous, “I feel nothing, apart from a certain difficulty in continuing to exist.” (To be fair, this is how I feel most Monday mornings.) But pride of place surely goes to the celebrated atheist and writer Voltaire—or it would do if it were true, which it probably isn’t; but, as another man once said, unless it turns out he didn’t either, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend”. Where was I? Oh, yes: Voltaire. On his death bed, and urged by a priest to renounce Satan, he is alleged to have told him, “Now, now, my good man; this no time to be making enemies…”
I’ve mentioned before my deep and abiding love for fountain pens. I think of buying one anytime I feel low in spirits and in need of a treat to cheer myself up (about four times a day on average). They’re tools of such elegance and beauty that even writing a shopping list becomes a pleasure, doubly so if you’re out of chocolate biscuits. The best pens have gold nibs, and you can buy superb examples that will last a lifetime for about £80-£150; above that and you’re mostly paying for a fancy barrel (there are hand-painted Japanese pens which get me into trouble with the tenth commandment) or rare editions.
Wildflowers at Nybster
There’s a simple way to find out if someone is a fountain pen addict: tell them you’ve seen one for sale for £525. If they say, “What, are you nuts? It’s only a pen for chrissakes!” then you know there’s still hope. If, on the other hand they say, “Actually, the more expensive model costs £725, so when you think about it it’s really a saving of £200, keep them talking while I get my credit card”, then they’re probably past saving. This is, alas, a true conversation I had with myself recently, the pens in question being Montblancs, the most famous luxury pens on the market. It came down to an argument between my good and bad angels, with the bad angel fighting dirty. (“Listen, you know Gabriel the recording angel? He’s a friend of mine, you think he uses a biro?”)
I already own a couple of luxury pens by the celebrated German company Pelikan. They’re lovely and write like a dream; plus the whole barrel is the ink reservoir which you fill by means of a piston mechanism built into the end; not only does one filling last for ages, but on a slow day you can happily spend hours filling and emptying it, back and forth, hypnotised like a cat staring at goldfish. The only downside is, they’re almost too nice: I daren’t take them to work, where I do most of my writing, in case I drop them or lose them. They mostly live in their boxes, which seems a pity. So did I buy the Montblanc? Reader, I did not. (What, are you nuts? It’s only a pen for chrissakes!) I bought a different pen at half the price, very nice but not excessively so. Now, about those hand-painted Japanese pens…
As you can see from the photo above, the gansey is in the process of cardiganification. Margaret will now take over and explain the process.
Firstly, the gansey is blocked, as you saw last week, with the stitches for the steek basted closed.
Secondly, the centre line is marked with basting thread of a different colour, and then the basting for the steek is removed.
Step 3
3. Machine stitch a line of stitching either side of the centre line. I’ve used a fancy stitch on the machine but you could use a triple zigzag or regular zigzag.
4. Moment of truth. Get your scissors out and cut between the two lines of stitching (see main pic, above).
Steps 5 & 6
5. The edges were wrapped in bias binding made of silk organza. The machine-sewn edges shouldn’t ravel, but the bias binding gives a nice finish.
6. Baste the centre opening closed. Press the basted seam open.
Step 7
7. With the gansey wrong side out and on a flat surface, place the zipper face down over the basted seam. Pin in place, then hand baste. If the zipper’s too long, position the excess at the neckline.
8. Hand stitch the zipper using matching yarn.
9. If there is excess zip at the top, trim it to about 1.5 inches. Fold it under the seam allowance and secure.
Step 8
10. Check the seam allowance at the bottom of the zip. If it shows below the bottom edge of the ribbing, stitch it neatly so it is hidden on the inside. In this instance, the outside and facing have been duplicate-stitched together.
Step 9
11. Remove the basting. Give the zip a bit of a steam if it looks a bit irregular. If the seam allowance on the inside is a bit floppy, stitch it down with herringbone stitches. In addition to the zip, I’ve added a neck stay of elastic encased in bias binding, to discourage the neckline from getting too floppy.
There’s an Old English poem, Deor, each stanza of which ends with the phrase Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg. (“Þ” is the Old English letter thorn, used for a “th” sound that doesn’t use the vocal chords, as in the word thorn. It was used alongside the letter eth, or “ð”, which has a voiced “th” sound as in the word either. Try saying thorn and either aloud and you’ll see what I mean.) The line means roughly, “That has been overcome, this also may”. It had a particular significance for JRR Tolkien, who translated it as, “Time has passed since then, this too can pass”.
Foxglove
The poem’s been in my mind recently as Scotland prepares to come out of lockdown. Every day brings a new sign of a return to normality. Shops are reopening, or being made ready. The boats in the marina, rocking idly in their moorings these many weeks, are now hives of activity, as bald men in overalls freshen the paintwork, batten down mainbraces and splice scuppers, or whatever it is nautical people do. The town’s seagulls have a particularly rapacious look, like gangsters planning a heist, as they wait for the tourists to come flocking back; in Wick, “gullible” takes on a whole new meaning. Already the anxious days of April seem like another lifetime. But, unlikely as it seemed back then, everything does indeed pass; time marches on, and while physicists may have proved that time is an illusion, as a wise man once observed that doesn’t make them late for meals.
Even knitting a gansey doesn’t last forever, although sometimes it feels like it might. The Robin Hood’s Bay cardigan is almost there: the knitting at least is over, it’s been washed and blocked and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d to its proper dimensions. Now all that remains is the surgery to make it into a cardigan. When I look at it I feel it’s something of a high point in my knitting career; that maybe now I should, like Prospero, break my needles, and bury them certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my sorrows kittens books.
More Creels
Incidentally, speaking of Old English poems, there’s no getting around the fact that they are, on the whole, on the gloomy side. Even if an Anglo-Saxon scribe had tried to write a limerick it would probably have ended up something like this: “There once was young man from York/ Who died in the wastelands eaten by wolves/ Such was his wyrd/ So pass all the world’s joys/ Into eternal darkness and despair”. Who’s had it worse: us or the Anglo-Saxons? They had plague and Vikings to contend with; we’ve had the Brexit referendum, [insert the names of a US president and a British prime minister of your choice here] and New Zealand losing the cricket World Cup final; now we have a pandemic. It’s a close call. But I guess the message isn’t their bleak worldview, but rather their grudging light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel-ish-ness, which we can at least take inspiration from: Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg. Or, if you set it to music, Let the good times roll…
By way of distracting myself from my toenails—which, if allowed to grow, end up more like a selection of Swiss army knife blades made out of keratin than anything human—and the cutting of which, as I get older, increasingly resembles someone trying to defuse an explosive device using robotic arms while trying not to sneeze—we took a trip over the border to the lovely coastal village of Helmsdale in Sutherland. It was a fine day, so we parked in the middle of the village and went for a walk a mile or so up the strath, along the banks of the broad, shallow River Helmsdale. We’d hoped to see some wildlife, and in a way we did, for every hundred yards or so there was a fisherman up to his knees in the water, casting his line.
Sandy Goe
Fly Fishing at Helmsdale
Heading Out
