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 And so we find ourselves already 1/12 of the way though the year, and my phone informs me there are only 329 sleeps till Christmas, or about 500 if you include afternoon naps. Winter isn’t going down without a fight, though: we’ve had a weekend of winds of around 70 mph, and yet we can’t feel sorry for ourselves as so many others, here and in New England, have had it worse. Visitors to the house compliment us on our slate driveway, only to be told they’ve all come off the roof. It’s been wild. The only compensation is finding out what the neighbours have been buying, as all the street’s recycling is whisked out of the bins and scattered across everyone’s front lawns.
I was reading the other day about Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy (I’d been hoping his brothers were called The Bad and The Ugly, but sometimes history can be disappointing). Philip (1395-1467) is mostly remembered nowadays as a patron of Jan van Eyck, and it was his troops that captured Joan of Arc, whom Philip handed over to the English. But to me he will always be the man who renovated Hesdin Castle. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it? It was first built by Robert II of Artois (1250-1302), and under Robert, and then later Philip, it became famous for its practical jokes.
 The Herring Mart We don’t usually think of the Middle Ages as pioneers of vaudeville and the whoopee cushion, but perhaps we should. Hesdin featured such simple tricks as statues that sprayed water over anyone who stood in front of them, or a book of music that covered you with soot if you tried to turn the pages. One mirror invited you to see what you would look like covered in flour, and duly obliged. Other pranks were more elaborate. One window was designed so that if you tried to open it an automaton appeared, sprayed you with water, and slammed it shut again. In the grounds was a bridge that would tip people into the water below, surely the prototype for Blofeld’s piranha tank in You Only Live Twice. Compared with this, if you only encountered the mechanical talking owl you’d probably count yourself lucky.
 Waves at South Head Meanwhile in parish notices, this week we’re featuring this splendid gansey from John. It’s a Flamborough design, and features a combination of betty martin, cables, moss stitch and a variety of open, moss stitch and double moss stitch diamonds. It’s also very ably modelled by John himself. Many congratulations to John, and our thanks to everyone who’s shared their projects with us.
As I shelter from the wind, and scroll through Yellow Pages for suppliers of automata and soot, I’m making good progress on the Wick gansey, helped of course by the fact that’s it’s so much smaller than my usual commissions. The armhole came to 120 stitches in the round, not including the gusset; by decreasing 2 stitches every 5 rows I’ll have about 70 stitches at the cuff (i.e., after 16 inches), which I shall decrease down to 63-66 stitches for the cuff itself. Then we do it all again on the other sleeve.
 View from the end of the path Hesdin Castle was tragically demolished in 1553, presumably by a visitor who couldn’t take a joke. Though I expect guests knew perfectly well what they were in for, like contestants in a modern game show, and getting covered in soot or flour, or dumped in feathers, was all part of the experience. And it’s a bit like living in Wick: you never know when you’re going to get unexpectedly sprayed with water, or knocked off your feet. In fact, now I think of it, all we need are some mechanical monkeys in badger fur and we could revitalise the tourist trade at a stroke…
 I was walking past the dining room the other day when I thought I must’ve left the light on, it was so bright; only to discover that the cause was an unexpected shaft of sunlight. This tells us (a) quite a lot about Caithness winters, and (b) that spring is definitely on its way, even if it’s currently delayed by roadworks somewhere on the M6.
I’ve been reading about words this week, where they come from and how their meanings have shifted over time. Take history: from the Greek historia, it originally meant inquiry, and the knowledge arising from inquiry. Gradually it evolved to mean “the study of stuff that happened”, while story came to be associated with fiction. The his in history originally had nothing to do with the male possessive pronoun.
 Sarclet And I was interested to read that originally man just meant person. A male person was a wer-man, and a female was a wif-man. (Hence werewolf, which of course means man-wolf; which gives me an excuse to quote the great exchange between Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein when a wolf howls: “Werewolf!” “There wolf… there castle!”) Sometime after the Norman Conquest, wer-man shortened to just man, while wif-man lost the f and evolved into woman; and wif became a word in its own right, taking on the modern meaning of a married woman. (All of which just goes to prove that words are slippery little devils; and also that there’s almost nothing the English won’t blame on the French.) I suspect if Batman had been created in the Middle Ages we’d probably be calling him Bam by now.
Meanwhile, despite shafts of sunlight being few and far between, the gansey has its collar finished and the first sleeve begun. (N.B., credit for knitting the collar goes to Margaret—buttoned collars beyond the wit of man, or this man at any rate; a level of complexity that for me is rather like doing a Rubik’s cube while playing the piano.) Once I finish the pattern band I can freewheel down the sleeve until I reach [ominous organ chord] the cuff.
 View from the end of the riverside path In parish notices, it’s a double-header of Staithes ganseys this week to gladden the heart. First up is another stunner from Judit in red, and from Hannah in Frangipani navy. Staithes is one of my all-time favourite patterns—it’s a classic for a reason—and is probably the gansey I will choose to take with me on my journey to the afterlife (it may not protect me from my enemies, but at at least I’ll go down looking good). And these are cracking examples. So very many thanks to Judit, as ever, and Hannah, for sharing. (And apologies to everyone who’s contacted me in the last month or so with pictures or queries. You see, I’ve recently started a new role at work, and while it’s a blast it’s also very demanding; so much so that most evenings and weekends I just lie down in a coffin filled with soil from New Zealand to recuperate. So I’m sorry if you’re still waiting to hear back, please bear with me.)
 Ruin at Sarclet Harbour Finally, returning to history, it’s true that it doesn’t actually mean “his story”—as of course the feminists and others who coined “her story” and “my story” knew perfectly well. Their point was that history has traditionally been written from a male, privileged position, and it was time other perspectives were explored. Every generation has to write its own history, after all; and as one historian said, when accused to rewriting history at the height of the Black Lives Matter debate, “That’s literally our job…”
 At the time of writing, I’m about halfway through the course of medicine for (what I’m hoping is just) an infection on my vocal cords, and so far the only change I’ve noticed is that my sinuses feel like they’re packed with lead. You see, to give the medicine a chance to work I’ve had to stop taking a nasal spray for my mystery allergy. (I know I’m allergic to something, but not exactly what; I did the test and it’s not dust, pollen or cats—heavens! Can it be wool?) Anyway, as a result of stopping the spray I’ve got so much gunk in my sinuses I can only assume I’ve been caught up in a matter transportation accident, and have crossed my DNA with a snail.
 View of Wick I did have a moment’s unease when I learned that the medicine is most commonly used to treat fungal infections of—here one lowers one’s voice and whispers, in case there are any elderly aunts within earshot—those parts of a chap or chapess that do not normally see the light of day. (Yes, I know technically that includes the vocal cords, but you know what I mean.) I had to double-check the instructions to make sure I really was supposed to swallow them.
 Local Wildlife Meanwhile, in parish notices, over the last couple of weeks we’ve been sent several pictures of ganseys to share. Rather than splurge them all at once, we’ve decided to space them out for maximum effect. So here’s a partially completed one from Lee, a reader from Brittany in possession of a curragh, designing an “Aran gansey” to complement it based on an old photo from c.1920, using Breton wool. As regular readers will be aware, we usually only feature completed readers’ ganseys, but this one is well worth seeing. Lee’s provided some detailed notes on the project too which are well worth a read. Many thanks to Lee for adding another piece to the endless jigsaw that is traditional knitting, and we look forward to seeing the finished project (hopefully modelled in the curragh!).
 Burgeoning Snowdrops Finally, turning away from the (admittedly fascinating) topic of my health, I wanted to share with you the story of an amazing Native American woman: Buffalo Calf Road Woman (d.1879). I’ve been reading a book on Custer and the Battle of the Little Bighorn—I’d hoped there was also a Big Bighorn, and a Middle Bighorn which was just right, but sadly not—and learned about another battle that happened a few days earlier on the Rosebud River. In the summer of 1875 three columns of soldiers were marching on Sitting Bull’s village: one moving north, another east and Custer working west; the one coming north was the first to run into a force of Indians and battle was joined. A Cheyenne warrior, Comes in Sight, was wounded and trapped in no-man’s-land between the Indians and the soldiers, with the soldiers trying to finish him off. Whereupon his sister, Buffalo Calf Road Woman, braved the gunfire and rode down to where he was, caught him up and took him back to safety. She also fought at Little Bighorn, and the Cheyenne credit her with striking the blow that knocked Custer off his horse. And though her story ultimately ends in sadness, as that of so many Native Americans did, she has her place in history—so that while to the soldiers the first battle was known as the Battle of the Rosebud, to the Indians it was remembered as “the Battle Where the Sister Saved her Brother…”
 Just before sunset
 I returned to the hospital in Inverness this week to see another consultant and get the results of my various tests. And it’s good news (mostly).
As I walked into the consulting room I noticed a large computer screen with several photographs of what was evidently my throatal area; I had a general impression of pinkness with a large black blob in the centre. Oh Lord, I thought: if that black thing is malignant, no wonder they’re concerned. The consultant asked me to sit down and said (rather ominously) that we’d come to the photos presently. Meanwhile the biopsies had come back inconclusive but none of the cells showed any abnormalities. Was I now or ever a smoker? No. Did I use an inhaler? Did I get acid reflux? Yes and yes. Had my voice improved over Christmas? Also yes. Then she did that sneaky trick of sliding a camera up a nostril and down the throat (and how it gets there, as opposed to, say, exiting through an ear, still baffles me) and took a shufti.
 Marsh by the path Finally she showed me the photos, and I was relieved to discover—I’ve said before that biology isn’t my strong suit—that the big black blob was in fact (ahaha) my oesophagus. Close up, my vocal cords resemble a wishbone; the right side is smooth and sort of buff-coloured, but the left, which is the problem, looks more like an octopus’s tentacle, pink with white nodules. Anyway, she thinks this might be an infection (and not something more serious beginning with “c”). She’s going to put me on a course of medication to see if it clears up, and I go back for a service and MOT in three months. Meanwhile, we keep our fingers crossed…
 Backlit reeds …or we would, if that didn’t make knitting needlessly challenging, and an intricate dark navy gansey in midwinter is already challenging enough. I’ve finished side A, and have turned the record over to side B. And even though it’s a smallish gansey I’m pacing myself, trying to get as much done as I can in the hours of daylight (about 90 minutes on a good day if it doesn’t rain).
 When I got the good news from the consultant I was minded to do my best Harry Potter impression and start styling myself “The Boy Who Lived”. But that, I felt, would be tempting Fate (and not only because I had images of wrapping the car round a tree on the way home, Fate as we know having a nasty sense of humour); after all, I’m still waiting on the results of last week’s chest scan, and there’s also the question of the shadow they found on my thyroid. Even so it’s a huge relief, and I can’t help tempting Fate a teeny bit; so I’ll leave you with the words of Ancient Pistol in Henry V, when he and his companions go to visit Falstaff on his deathbed (and things worked out pretty well for them in the play, I believe): “Let us condole the knight—for, lambkins, we will live!”
 Well, here we are, a brand spanking new year just out of its wrapping to play with. Sometimes I look for a sign from Fate to indicate what the new year might bring, so there was great anticipation when we turned on the tv the other day. It was a nature documentary on ants, and David Attenborough declared, “The males will soon achieve their purpose and die”; and I thought, wow, bit harsh there, Fate. And what, I wondered, is my purpose anyway, and how will I know when I’ve achieved it? In the ants’ case it involved mating with the Queen, which seems rather a long shot; though I’ve written to Windsor Castle and am just waiting to hear back.
 Snow in Sunlight, the Cairngorms One of my purposes is obviously knitting ganseys, and I know I’m not done yet because I still have patterns to try and plenty of yarn to knit them with. Or else I get a commission which comes with its own yarn, as in the present case. I’m revisiting the celebrated Wick “trees and diamonds”, one of those marvellous Caithness patterns, last seen when I knit it in Frangipani Cordova a few months back. I’ve reworked the pattern slightly, as this one will be somewhat smaller: I’ve kept the centre panel roughly the same, but have scaled back the flanking trees and lost a couple of cables and the edge panels. It’s a rare treat for me too, as I’ve been given some vintage Poppleton’s navy yarn to make it with: a real blast from the past, which feels a bit like attending the Last Supper and being presented with a bottle of wine someone had saved from the wedding at Cana.
 Willow by the path In parish notices, Rebecca has sent us a selection of pictures of ganseys she’s been knitting, some familiar patterns and others less so. They look amazing, and if you ever wanted some inspiration for your new year’s knitting you’ll find plenty there. Many congratulations to Rebecca, and many thanks for sharing them with us all!
We had a slightly truncated Christmas away as I had to be back in Wick for another scan, this time of my chest and throat. I was duly hooked up to yet another needle—this took a while, as I’ve had so many tubes inserted recently it’s a challenge finding a patch of unpunctured skin—so I could be injected with a contrast dye to enhance the images. I was then slotted into a device that resembled a miniature Stargate while the nurses left the room.
 Redshank on the search The scan itself only took a few minutes. An automated voice like a Dalek sergeant major barked out helpful instructions (such as “BREATHE!” and “STOP BREATHING!”) and then it was over. Once the images were checked and approved I was allowed to leave, taking with me, apart from some indelible memories, the contents of my stomach (something of a first in my dealings with the medical profession), a migraine, a queer metal taste in my mouth from the dye, and a bruise on my arm roughly the size and colour of an eggplant. (The migraine and taste wore off next day; the bruise will take a little longer, as I watch it spreading slowly across my forearm like an exploding supernova.)
I don’t know the results of all these tests and biopsies yet, but “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” is my current motto; or in other words, as I’m not (or wasn’t the last time I looked) a male ant, I shan’t tempt Fate, but will keep my head down for now and carry on knitting. Here’s to healthy and happy 2022 for us all!
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And so we find ourselves already 1/12 of the way though the year, and my phone informs me there are only 329 sleeps till Christmas, or about 500 if you include afternoon naps. Winter isn’t going down without a fight, though: we’ve had a weekend of winds of around 70 mph, and yet we can’t feel sorry for ourselves as so many others, here and in New England, have had it worse. Visitors to the house compliment us on our slate driveway, only to be told they’ve all come off the roof. It’s been wild. The only compensation is finding out what the neighbours have been buying, as all the street’s recycling is whisked out of the bins and scattered across everyone’s front lawns.
