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 Curtains. Until the other day, they were not a nemesis.
As a bit of background, when we new windows were installed last summer, the lounge curtains had to come down. I planned to get them cleaned or, even, possibly, to get new curtains altogether. The curtains had been very nice curtains once, but after multiple owners (they came with the house), they had seen better days. After being taken down, they were piled on the floor, then pushed into a corner, and finally taken to the dry cleaners in the autumn. It was about three weeks before they were ready, due to their size and weight. By this time, Gordon had gone into hospital. Expecting he’d be back home by Christmas, I thought how nice it would be if the curtains were up when he came home. They would have to come down again when the painter came to paint the bare wood surrounding the new windows, but I thought it was worth the effort. But of course, Gordon never did come home from hospital, so the curtains didn’t go up.
 View from the end of the path At the end of January, the painter started work, and is now nearly finished. The lounge was finished on Friday, and we re-installed the new, uber-sturdy curtain rail. Saturday afternoon I rehung the drapes, using the painter’s stepladder, which he had kindly left for my use. Being both taller, sturdier, and less wobbly than mine, it made the task easier. The curtains still don’t look the best, due to missing curtain hooks, so there are unexpected bulges. But they slide silkily smoothly on the new curtain rail, compared to the old plastic curtain rail, which was not really up to scratch for supporting big heavy curtains.
 More snowdrops As I was descended the ladder, I remembered my initial intentions for hanging the curtains, and understandably it made me very sad indeed – that Gordon wouldn’t be here to enjoy the new blinds in the lounge, nor the newly hung curtains, nor the new windows, nor the immaculate paintwork. He had been quite pleased with the blinds, which he’d specifically requested. The lounge faces south, and at certain times of year the sun is blinding. With his eyesight difficulties, the blinds were the perfect solution. So now when I go into the lounge, I look at the windows, and think how Gordon would have appreciated and enjoyed the rather swish combination of new windows, freshly painted surrounds, new blinds and cleaned and rehung curtains.
 Ovine Indecision The gansey is coming along, and every week there’s a better sense of the glory of this dark pink shade. The body is only a few inches longer than last week, but even so the length above the ribbing is nearly halfway done. I expect progress to slow significantly when I get to the yoke and start the stitch pattern. Although I knit more quickly than Gordon – using the continental style – I am knitting less in terms of time. But one advantage of doing miles of plain knitting is that my continental knitting is getting more efficient, so I’m going even faster. Hopefully this will carriy over into the stitch pattern, where maybe I can get faster at purling too.
 It was St Valentine’s Day this past week, a day for pairs. This of course can create potholes in the path of those un-paired or de-paired. When I entered the local supermarket on Tuesday morning, I was as mentally ready for it as I could be. I’d seen the red and pink displays in previous weeks, lurking in wait just inside the front doors. There was still a twinge, although we never really ‘celebrated’ St Valentine’s day – perhaps we’d buy ourselves a small treat, like a book or a craft item. It was simply a reminder of a pairing that had been lost, a de-pair-ment.
 Storm-tossed Further into the store, the next eye-catching display was for Easter – chocolate bunnies, creme eggs, chocolate chicks . . . and Easter Eggs. Little ones in little bags, medium ones with a surprise inside, big hollow ones with extra chocolates. It caught me unprepared. Gordon always wanted a big chocolate egg for Easter, and it was mandatory that I have one too. After a few deep breaths and wiping tears away, I passed by – there was nothing on this aisle I needed.The gansey is coming on, a bit more slowly this week.
‘Ocean currents’. Multiple exposure of foam in the river While I knit, I’ve been listening to talking books, keeping up our custom of listening to one of an evening. The current audiobook is a history of the medieval world. So far it’s covered Europe and Asia, starting with the end of the Roman Empire. The author has elegantly aligned the timelines of the various kingdoms and cultures of Britain, Scandinavia, continental Europe, the Byzantine Empire, the Middle East, and North Africa, eastward to China, India, Korea, and Japan, providing a concurrent view of events. It’s very dry at times, but one little story stood out.
 Back yard snowdrops During the reign of Charlemagne (768-814), King Offa, he of Offa’s Dyke, ruled the kingdom of Mercia in Britain, whose kingdom ranged from the Welsh Marches in the West to the East Anglian coast, from the Humber in the north to the Sussex coast. Late in his reign, he had some gold coins minted. On one side there are mysterious symbols. On the other side, it says ‘Offa Rex’ surrounded by a design – but if you rotate it 180°, it reads ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet’.
 Offa’s dinar. (c) British Museum What happened here? The author Susan Wise Bauer surmises that due to a lessening in political tensions between the Abbasid Caliphate, based in Baghdad, and their neighbours to the north on the shores of the Caspian Sea, Arab traders were able to travel north safely. These merchants took their coins with them, which were stamped with ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet’, in Arabic script. This little coin then travelled north through eastern Europe to the Baltic Sea, and thence westward, eventually coming into the hands of King Offa’s silversmith, who copied the linear designs from the Arabic coin onto the Christian coin of King Offa. And because the silversmith didn’t realise the pattern was a script, he engraved the design on the die upside down.
And finally, last week I forgot to include a pic of the very happy recipient of the last gansey:
I was listening to the radio the other day – a classical music station from somewhere in the world is playing at various times of the day – and I heard a word I’ve wondered about for quite a long time. Since I was in university in fact. The word is ‘branle’, which refers to a line or circle dance common in Renaissance Europe, or the music written for it. In English, it is commonly pronounced ‘brawl’. Which has always set me to wondering – is it actually related to the English word ‘brawl’?
A bit of digging on the internet has revealed some clues. The original word – branle – comes from the French verb branler, to shake or brandish. In English, as a verb it came to mean ‘To agitate, toss about, bandy’ but wasn’t frequently used. It was more often used as a noun, referring to the dance. There are instances of the noun also being used to mean ‘Wavering, agitation, (?) confusion’.
 A Walk in the Snow How does this relate to ‘brawl’, which would seem to have no connection to a dance from the courts of Europe in the 16th and 17th centuries? The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that one meaning of the word is possibly from the French ‘branler’, to move from side to side., and indeed one of the definitions of ‘brawl’ is ‘a particular pace or movement in dancing’. This shows that from the late 16th to mid 19th centuries ‘brawl’ and ‘branle’ can mean the same thing.
Yet if you dig a bit further, the earliest uses of ‘brawl’ in English appear in the 1400s, with pretty much the same meaning it has today, of ‘to quarrel noisily’ or ‘to make a disturbance’. The word has an uncertain origin.
So, during a certain period of the English language, ‘brawl’ and ‘branle’ were synonymous, but at the same time ‘brawl’ could also have its other meaning of quarrel or disturbance. But it isn’t farfetched to surmise that the meanings mingled somewhere in the mists of time, as ‘to make a disturbance’ and ‘to agitate’ are not too distant in meaning.
As keen observers will see, the gansey has reached that awkward toddler stage of tottering on its feet, unsure of how long it will be able to stand upright before falling down plump on its backside. The branle of the ribbing is complete, wavering back and forth on the ribbing, knit two steps forward then purl two steps back. The colour revealing its beauty now there is a good chunk of it – a deep soft hue of pinky-red that is neither girlishly pink nor brashly red.
 Two Ravens The weather, too, has been leading us a merry dance. Here in Wick, we had a coating of an inch; further north in Thurso there was more, and Orkney had up to eight inches. On the days without snow, there were gale force winds. But the aconites and snowdrops are now blooming with abandon, and other plants are peeking through the soil. Caithness is so ready for spring.
 “C’mon, Pete, it’s time to get up!”
“Don’t wanna. Let me sleep . . . zzzzz.”
“They’re waiting for you, Pete!”
“Don’t care. It’s cold out there.”
poke poke poke
“All right, all right, I’ll get up. mumble mumble . . . Crikey, it’s bright out here! Where’s my breakfast?”
This scene, oft repeated, could easily apply to any teenager throughout the land on a Saturday morning. But this time, it’s that poor groundhog, Punxsatawney Phil, and all his fellow weather-casters – Ms G in Massachusetts, Stonewall Jackson, Essex Ed and Otis the hedgehog in New Jersey, Malverne Mell and Great Neck Greta in Long Island, Staten Island Chuck in Staten Island Zoo, French Creek Freddie in West Virginia, and many others – who have been disturbed from their winter’s sleep to predict the coming of spring.
 St Fergus’ through the hawthorn The tradition originates in German-speaking areas of Europe, where Candlemas – the Christian feast of the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple – was marked with a ceremony similar to Groundhog Day called Dachstag. The luckless predictor in this case was a badger, or Dachs. German settlers in the US, particularly the Pennsylvania Dutch, continued the tradition, substituting groundhogs for badgers.
Alas, these rodents are not particularly reliable. Punxsatawney Phil’s success rate is 39%, and only 30% over the past ten years, according to NOAA. Perhaps a young person would be more accurate. Potomac Phil, in Washington DC, changes it up a bit. A taxidermic groundhog, he also predicts six more months of political turmoil and gridlock, as well as predicting the coming of spring. The politics in Washington is probably easier to predict than the weather.
 Gorse To roughly coincide with Groundhog Day, I’ve started the next gansey. This one is for one of the museum volunteers, and is in the cheerful hue of Frangipani Crushed Raspberry. It’s a shade of deep pink, and will probably look more red when it’s knit up. The pattern, which will be on the yoke, after 4.5 inches of ribbing and many inches of plain body, will be Donald Thomson of Thurso, from Rae Compton.
How do I know all this? I knew who the next recipient was, and that the colour and size had been worked out, but where was this information?. I looked high and low, under and over, and finally found Gordon’s rough notes for it. Honestly, it was like finding the Holy Grail. The sheet contains everything I need to know to get started – the pattern, the measurements, the length of ribbing, and most importantly, the number of stitches to cast on.
And casting on should be simple, correct? In my case, no. It did not go to plan. I could not believe it when a couple of rows had been completed, only to find that there were 50 – yes 50 – fewer stitches than needed. There had been a twist in the join, too. To rectify the cast on, I unpicked it back to the starting stitches, added the 50 stitches needed, untwisted it, and counted multiple times. The moral is to avoid anything that needs brainpower after 8:00 p.m.
 Hawthorn
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Curtains. Until the other day, they were not a nemesis. 
