Gansey Nation

‘Yet man,’ as Eliphaz the Temanite observes in the Book of Job, speaking of things that are inevitable, ‘is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward’; and in much the same way, no sooner has the Thurso gansey been completed than another has appeared on my needles to take its place. (I’m not entirely sure how it happens: basically, I go to bed and when I come down next morning there they are, apparently cast on by the gansey fairies in the night. Or else it’s the woodlice.)

This is going to be another of those generic Scottish Fleet patterns that can’t be pinned down to a particular place – it appears in Sabine Domnick’s book as “between Hull and Edinburgh”, and a variant was also recorded in Whitby. (N.B. – not much hope of identifying a drowned fisherman wearing this pattern, hmm?)

I’ll post the pattern when I get to it, but this is going to be another plain body / patterned yoke design, like the Thurso one. (It’s being knitted in Frangipani seaspray; but my iPhone seems to think it would look better in light blue, so that’s how the photo came out, god rot its shrivelled metal soul.)

Dunnet Beach and Dunnet Head (archive photograph – your summer may vary)

Now, I’ve been threatening for a while to post some archive pictures of myself Morris dancing, and this seems as good a time as any. They were taken about 25 years ago when I was with the Brackley Morris Men—a time when I could still see my toes, let alone touch them, and waists weren’t just something that happened to other people. Morris dancing is a ritual folk dance dating back to who knows when (“time whereof memory of man runneth not to the contrary”, as my favourite legal saying puts it) and somehow it’s survived the industrial revolution, the First World War and the supplanting of Christianity by football as the national religion of these islands.

Gordon (right, front) leads formation surrendering

Why is that important? I don’t know, but it is. It’s like knowing that Wednesday was Woden’s Day, or that Thurso was the town on Thor’s River; that Caithness derives its name from being the headland (ness) of the Catt People, a Pictish tribe. The echoes resonate down the centuries even if the meaning is lost.

Some enchanted evening… Gordon dances a solo jig while Margaret plays pipe and tabor

Well. It’s many a year since I last shook a bell in anger and my hair, unlike Mr Eliphaz’s sparks, has fallen like the autumn leaves; but I could probably manage a step or two yet. What’s that? Well, if you insist…

There’s one thing more needing mention / The dances we’ve danced all in fun / So now that you’ve heard our intention / We’ll play on to the beat of the drum…

Summer has come to Caithness; at least I think it has. Certainly the tourists have started to arrive—they’re the ones you see huddled under awnings, peering out through curtains of rainwater, watching their hats, snatched off their heads by a playful tornado, vanishing somewhere in the direction of Siberia, and wishing they’d brought a jumper, or a coat, or a return ticket.

It’s all a bit disappointing. While the rest of the country has been basting like a turkey in the heat, with people shedding clothes like autumn leaves, we’ve still got the central heating on; whenever the weather map of the country has sprouted yellow suns like a field of daffodils, Wick’s been permanently hidden under a dark cloud, like Mordor. (This, of course, adds weight to my theory that the reason orcs are bandy-legged is not genetic but due to rickets, caused by not getting enough Vitamin D from sunlight.)

At the Jardin du Canal du Midi

Oh, well. Margaret’s been off enjoying la bonne vie in the south of France (see her Blipfoto link for pictures to make you jealous), while I, a Cinderella who never got invited to the ball—not that I fancy a glass slipper, mind you: think of the damage you’d do if you stubbed your toe and it broke, it’d be like strapping a steak knife to your foot and going skating—have been knitting; and rather a lot, at that.

I’ve finished the back; finished the front; knit the shoulders together; completed the collar; and started the first sleeve, even managing to get the upper arm pattern band done. Altogether, this has been one of the easiest ganseys I’ve ever knit, which may be the reason it’s gone so quickly. Everything’s just clicked (something of a relief after having to abandon the last one halfway).

I decided to make the sleeve chevron the same size as its counterpart on the body—it is quite large, and I wondered if it might be a bit overpowering on a sleeve, but it seems to fit in so far.

Quaint? Yup! And there’s wifi at the cafe!

In parish notices, there are some more baby pictures from Den, whose Filey gansey is entering the home straight in fine racing form, and Judit, who’s started a new project, which also happens to be one of the many Filey patterns that’ve come down to us.

I was talking to someone this week, and he mentioned an acquaintance, an old fisherman, who had once had several ganseys his mother had knitted for him—but who had thrown them out years ago, for what was the use of keeping the old things? So when I think of the numerous patterns that we have for Filey (and Flamborough and Polperro, and all the rest) I thank heavens for Rae, and Gladys, and Michael, and Mary et al.

Finally, in a few days the St Fergus Gallery next door to us is holding its annual exhibition of old photographs from the wonderful Johnston Collection. This year one of the themes will be fishermen in their jumpers, and I’m loaning them two or three of mine so they can show visitors what ganseys looked like in the flesh, as it were. Fame at last! (Though you never know—unless the weather improves soon I might be nipping next door and “liberating” one, just to stay warm…)