Gansey Nation

Did you know that there’s an Archangel in charge of weather? Uriel, his (or her, or its) name is. And this is jolly useful information, because it’s always good to know who to blame. We’ve had a week of snow and ice, temperatures at or below freezing, and lethal, ungritted roads; then, just when some normality would have been nice for a change, the thaw arrived in the shape of gale-force winds and driving rain. I can’t help feeling that somewhere in heaven an archangel is sniggering nastily, like a seraphic version of Muttley.

When I was ill last year—exactly a year ago, as it happens—I found salvation in knitting: it gave me a focus and a creative outlet and a chance to sweat the poison gradually out of my system. It was a habit that’s been hard to break. But I’m knitting a little less intently now and finding time for other activities: and one of these is exploring the history of Caithness.

For instance, the name Caithness comes from the Old Norse Katanes, and means the Ness (or headland) of the Cats (named after the Pictish tribe who lived here before the Vikings, the Catti or Cat People). The Gaelic name is Gallaibh, which means the People Who Wear Sunglasses and Listen to Freestyle Jazz. (No, not really: the truth is rather sadder. It means, “Among the strangers”, i.e., the Norse—a whole history of dispossession captured in a single wistful name.) 

The name of Wick derives from the Norse word for a bay or inlet, vik—as in viking (“a frequenter of inlets”). This is why “Wick Bay” alway gives me such pleasure, as it’s what’s called a redundant place name. These are names, usually in two or more languages, where all parts mean the same thing. My favourite is probably Bredon Hill (“Hill hill Hill”); but there are hundreds around the world. Loch Watten, just up the road from us, means “Lake Lake” (vatn is Norse for a lake); and of course there’s the classic River Avon (“River River”). Place names seem to accrue like sedimentary layers of rock, each one rich in history, myth and misunderstanding; just like people, really.

Sky at Night: Sirius and Orion over Wick

Anyway, as I said, I haven’t been knitting as much, and not just because my hands have been so cold. Still, I’m up to about 12.5 inches above the ribbing. Many thanks to everyone who suggested measurements last week: I think we reached something of a consensus between us, and who knows?—in another week it will be time to think about gussettination; possibly even patterns. Be still my beating heart!

Finally, here’s another quirky wee factette about Caithness, which is (honestly) allegedly true: the first cart (as in horse and cart) ever to be used in the county didn’t arrive till 1785, imported from Fife. Before that they just slung panniers on their horses, those hardy little Highland garrons. Then, within a few years, heavy horses were being used. (Typical Caithness—putting the cart before the horse…)

Sinclair Bay from Reiss Beach

I fell into conversation this week with one of the young persons at work, who’d noticed that I use a fountain pen and wondered why. I explained that fountains pens were easier to write with than ballpoints, and cheaper (after the initial outlay—the cost being all in the nib) than felt-tips; and that this was just a cheap pen for work. What, she then asked, was the most expensive fountain pen I owned? “About £350,” I told her. Seeing her stunned look of disbelief, I told her with a smile that I’d once owned a hifi that cost more than my car. She stared at me for a long moment, then said, “What’s a hifi?”

Sometimes I think there should be a law against young people.

Castle Sinclair Girnigoe

The gloom lifted on Sunday so we went for a walk round the castle of Sinclair Girnigoe on Noss Head, just north of Wick. Temperatures had dropped below freezing overnight, so all the puddles were glittering with ice and even the muddy track was rock-hard, as though Elsa from Frozen had thought, Oh, the hell with it, and just gone back to bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a trashy novel, leaving the kingdom half-frozen. (Speaking of Frozen, you know you’re not the target audience for a movie when you find yourself wondering about the kingdom’s lack of a proper regency council and system of government instead of joining in the songs. I know: I really should “let it go…”)

Into the castle

Like all the best castles, Sinclair Girnigoe has a splendidly bloody history. The most famous story tells that George, the 4th Earl, had his son imprisoned there in 1577: after seven years he decided to have this son killed, which he managed by feeding him salt beef but not letting him have any water; after a few days, not surprisingly, he died of thirst. (I’m not aware that there is any actual evidence to support this story which, as an archivist, makes me a little suspicious. But it says something about the earls of Caithness that it was the 5th Earl, not the 4th, who managed to earn the title “Wicked Earl George”…)

In gansey news I’m advancing resolutely up the body, though returning to work after the Christmas break has slowed me down. (Abraham Lincoln once described one of his generals after a heavy defeat as being “confused and stunned, like a duck hit on the head”—a pretty exact description of me last week.) Still, even with just a few rows each night, it all adds up to tangible progress.

Finally just a word of sympathy to all our readers on the eastern seaboard of the United States, currently experiencing extremes of cold and snow and ice; and in Australia, at the other extreme of soaring temperatures. To all those affected by adverse weather conditions, we hope you can stay temperate; and, above all, stay safe.

Local wildlife – a blackbird

It being Christmas Morning I went to see my old friend Ebenezer Scrooge and wish him the compliments of the season. I found him in his chambers eating a thin stew before a meagre fire. He was still in his nightclothes, and the tassel of his cap as he bent his head to the bowl dangled like the light of a pilot fish.

“Sit down, my friend, sit down,” he cried on seeing me and gestured to an armchair. “Just move all those out of the way.”

I placed an untidy heap of correspondence on the floor and took my seat.

“Letters from the poor,” he explained with a grimace. “Philanthropy never stops. Why, I had two gentlemen come to see me only yesterday asking for donations: they’re getting up a fund to send the poor on holiday to Florida this Christmas.”

“And did you give anything?”

“Advice. I told them, if people would rather go to Disneyland Railroad Mickey’s Toontown, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population at Tesco’s checkouts—the self-service checkouts too, mind you, not just the ones in the aisles.”

“But what’s this?” I asked, nodding at his meal. “Alone on Christmas Day?”

“Oh, I’m not invited to my nephew Fred’s any more. Not after the Unpleasantness involving the whoopee cushion, Tiny Tim and the cat. After all, how was I to know the cat was pregnant?”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say Mrs Fred wasn’t the only one who had kittens and leave it at that,” he said darkly.

I had noticed that he kept glancing anxiously at the clock.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

“The Spirit of Christmas Yet To Be,” he said. “I’ve already had the other two.”

“What, again?” I exclaimed in surprise. “Are you still being haunted?”

“Oh, yes. Every year. It’s not that I’m ungrateful: but the Spirit of Christmas Past always insists on watching The Muppet Christmas Carol and joining in the songs, and as for the Spirit of Christmas Present—” He broke off darkly. “He eats all the best candy, leaving me with the nougat and, yes, see here!”

Scrooge produced a tub of sweets and rattled it to show how few were left. Prising off the lid he squinted inside, then threw the box on the floor in disgust. “Bah!” he said. “Humbugs!”

Just then there was a knock on the door, “Oh, Lord,” Scrooge cried, “here he is! He always wants to play board games and listen to the news. I wouldn’t mind, but he sniggers when they preview the football since he already knows who wins.”

“Well,” I said, “I’d better be going.”

I got up and opened the door. A dark shape stood without, shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand which clutched a half-empty bottle of Bailey’s. A box of Monopoly was just visible beneath its robe.

“He’s mucked about with the tokens, you know,” Scrooge was grumbling behind me. “A top hat, yes; a thimble, fair enough; a dog, why not—but honestly, have you ever seen a Monopoly set with a miniature grim reaper? I mean, it’s hardly seasonal, is it?”

I glanced at the spirit. For the first time the hand appeared to shake; but, it seemed to me, with silent laughter.

Behind me Scrooge murmured sadly, as if to himself, “And he builds graveyards on his properties, not hotels.”

I closed the door behind me and left them to it.

And so, as Tiny Tim once observed, God Bless Us, Every One!