Gansey Nation

So there we are: 6 January is past, the Feast of Epiphany and Twelfth Night, and all the decorations and tinsel are packed away; Christmas is officially over, departing like a  travelling funfair, and we’re left to wonder if that packet of magic beans was really worth blowing the kids’ college fund on after all.

Rainbow at Dunnet Beach

Epiphany is also the day that traditionally marks the visit of the three wise men to the nativity of the baby Jesus. The wise men were Zoroastrian magi, which is of course where we get our word magicians from. Their names, if I remember correctly, were Caspar, Melchior and the Great Zucchini, and they brought gifts of gold, frankincense and a selection of comedy noses and some pigeons tucked up their sleeves.

Joking aside, I always feel there’s a genuine poignancy in the story of the visit of the magi: for the Zoroastrian religion was one of many that got swept aside by the new faith of Christianity. So the story of the nativity not only represents the manifestation of divinity in the affairs of men: but it also shows the old order giving way to the new. These wise men would be among the last of their kind.

Walking the dog

Also coming to an end is the current gansey: I have finished the first sleeve and am almost halfway down the second. With a fair wind I should finish it this week, then will just have need another week or two to darn in all the loose ends (serves me right for using 100g balls). You’ll have to wait a bit to see it blocked, I’m afraid: Margaret’s going to be away for a couple of weeks.

The ghost of ganseys present…

Meanwhile, and bear with me here, I wonder if you’ve ever bought any wool that was possessed? It seems to have happened to me. I was cheerfully working my way through one of the balls of yarn on its holder the other day when I happened to turn round and saw a face leering back at me. It gave me quite a shock, I can tell you.

Well, few things are more disconcerting than being sneered at by your yarn. It was rather hard to concentrate: I kept wondering if I was going to be visited by three ghosts and told to mend my ways. But I kept working away, invoking the protection of St Blaise, the patron saint of wool combers, and with every length of yarn I drew from the ball the more worried the face became; until it finally dissolved into a shapeless tangle and the spirit was released with a low despairing moan, probably to haunt some polyester sweaters in Marks and Spencer.

U

Anyway, in commemoration of Epiphany I leave you with the traditional carol as I learned it as a schoolboy in Northampton in the 1970s (in fact there were other versions: this is one of those best suited to mixed company):

We three kings of orient are,

One in a taxi, one in a car,

One on a scooter blowing his hooter,

Smoking a fat cigar…

I’m writing this on Boxing Day (Monday), and Storm Conor is shaking Caithness like a terrier with a rat between its teeth: there are winds up to 70 mph and vicious showers of sleet, hail and rain.

This is our second storm in three days, after Storm Barbara blew through on Christmas Eve—I was dimly aware of noises on the roof around midnight and the muffled sound of sleigh bells; I listened anxiously for Santa but there was only a sudden gust of wind followed by a distant “Ho, ho, hoeeuuaaarrrggghhhhh” and that was that.

Still, Christmas morning offered a brief respite, so we went up to John O’Groats. Looking out over the North Sea under leaden grey skies you really do feel that you’re standing at the end of the world—which, in a sense, you are, of course.

Stroma gleams in the morning sun

There’s a scene towards the end of the Lord of the Rings when the riders of Rohan come to the rescue of the besieged realm of Gondor, and in the battle Eomer believes that his uncle and sister have been killed. Seized with a beserker death wish he rallies his men with the world’s greatest battle cry: “Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world’s ending!”

Well, I always picture the host of Rohan several days’ later sitting on their panting horses at John O’Groats, staring at the bleak expanse of the North Sea. Eomer looks round and observes, ‘Well, it’s the world’s ending all right—kinda ruined, too. Hmm, wonder how it all worked out back at Gondor? Ach, it’s probably fine, yeah: now, who wants ice cream?”

Gordon impersonates . . .

In gansey news, I have slowed down a little but not much: so that I have finished the first side and am over halfway up the second. At this rate I should manage to get the shoulders joined this week. It’s going to be long—about as long as a cricket sweater, I think—but I can always fold up the ribbing the way they used to in the old days.

. . . George M McKay.
Courtesy Wick Heritage Society

Finally, I’d like to thank all those who’ve read, commented or made a donation this year: as my favourite Anglo-Saxon saying goes, “Everyone who cries out wants to be heard”—so thank you. See you next year! And to quote the traditional Somerset Carol:

God bless the ruler of this house and long may he reign,
Many happy Christmases he live to see again!
God bless our generation, who live both far and near
And we wish them a happy, a happy New Year.

(Well, it was either that or “Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the year’s ending!”…)

I’ve been signed off work these last few days with a chest infection and stress, which is probably mostly down to overwork. I was aware I’d been running on empty for some time—the cold that refused to die was a bit of a clue—though I’d hoped to make it through to Christmas. But then I suddenly reached a point when my body more or less shut me down, and that was that.

Apart from the infection, which sometimes feels like a fat and lazy cat is lying on my chest, the other symptoms are not dissimilar to what I’ve read about shellshock, if I can be forgiven so extreme a comparison; and given they used to use shellac to make the wax seal resin of very old documents I’ve coined a new word for stress experienced by archivists: shellac shock.

It’s not a very nice feeling, to be honest. But after a week’s resting up I feel much better, to the extent that I’m no longer going through three or four handkerchiefs a day. I’m well enough to potter about the house, although climbing the stairs currently requires a team of sherpas, some huskies and a plentiful supply of oxygen.

In keeping with my biography in What Archivist Monthly (“his hobbies include ganseys, creative writing and brooding”), I’ve been doing a lot of knitting—and I mean a lot. To be honest, there’s not a lot else I can do right now: I can’t concentrate for long on reading or writing; and besides, the therapeutic benefits of knitting are well known (and, I can now testify, accurate).

So, here we are, well into the pattern and embarked on the underarm gussets. The usual way with yoked ganseys is to start the yoke pattern about the same time as you start increasing for the gussets. But interestingly a number of the old photos of Caithness fishermen in the Johnston Collection show the pattern starting several inches below the gussets, like this one does.

It’s not always easy to tell, mind you—partly because of the resolution of the pictures, and partly because a number appear to have very long ribbed welts which are folded up, reaching almost to the armpits (I’m guessing this was done to provide greater insulation?). Anyway, you can see the original photo of Donald Murray in his gansey here. And, although it’s not possible to replicate it exactly (different yarn, needles and gauge), here is Margaret’s recreation of this distinctive Wick pattern.

Finally this week, some sage advice I’ve been following from Merlyn the magician, in TH White’s wonderful The Sword in the Stone. The young boy nicknamed the Wart is unhappy on a dreary wet day and goes to see Merlyn, who he finds knitting himself a night-cap for the winter:

“Oh Merlyn,” exclaimed the Wart, “please give me something to do, because I feel so miserable. Nobody wants me for anything today, and I just don’t know how to be sensible. It rains so.”

To which Merlyn replies sagely: “You should learn to knit.”