Gansey Nation

I had root canal work on my first premolar bicuspid last week and, you know, it could have been worse. Although this might come as a surprise to people who know me, the hardest part was actually keeping my mouth open that long; in fact, coming in at about 40 minutes, the procedure was both shorter and less painful than my last performance appraisal. I’m not saying it was fun—there are few more disconcerting sights than a dentist fitting the sort of drill bit you’d use to countersink a screw—but nothing lasts for ever. (Besides, with my upper lip completely numb from the anaesthetic I had a golden opportunity to hone my impersonation of Jack Nicholson playing The Joker; always a bonus.)

Hill o’ Many Stanes, nr Mid-Clyth

For many years I was afraid of dentists. This wasn’t an irrational fear: one of my earliest memories is of a school dentist whose drill slipped and ripped into my lower gum. When my father came to pick me up from school I was still visibly upset, but for some reason, humiliated and ashamed, I couldn’t tell him the truth about what had happened. Instead I stupidly made up a story about being bullied, which of course only made things worse: for my father, fiercely protective of us, immediately stormed me back into school to confront this bully and sort it out.

Ruined cottage near Mid-Clyth

I can’t remember now how it all ended, which probably means that nothing really bad happened (I suspect my father soon realised the truth and tactfully let it drop). But I do feel mildly aggrieved that the many happy hours I must have spent as a child have vanished from my memory like breath off a mirror, while stuff like this is always there—most vividly around four in the morning. (Well, that and questions such as what happens to elderly vampires who’ve lost their incisors, and where could they go to get dentures fitted? But mostly the bad memory stuff.)

Anyway, I took a couple of days off work for the procedure, and for some quality gansey time. And lo, great was the knitting thereof: I’ve finished the back and am well embarked on the front. I’m keeping my powder dry for now regarding what shoulder straps I’ll employ, but at the rate I’m going I should get to them next weekend. As I mentioned last week, the pattern is one of the very best. There’s something almost organic about the texture; it strikes me as the kind of thing the creature from Alien would wear, supposing it was short of a few bob and decided to have a try at the herring fishing for a change…

On Wednesday it will be the solstice and the longest day. The real meaning of the summer solstice is, of course, that we’re already halfway to Christmas—it’s the first wobble of the yearly spinning top, a sort of memento mori for the summer. Don’t enjoy this too much, it seems to say: yes, that punnet of strawberries still lies ahead, that lazy afternoon on the riverbank hoping to catch a glimpse of Ratty and Moley out for a row, but so eventually does that pair of extra-thick thermal long johns that make you look like an over-inflated balloon animal.

In Wick the sun will rise at 4.04 am and set at 10.23 pm. All across Britain people will gather at sites laden with sacred significance, such as Stonehenge and Milton Keynes, and watch the sun rise in perfect alignment with ancient symbols, viz., stone monoliths and a shopping mall respectively. In accordance with Caithness tradition, here the ritual will be slightly different: instead we’ll take an astrolabe and a set of astronomical tables and try to work out where the hell the sun is, since it will probably be hidden behind a wall of grey cloud.

In gansey related news, I’ve almost finished the plain knitting of the body. My ideal length for a gansey is about 28 inches: 4 inches for the welt, 12 for the body, 3 for the start of the yoke and the gussets, 8 for the rest of the yoke, and finally one inch for the shoulder strap. At least I’ve now decided on a pattern (it’s one of my favourites but not one I’ve knitted for many years); all will be revealed next week.

Grand Union Canal near Gayton

And now I see the sun is out after all. I suppose I really should go outside and enjoy it; but then all these Christmas cards won’t write themselves…

Summer has come to Caithness, for a given value of summer. As a result everything’s fluffier: the ducklings on the river now resemble little tennis balls with legs, and the hedges and trees and fields are all thicker, lusher, greener, stickier. The sun rises at 4.11 am and sets at 10.11 pm—which means the birds start doing their morning exercises three hours before the alarm goes off, and it’s so light at bedtime it feels like it’s still the middle of the afternoon. Sleep at this time of year, you will have guessed, is very much an optional extra.

Caithness summers are so brief—sometimes barely even an afternoon—that living through one is a little like watching a time-lapse film. At this time of year a sharp east wind still comes in off the sea and it’s amusing to see the world become divided into two camps: the locals, who stroll nonchalantly about in shorts eating ice cream; and the tourists, who wear anoraks and cling drunkenly to flat surfaces like shipwrecked mariners who’ve abandoned hope of ever seeing their loved ones again. You see them at John O’Groats making a dash for the famous signpost, staying just long enough to get a photo and then running back to the car, as though there’d been a radiation leak from Dounreay and they only had 60 seconds before they caught a lethal dose. 

Laid out to dry

One advantage of these light evenings is that I can sit by the window and knit a yarn as dark as navy till 10.00 pm, and still see perfectly well; this explains why I’m zipping along despite being back at work full time. (I should start the yoke pattern in a fortnight’s time, around the summer solstice, i.e., maximum daylight for any fiddly bits. I still haven’t settled on a pattern, though I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of my favourites, both of which I’ve knit previously: one of them—gulp—over 20 years ago.)

Finally, in a week that’s seen precious little to smile about, I’d like to share with you one of my favourite jokes. I’ve seen it in various versions, and applied to various nationalities, but this is the one I learned, and it’s from Finland. Two Finns go into a bar and order two drinks. They sit at their table in silence for a while contemplating their drinks. After an age one of them picks up his and says, “Cheers!” The other one looks at him reproachfully and says, “Hey! Did we come here to talk or did we come here to drink?” [Dedicated to all our Finnish friends—hyvä terveys!]