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 “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
 It’s a treacherous, undependable thing, this hind-brain of ours. One moment you’re feeling reasonably fine, and the next you’re weeping while you hang up your socks. Which is where I found myself recently, after blocking the latest gansey. It was unexpectedly emotional. It makes no sense, of course. I’ve blocked dozens of ganseys over the years and haven’t shed a tear. This time was different. This was the last piece of knitting that Gordon worked on, and there is a desire to cling to it. But that would be denying it its purpose. When it’s dry and unpinned, I’ll carefully fold and send it to its new home – keeping a thing won’t change the past or further the future.
 Willow in the Marsh So here it is in all its glory. Mrs Laidlaw is a classic and with good reason. It’s a cracker. The vertical panels of trees bordered by triangles provide a satisfying texture, with a complex play of light and shadow. The change of knitter is imperceptible on the second sleeve; if I didn’t have the photos, I wouldn’t be able to find the transition. The only significant difference was in the cuffs at the bottom of the sleeve. Even with the same number of rows, the cuff on the first sleeve is about 3/4” longer; my row gauge on ribbing must be tighter. To correct this difference, I’ve used T-pins to pin it to lengthen it to match.
 Flotsam in the landscape The other theme of the week has been the wind. It’s been nearly incessant. Although it’s sunny and calm today, there’s more on the way. It’s been booming and whistling around the house practically all week. At the beginning of the week, it was strong enough to blow down twigs and small branches. By mid-week, it was necessary to lean into a headwind to make any progress. Another day, schools were shut, and ferries have been cancelled too. But thankfully here in Caithness we haven’t been as badly affected as elsewhere. I’ve fully enjoyed today’s respite before the next wind- and rain-filled onslaught.
 First Flowers of Spring And finally, the signs of spring are evident to even casual observers. I was very pleased to find this small clump of winter aconites on my walk a few days ago, with their cheerful yellow cups and Kermit collars. Today, I spotted some snowdrops, up from the ground and ready to bloom, at the base of a hedge near the bridge. The roses are starting to burgeon in the front border – I’ll have to think about pruning them soon.
Roll on Spring.
 It’s been a cold week in Caithness. The snow first fell on Sunday night, firing a warning shot across our bows with a dusting of snow. Then it crept off to plan further attacks. During Monday, the flurries roamed over the county, like a band of guerilla fighters, or a fluther of jellyfish with long, trailing strands of snow. The snow varied from icy pellets to fluffy globules spinning down to rest on the trees and fields. By mid morning the weather was a bit more determined, veering between sunny and calm to snow showers of blizzard proportions. The weather was sending such mixed messages that I decided to stay in, and felt a bit cheated by afternoon when the flurries petered out and then ceased.
Passing Snow Shower More snow fell overnight, sliding in with stealthy unloadings, fly-tipping their cargo when we weren’t looking. But the winds had been slight and the trees had that upside-down, magical look of a fairy land that only happens when it snows. When I ventured out in the morning to enjoy the snow, there were a fair number of people out doing errands or enjoying the snow with their snow-day children. Some were sledging on any slope they could find, but I didn’t see any snowmen. On one path, there were drifts nearly up to my knees.
 Drifting on Lovers’ Lane More flurries came and went over the next few days, leaving an accumulation of about 8 inches. Birds sat in the trees and bushes fluffed up like newly shaken down duvets. The snowdrops were hidden under the snow. Then yesterday, the weather warmed, and there was rain Instead of snow flurries. With the melt, icicles started to form on the house, and the trees lost their tracery. The lying snow ceased to sparkle and became waxy and dull. As I write, it is about half gone, disappearing into the ground, like spilled coffee on a carpet.
The gansey is coming on apace. The cuff, all six inches of it, has just been started, and should be finished and blocked by next week.
 In other news, the above photo appeared in the local paper a few weeks ago, and I forgot to include it here. By way of explanation, each year the Wick Heritage Centre has an open day on 2 January, and Wickers come along for a mince pie and a natter. One of the activities is to have your photo taken in the ‘Johnston Studio’, where props from the original studio are usually on display. There’s vintage clothing to don too, to give photos a true old-timey look. This year, four of the ‘boat crew’, who sail and maintain the museum’s fishing boat Isabella Fortuna, had their photo taken wearing ganseys that Gordon donated to the collections.
Regarding the link to Gordon’s Celebration of Life service, I don’t yet have a link for the ‘official’ video. But one of the helpful ladies at Gordon’s work has put together a video containing the pre-service slideshow and the audio. The slideshow was paused during the service, so in many ways this is better as you’ll see more than the celebrant and the backs of heads. I hope this link works, let me know if it doesn’t.
The snowdrops haven’t grown much over the past weeks, but just seeing them is hopeful. Other plants are budding too – the hydrangea peaking over a neighbour’s wall, the greening iris leaves along the path, the shoots of daffodils, the roses next to the house. The river is still high, but the path is no longer impassably, deeply flooded. In places the path is covered in a wrack of grass stems, trodden down or intertwined with other grasses or wire fences. As a further sign of the change of season, the birds are starting to sing, and the crowns of the black-headed gulls on the river are changing to a dark brown.
 Snowdrops peeking Over the few days following the service, Gordon’s brother and I went on some drives around the county, visiting tourist hotspots and notspots. One stop was at a cold John o’Groats, because you can’t not visit when you’re this far north. It’s a pleasant drive to get there, passing dunes, bays, brochs, and bogs, finally cresting the hill a few miles away to see Orkney spread out before you, but the place itself isn’t that interesting.
 Rainbow at Camster Another stop was Camster Cairns, where the skies were steely dark with approaching rain. With the sun behind us as we faced the cairns, we were welcomed with a full, double rainbow. We didn’t get close to the cairns – the boardwalks were treacherously slippy from overnight frost. Our final stop of the drives was at Sarclet, one of Gordon’s favourite places. Much of the drive that day was through gatherings of fog, disappearing and reappearing on a whim like playful spectres, but at Sarclet it was clear. The sun was near setting, with a beautiful pearlescent light over the cliffs and sea.
 Sunset at Sarclet The list of ‘things to do’ to settle affairs is slowly being ticked off. As in the sense of, ‘I’ve marked these things as completed’, not ‘I’m so ticked off’ or ‘ he has been ticked off for misbehaving’. I’m following the principle of ‘one difficult thing a day’, which can include going to the supermarket, where memories abound. So many things don’t need to be purchased any more . . . but it is getting easier. Difficult things can also include writing Christmas cards, making phone calls, preparing and sending paperwork. It’s a bit whack-a-mole at times, where one task is completed only to have another pop up. But the mountain is being eroded, one grain of sand at a time.
In gansey news, good progress has been made on the sleeve. I’m nearly down to the cuff, where six inches of ribbing await. I’m still trying to figure out Gordon’s notes. It’s an ongoing puzzle, and this week I found I’d misinterpreted them, thinking there were far more decreases. One penny dropped when I realised that a circled number denoted the number of rows, not the number of stitches. Everything will make sense at some point, but at the moment I wish he’d left a key to the symbols!
As a final note, thank you so much for all your lovely, supportive, and heartfelt comments. I can’t possibly answer them all individually, but can only say to all of you how grateful I am for your support and confidence as I continue the blog.
During the break, I’ve been working on a sneaky side project. Last year, Gordon showed me some Christmas ornaments he’d seen online. They were clear globes with miniature pieces of knitting inside, complete with a little ball of wool and tiny needles. The stingy Yankee inside me said, “I don’t want to pay that much, I can make my own.” At the time, I sourced some clear plastic baubles, but didn’t buy any. This year, I re-sourced them, and bought some at the end of November. I hoped to get at least one done, with a mini gansey-in-progress inside, as a Christmas surprise. Even though there was no longer a recipient of the project, I decided to go ahead as a break from knitting the ‘big’ gansey.
Attendees wearing ganseys Gordon knit for them One little gansey (the blue one on the right) was complete by Christmas, but is too big to fit in the neck of the ornament – the 5-ply Frangipani is just a bit too heavy. The second one, in red, is of laceweight, with the same number of stitches. The third, in grey, is of Rowan Fine Lace, with fewer stitches. The two in baubles don’t lie well, so the pattern isn’t visible, and the one in red lace weight wool is too dark to see. But it was a worthwhile experiment.
As a complete surprise, the Wick Heritage Museum brought their gansey display, and set it up outside the room where the service took place. Gordon knit all but one or two of these. This past week, Gordon’s Celebration of Life service took place on Friday morning. It was a long, busy day for Gordon’s brother and me, from arriving at the venue at 10:15 to dinner with Gordon’s oldest friends in the evening. There was a few hours’ rest in the afternoon, of which we took full advantage. The service was well attended – all the seats were taken, and some were standing. People came from the south of England and Wales, or from within walking distance. A friend who viewed the service online said there were 50 attendees. So, if you were there, thank you very much for attending; I know it wasn’t the best timing for many of you. And if you couldn’t make it, I will update the blog with the link to the recording as soon as I have it.
 The service covered Gordon’s life and career from birth in New Zealand to becoming Nuclear Archivist, detailing his education and positions from east to west, south to north. I had honestly expected to break down in floods of tears, but having seen the service, tributes, photos, and chosen the music beforehand, this helped greatly to ameliorate bouts of sorrow. Some who worked closely with him were better at grasping the reality than I perhaps have been, and couldn’t hold back the tears. These next few months may well be more difficult than the last, but I know that with the help of friends and family near and far, I will make it to the other side.
 Nacreous cloud on Christmas Eve
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“C’mon, Pete, it’s time to get up!”
