Gansey Nation

Come gather round, O best beloveds, for to hear the story of how the Norse gods of old stole the mead of poetry from the jötunn (or giant) Suttungr, and why there are so many bad poets in the world. Like so many Norse myths it’s a dark tale of deception, betrayal and murder; but unlike most of the other myths this one also involves bird poo. So let’s begin (and no, I’m not making this up, though you might wish I was by the time we reach the end).

Falmouth, MA Congregational Church

At the end of the war between the gods of Asgard (the Aesir) and the Vanir, the two sides made peace. This they sealed by each spitting into a vat (as you do). Out of all this spittle they created a man, whose name was Kvasir, who was full of wisdom. Kvasir roamed the world, dispensing wisdom and knowledge to all who asked. But one day Kvasir came to the hall of couple of very wicked dwarfs called Fjalar and Galar, who killed him and drained his blood into three great vessels. They mixed the blood with honey and brewed a magical mead, which turned anyone who drank it into a skald, or poet, and a scholar, but they kept it for themselves.

Cape Cod autumn colour

Fjalar and Galar (for whom now I think about it the word wicked seems insufficient, and perhaps serial killers would be more appropriate) next killed a jötunn called Gilling, and his wife. But Gilling’s son Suttungr came after them, and as compensation for the death of his parents took from the dwarfs the Óðrœrir, the mead of poetry. He also refused to share it with anyone, and hid it under a mountain where it was guarded by his daughter Gunnlod. Now, Odin, Allfather and ruler of the gods of Asgard, came to learn of all this. By various disguises he tricked his way into the mountain where he assumed a handsome shape and seduced Gunnlod, persuading her to let him sip of the mead so he could be inspired to sing her praises. But instead he drank it all and, transforming himself into an eagle, flew away. Suttungr heard Gunnlod’s lament and at once changed into another eagle and set off in hot pursuit. Odin barely reached the walls of Asgard ahead of Suttungr, and regurgitated the mead into vessels the other gods had prepared. Meanwhile the gods had built a great fire which they now caused to blaze up, and Suttungr, unable to stop in his flight, flew into the flames and was destroyed.

And that’s the tale of how the gods stole the mead of poetry—or almost. For Odin, as he was nearing the walls of Asgard and terrified at finding Suttungr so close on his tail, let squirt some drops of mead from his bottom, and these fell into Middle Earth, where we humans dwell. And that’s why, when you hear an exceptionally fine poet, you know that Odin has let him or her drink of the true mead of poetry; but if what you hear is doggerel, then the poet has only drunk of skáldfífla hlutr, or the “rhymester’s share”, which came from Odin’s behind…

Fireworks, Wick riverside

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TECHNICAL STUFF

I was away last week on a training course, so I wasn’t sure how much knitting I’d get done. But I’m delighted to say that I have indeed reached the pattern. I’ll say more about this next week, and hopefully post a chart; for now I’ve just established the foundations, and it’s not really enough to make out the pattern clearly yet. As is my usual custom these days, I started the gussets four rows early by increasing a second purl stitch onto the existing purl “fake seam” stitch that divides back and front. It’s not necessary, but I’ve found it looks neater and makes the first knit stitch increase to start the gusset slightly easier.

I learned a useful pointer the other day that I thought I’d share with you. When making a cup of tea from a teabag, especially if it has one of those paper tags on a cord, make sure that you put the teabag in the hot water with the tag dangling outside the cup, and not, ahaha, the other way round. (Follow me, as the saying goes, for more helpful cooking tips.)

Chatham Light, Cape Cod

I went back to the hospital at Inverness last week, for the consultant to take another gander at the growth on my vocal cords. I’m starting to dread the moment she gets out the lubricating gel and starts sliming up the laryngoscope, the metal device that goes up one nostril and then down the back of the throat. It’s along, slender fibre optic tentacle with a glowing tip, and it’s hard not to feel as though ET’s decided to pick your nose for you and didn’t know when to stop. I keep expecting to feel a tickling sensation in the brain, and it’s always a surprise when instead it emerges somewhere down by the uvula. The worst part is when they ask you say “Eee” with it in position, which is a bit like trying to drink a glass of water and whistle at the same time.

More Adirondack Colour

The good news is that, a year on, the growth on my vocal cords is much the same and the consultant is now pretty confident that it’s “nothing more serious” (which is, I’ve come to learn, the medical term for cancer). It’s hard to believe it’s only been a year since I was first referred, and in that time the medical profession has been concerned about possible cancer on my vocal cords, my lymph nodes, and my thyroid. It was only a matter of time, I felt, before they became concerned about my navel, my knees and possibly my big toe. So even though I’m living my life in six-month slices (like the man in the old joke falling from a tower block, who as he passed each floor they heard him say, “So far so good… so far so good”), and the doctors use “probably” more than I could wish, this feels, literally, like a whole new lease on life.

Reflected colour on the river, Sutherland, MA

The growth is still there—there’s no point in removing it as the consultant says it’ll just grow back in a few months—so I’ll probably have a croaky voice till the end of my days. I’m also being referred for a CAT scan on my sinuses, which may be infected (words you’d rather not hear when a doctor is inside your face: “Ooh, there’s a quite surprising amount of pus”). But these are mere details. Now I have another year’s worth of ganseys to plan for. But first, a cup of tea…

[Editor’s note: Margaret’s away in the States just now, but is able to upload images to the blog remotely. This will explain the rather startling variation in quality between the main image of the gansey, taken by me on my phone, and the rest. As Hamlet observed, when comparing the poor quality of his uncle’s holiday snaps with his late father’s much better ones, “Oh, what a falling off was there…”]

I was reminded the other day of that song—I think it’s from Hamlet—the chorus of which goes, “Back in Nagasaki/ Where the fellers chew tobaccy/ And the women wicky-wacky woo”. It was one of those lyrics that I didn’t understand as a child, a sort of secret handshake for grownups, who, when you asked them what it meant, just used to waggle their eyebrows mysteriously. If you were very unlucky, they might even sing it at you too. I just assumed it was something Japanese women learned as part of geisha training (“Lotus Blossom, full marks on your wicky and your woo, but I’m afraid you just weren’t wacky enough. Try the tea ceremony again, only this time with the clown shoes and the revolving bow tie”).

Narrow boats on the Grand Union Canal

Of course, the lyrics of most songs were a mystery to me as a child. Folk songs in particular were a minefield. I couldn’t understand why the young man who was helping the farm girl look for her spotted cow first laid her down upon her back; it’s the job that’s never started that takes longest to finish, I thought disapprovingly. Nor could I understand why the young maid and the sportsman decided to hunt the bonny black hare under her apron; a most improbable place to find specimen of the genus Lepus, surely. As for the foggy, foggy dew, well, that presented few difficulties: if you wish to avoid dampness and cramps and get a good night’s sleep, obviously it’s best to lie indoors in the warm.

King of the hill

Of course, even I got the meaning behind some songs: anyone wanting their lemon squeezed probably didn’t have pancakes on their mind, and as for playing with their ding-a-ling, well, let’s just say it rang a bell. Even the classic folk and Morris tune The Cuckoo’s Nest didn’t leave a lot to imagination for the budding ornithologist. But then, in most cases, as the saying goes, sometimes a double entendre really only has one meaning…

Northampton Market

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TECHNICAL STUFF

This new gansey project is another pattern charted from an old photograph in the Johnston Collection of Caithness fishermen—in this case, three young boys. The pattern is hard to make out, as the original is a little blurred, but we think it’s a relatively simple combination of chevrons and a variation of moss stitch. But I’ll say more about that in a few weeks when I reach the yoke; meantime, there’s the body to do. This one’s for me, in Graeme Bethune’s Caithness Yarn (natural colour “gansey gold”). I cast on 328 stitches for the welt, knit 4.75 inches of ribbing, and have just increased to 360 stitches for the body, which will be 12 inches of plain knitting.

Finally this week, Judit has shared with us another stunning gansey: she’s taken the George Bremner pattern I recently knit in navy, and has run with it, this time in a light shade which really shows the pattern. It’s going to be a Christmas gift for her grandson, and very splendid it looks. (And can I just say, how great it is to see these old patterns get a whole new lease of life?) Many congratulations again to Judit, and many thanks for sharing this with us, as ever.