Gansey Nation

I was walking past the dining room the other day when I thought I must’ve left the light on, it was so bright; only to discover that the cause was an unexpected shaft of sunlight. This tells us (a) quite a lot about Caithness winters, and (b) that spring is definitely on its way, even if it’s currently delayed by roadworks somewhere on the M6.

I’ve been reading about words this week, where they come from and how their meanings have shifted over time. Take history: from the Greek historia, it originally meant inquiry, and the knowledge arising from inquiry. Gradually it evolved to mean “the study of stuff that happened”, while story came to be associated with fiction. The his in history originally had nothing to do with the male possessive pronoun.

Sarclet

And I was interested to read that originally man just meant person. A male person was a wer-man, and a female was a wif-man. (Hence werewolf, which of course means man-wolf; which gives me an excuse to quote the great exchange between Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein when a wolf howls: “Werewolf!” “There wolf… there castle!”) Sometime after the Norman Conquest, wer-man shortened to just man, while wif-man lost the f and evolved into woman; and wif became a word in its own right, taking on the modern meaning of a married woman. (All of which just goes to prove that words are slippery little devils; and also that there’s almost nothing the English won’t blame on the French.) I suspect if Batman had been created in the Middle Ages we’d probably be calling him Bam by now.

Meanwhile, despite shafts of sunlight being few and far between, the gansey has its collar finished and the first sleeve begun. (N.B., credit for knitting the collar goes to Margaret—buttoned collars beyond the wit of man, or this man at any rate; a level of complexity that for me is rather like doing a Rubik’s cube while playing the piano.) Once I finish the pattern band I can freewheel down the sleeve until I reach [ominous organ chord] the cuff.

View from the end of the riverside path

In parish notices, it’s a double-header of Staithes ganseys this week to gladden the heart. First up is another stunner from Judit in red, and from Hannah in Frangipani navy. Staithes is one of my all-time favourite patterns—it’s a classic for a reason—and is probably the gansey I will choose to take with me on my journey to the afterlife (it may not protect me from my enemies, but at at least I’ll go down looking good). And these are cracking examples. So very many thanks to Judit, as ever, and Hannah, for sharing. (And apologies to everyone who’s contacted me in the last month or so with pictures or queries. You see, I’ve recently started a new role at work, and while it’s a blast it’s also very demanding; so much so that most evenings and weekends I just lie down in a coffin filled with soil from New Zealand to recuperate. So I’m sorry if you’re still waiting to hear back, please bear with me.)

Ruin at Sarclet Harbour

Finally, returning to history, it’s true that it doesn’t actually mean “his story”—as of course the feminists and others who coined “her story” and “my story” knew perfectly well. Their point was that history has traditionally been written from a male, privileged position, and it was time other perspectives were explored. Every generation has to write its own history, after all; and as one historian said, when accused to rewriting history at the height of the Black Lives Matter debate, “That’s literally our job…”

I returned to the hospital in Inverness this week to see another consultant and get the results of my various tests. And it’s good news (mostly).

As I walked into the consulting room I noticed a large computer screen with several photographs of what was evidently my throatal area; I had a general impression of pinkness with a large black blob in the centre. Oh Lord, I thought: if that black thing is malignant, no wonder they’re concerned. The consultant asked me to sit down and said (rather ominously) that we’d come to the photos presently. Meanwhile the biopsies had come back inconclusive but none of the cells showed any abnormalities. Was I now or ever a smoker? No. Did I use an inhaler? Did I get acid reflux? Yes and yes. Had my voice improved over Christmas? Also yes. Then she did that sneaky trick of sliding a camera up a nostril and down the throat (and how it gets there, as opposed to, say, exiting through an ear, still baffles me) and took a shufti.

Marsh by the path

Finally she showed me the photos, and I was relieved to discover—I’ve said before that biology isn’t my strong suit—that the big black blob was in fact (ahaha) my oesophagus. Close up, my vocal cords resemble a wishbone; the right side is smooth and sort of buff-coloured, but the left, which is the problem, looks more like an octopus’s tentacle, pink with white nodules. Anyway, she thinks this might be an infection (and not something more serious beginning with “c”). She’s going to put me on a course of medication to see if it clears up, and I go back for a service and MOT in three months. Meanwhile, we keep our fingers crossed…

Backlit reeds

 …or we would, if that didn’t make knitting needlessly challenging, and an intricate dark navy gansey in midwinter is already challenging enough. I’ve finished side A, and have turned the record over to side B. And even though it’s a smallish gansey I’m pacing myself, trying to get as much done as I can in the hours of daylight (about 90 minutes on a good day if it doesn’t rain).

When I got the good news from the consultant I was minded to do my best Harry Potter impression and start styling myself “The Boy Who Lived”. But that, I felt, would be tempting Fate (and not only because I had images of wrapping the car round a tree on the way home, Fate as we know having a nasty sense of humour); after all, I’m still waiting on the results of last week’s chest scan, and there’s also the question of the shadow they found on my thyroid. Even so it’s a huge relief, and I can’t help tempting Fate a teeny bit; so I’ll leave you with the words of Ancient Pistol in Henry V, when he and his companions go to visit Falstaff on his deathbed (and things worked out pretty well for them in the play, I believe): “Let us condole the knight—for, lambkins, we will live!”

As regular readers will know by now, occasionally I have more than one gansey on the needles at one time—especially if the main gansey is very ornate or in a dark colour, when it’s relaxing to alternate with something simpler, or lighter. This is a gansey I’ve been working on for several months. It is, of course, the classic Scarborough pattern. But what makes this one a little special is that it’s made out of a variety of leftover yarns I’ve accumulated down the years: a mixture of Frangipani (about 60%, five separate dye lots), British Breeds, Wendy’s, Classic Elite Yarns and Island on the Edge. And here’s the thing: as I was knitting it, the assorted dye lots and yarns stood out “like a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake” (in Raymond Chandler’s wonderful simile), but as soon as it was washed and blocked, they virtually disappeared. You’d hardly know it wasn’t all the same yarn and dye lot. It’s a sort of alchemy. It fits me perfectly too, and somehow the fact that it was, in a sense, free, only makes it more fun to wear. Next week we’ll start the year by revisiting some familiar Caithness patterns.

Northamptonshire lane

And now it’s time for the traditional Gansey Nation Christmas Singalong (stop sobbing at the back). We’re not featuring a carol this year, since Christmas is so last week, but instead turn our minds to Gilbert & Sullivan, and their overlooked operetta, The Knitters of Knaresborough:

Oh, I am the very model of
     a modern gansey knitter
A finished gansey jumper sets
     the knitting world a-twitter,
Short of going jogging there
     is nothing makes you fitter,
Oh, I am the very model of
     a modern gansey knitter.

I knit patterns from the Hebrides,
     old Whitby town and Flamborough,
From Filey and from Eyemouth and the
     Lizard and from Musselburgh,
From Thurso and Seahouses, Wick,
     Robin Hood’s Bay and Scarborough,
(My shoulder straps are quite ornate
     or else they’re ridge and furrow).

Christmas Cosmos

The fishermen when out at sea
     would don a plainish gansey,
But those they wore on Sundays were
     spectacularly fancy,
A fisher lass went overboard
     knitting for her fiancé;
The patterns are so intricate
     they look like necromancy.

There’s marriage lines and heapies,
     chevrons, diamonds and cables,
Print o’ the hoof and anchors, and
     yarn-overs if you’re able,
There’s moss stitch, ladders, tree of life,
     there’s zigzags and there’s herringbone,
(The yarn is guernsey five-ply, there’s
     500 grams on every cone).

The patterns on the front and on
     the back are quite identical,
So you can wear them backwards and
     be smart for the conventicle,
The Humber keel men had a star with
     five points in a pentacle,
Some disagree that necks were shaped
     (the question’s ecumenical).

Foggy Dew

Oh, I am the very model of
     a modern gansey knitter,
It helps you keep your temper cool
     and stops you getting bitter,
If your sister wore one in the dock
     the jury would acquit her,
You’ll end up getting tons of likes
     when posting pics on Twitter,
But make sure that it’s genuine,
     not from a counterfeiter,
You can sparkle in the sunshine if
     you sprinkle it with glitter,
Ohhh… I am the very model of
     a modern gansey knitter!

[With apologies to, well, just about everybody, really]

Wishing all our readers a very Happy (and safe) New Year!