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 It’s the Feast of St Valentine, and nothing speaks of esteem and affection like chocolates a finished gansey. As ever, it’s not until the gansey is completed, washed and blocked that you can see it in all its glory (though bearing in mind the yarn is navy and the season is still, alas, winter, seeing is a relative term here). As I mentioned before, this is the third time I’ve knitted this pattern in little over a year, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But if you think this is impressive, and it kinda is, the original was even finer and way more detailed, and I can only assume it was knit with spiderwebs on piano-wire needles.
 Fishing for the next meal I had an idea for a story the other day. Actually, I have lots of ideas; my problem isn’t so much the initial spark, as the subsequent graft and follow-through. Sometimes I think I should adopt the model alleged to have been deployed by Alexandre Dumas, Tom Clancy, or (mutatis mutandis) certain Renaissance painters: setting up a sort of factory where I start things off, then hand it over to a school of drudges who then write the other 150,000 words. It’s a model followed of course by many celebrities, whose biographies are written by journalists and based on a number of interviews.
 Last year’s flowers I was profoundly disappointed as a child to discover that that’s what was meant by a ghost writer: how much cooler, if creepier, I thought, if your book was written, not by some hired gun, but by the ghost of Charles Dickens, say, or Jane Austen. Though I suppose it would rather depend on whose spirit you ended up with. Get Jerome K Jerome or PG Wodehouse and your life becomes a sort of musical comedy; but summon the shade of Joseph “Laughing Boy” Conrad and you know it’s not going to end well, especially if you’re offered an African river cruise.
 Ice on the river But speaking of Charlie’s ghosts reminds me: I was going to tell you my idea. I was thinking of the end of A Christmas Carol, and of Tiny Tim; who, if you remember, “did NOT die” (something I can no longer read without hearing Rizzo the Rat saying, “Aw, isn’t that swell?”). Well, what if that came true? What if Tiny Tim—or Tim, as his wife probably called him, unless their marriage ended in disappointment—actually lived on, immortal, to the present day? You could make some telling social points, comparing Victorian London with the present day; he could even be visited by three spirits. It’s a concept full of promise. But I shan’t write it, not without a collaborator or the aforesaid school of drudges. Though even that is fraught with risk: the story goes that Alexandre Dumas once had a new book out, and mentioned it to his son. “Have you read it?” asked Dumas père. “No,” his son replied, “have you?”
 It’s always gratifying when a gansey comes together and you wake up one morning to find it’s almost finished, the end clearly in sight. That’s the case this week, with just the last bit of sleeve and cuff to go. All things being equal I’ll finish it this week. This is the third time I’ve knitted this pattern in just over a year: it’s a bit of a shock to think I’ve probably knitted it more than any other except the classic Staithes/Henry Freeman of Whitby. And yet it’s such a great pattern I doubt if I’m finished with it yet.
 Approaching Squall Now, there are many disadvantages to growing old—hair loss, the lack of tunes in modern music, knees happening to other people—but this week I discovered a sinister new one: getting dressed while my mind is elsewhere, so that I put on back to front my—well, given children and pets might inadvertently see this blog, I shouldn’t be indelicate—let us say, my unmentionables. I didn’t notice right away, not till I was at work, which then required some nimble footwork in a toilet cubicle as I attempted to make the necessary adjustment without letting any scrap of clothing touch the floor. To an impartial observer I must’ve looked like someone trying to Morris dance while performing a striptease, something I must remember to suggest to the lads at the next practice.
And just what distracted me at the crucial moment, I hear you ask? (Or at least I would, if I hadn’t shut the window. I mean to say, it’s cold.) Reader, it was a new fountain pen.
 Along the Path A little over a decade ago I started treating myself to a new pen whenever I had something big to celebrate. (I never buy a fountain pen when I’m feeling down: not only would I bankrupt myself in a few weeks, I’d always associate them with sad memories; and I think writing with a nice pen should always be joyous.) So when I started my new role at work last month I ordered one I’ve had my eye on for a while. It’s my first Japanese fountain pen, and it’s a thing of beauty. But I really bought it because the barrel is transparent and lets you see how much ink is in there, and it fills using a vacuum method (basically, you stick it in some ink, depress a plunger and *insert technical information here* you have a barrelful of ink. At least I think that’s how it works).
 Harbinger of Spring I’ve accumulated a small collection of pens down the years, and each one takes me back to a particular time and place as surely as hearing an old record (from the time when people wrote music with proper tunes, I mean). I fear the tide of history is ebbing, and I’m in danger of being left stranded: by using a fountain pen, by telling the time by a pocket watch, by wearing a tie at work, by still occasionally listening to Larks’ Tongues In Aspic (Rolling Stone magazine: “You can’t dance to it, can’t keep a beat to it, and it doesn’t even make good background music for washing the dishes”). If so, I shall accept my fate with a good grace, and go to meet my maker proudly with bluish ink stains on my thumb and index finger…
 And so we find ourselves already 1/12 of the way though the year, and my phone informs me there are only 329 sleeps till Christmas, or about 500 if you include afternoon naps. Winter isn’t going down without a fight, though: we’ve had a weekend of winds of around 70 mph, and yet we can’t feel sorry for ourselves as so many others, here and in New England, have had it worse. Visitors to the house compliment us on our slate driveway, only to be told they’ve all come off the roof. It’s been wild. The only compensation is finding out what the neighbours have been buying, as all the street’s recycling is whisked out of the bins and scattered across everyone’s front lawns.
I was reading the other day about Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy (I’d been hoping his brothers were called The Bad and The Ugly, but sometimes history can be disappointing). Philip (1395-1467) is mostly remembered nowadays as a patron of Jan van Eyck, and it was his troops that captured Joan of Arc, whom Philip handed over to the English. But to me he will always be the man who renovated Hesdin Castle. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it? It was first built by Robert II of Artois (1250-1302), and under Robert, and then later Philip, it became famous for its practical jokes.
 The Herring Mart We don’t usually think of the Middle Ages as pioneers of vaudeville and the whoopee cushion, but perhaps we should. Hesdin featured such simple tricks as statues that sprayed water over anyone who stood in front of them, or a book of music that covered you with soot if you tried to turn the pages. One mirror invited you to see what you would look like covered in flour, and duly obliged. Other pranks were more elaborate. One window was designed so that if you tried to open it an automaton appeared, sprayed you with water, and slammed it shut again. In the grounds was a bridge that would tip people into the water below, surely the prototype for Blofeld’s piranha tank in You Only Live Twice. Compared with this, if you only encountered the mechanical talking owl you’d probably count yourself lucky.
 Waves at South Head Meanwhile in parish notices, this week we’re featuring this splendid gansey from John. It’s a Flamborough design, and features a combination of betty martin, cables, moss stitch and a variety of open, moss stitch and double moss stitch diamonds. It’s also very ably modelled by John himself. Many congratulations to John, and our thanks to everyone who’s shared their projects with us.
As I shelter from the wind, and scroll through Yellow Pages for suppliers of automata and soot, I’m making good progress on the Wick gansey, helped of course by the fact that’s it’s so much smaller than my usual commissions. The armhole came to 120 stitches in the round, not including the gusset; by decreasing 2 stitches every 5 rows I’ll have about 70 stitches at the cuff (i.e., after 16 inches), which I shall decrease down to 63-66 stitches for the cuff itself. Then we do it all again on the other sleeve.
 View from the end of the path Hesdin Castle was tragically demolished in 1553, presumably by a visitor who couldn’t take a joke. Though I expect guests knew perfectly well what they were in for, like contestants in a modern game show, and getting covered in soot or flour, or dumped in feathers, was all part of the experience. And it’s a bit like living in Wick: you never know when you’re going to get unexpectedly sprayed with water, or knocked off your feet. In fact, now I think of it, all we need are some mechanical monkeys in badger fur and we could revitalise the tourist trade at a stroke…
 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…”
 At the time of writing, I’m about halfway through the course of medicine for (what I’m hoping is just) an infection on my vocal cords, and so far the only change I’ve noticed is that my sinuses feel like they’re packed with lead. You see, to give the medicine a chance to work I’ve had to stop taking a nasal spray for my mystery allergy. (I know I’m allergic to something, but not exactly what; I did the test and it’s not dust, pollen or cats—heavens! Can it be wool?) Anyway, as a result of stopping the spray I’ve got so much gunk in my sinuses I can only assume I’ve been caught up in a matter transportation accident, and have crossed my DNA with a snail.
 View of Wick I did have a moment’s unease when I learned that the medicine is most commonly used to treat fungal infections of—here one lowers one’s voice and whispers, in case there are any elderly aunts within earshot—those parts of a chap or chapess that do not normally see the light of day. (Yes, I know technically that includes the vocal cords, but you know what I mean.) I had to double-check the instructions to make sure I really was supposed to swallow them.
 Local Wildlife Meanwhile, in parish notices, over the last couple of weeks we’ve been sent several pictures of ganseys to share. Rather than splurge them all at once, we’ve decided to space them out for maximum effect. So here’s a partially completed one from Lee, a reader from Brittany in possession of a curragh, designing an “Aran gansey” to complement it based on an old photo from c.1920, using Breton wool. As regular readers will be aware, we usually only feature completed readers’ ganseys, but this one is well worth seeing. Lee’s provided some detailed notes on the project too which are well worth a read. Many thanks to Lee for adding another piece to the endless jigsaw that is traditional knitting, and we look forward to seeing the finished project (hopefully modelled in the curragh!).
 Burgeoning Snowdrops Finally, turning away from the (admittedly fascinating) topic of my health, I wanted to share with you the story of an amazing Native American woman: Buffalo Calf Road Woman (d.1879). I’ve been reading a book on Custer and the Battle of the Little Bighorn—I’d hoped there was also a Big Bighorn, and a Middle Bighorn which was just right, but sadly not—and learned about another battle that happened a few days earlier on the Rosebud River. In the summer of 1875 three columns of soldiers were marching on Sitting Bull’s village: one moving north, another east and Custer working west; the one coming north was the first to run into a force of Indians and battle was joined. A Cheyenne warrior, Comes in Sight, was wounded and trapped in no-man’s-land between the Indians and the soldiers, with the soldiers trying to finish him off. Whereupon his sister, Buffalo Calf Road Woman, braved the gunfire and rode down to where he was, caught him up and took him back to safety. She also fought at Little Bighorn, and the Cheyenne credit her with striking the blow that knocked Custer off his horse. And though her story ultimately ends in sadness, as that of so many Native Americans did, she has her place in history—so that while to the soldiers the first battle was known as the Battle of the Rosebud, to the Indians it was remembered as “the Battle Where the Sister Saved her Brother…”
 Just before sunset
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It’s the Feast of St Valentine, and nothing speaks of esteem and affection like chocolates a finished gansey. As ever, it’s not until the gansey is completed, washed and blocked that you can see it in all its glory (though bearing in mind the yarn is navy and the season is still, alas, winter, seeing is a relative term here). As I mentioned before, this is the third time I’ve knitted this pattern in little over a year, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But if you think this is impressive, and it kinda is, the original was even finer and way more detailed, and I can only assume it was knit with spiderwebs on piano-wire needles.
