I am, it is probably fair to say, a creature of habit. Take my daily exercise: for the last eleven weeks, since lockdown began, every day at noon, come rain or shine, I’ve gone for a walk. How far? Just 2½ miles. It’s always the exact same route, although—just to show I’m not actually, you know, obsessive or anything—I sometimes do it in reverse order.
I start by following the main road into Wick old town. This takes me past the Market Square, where in 1859 the War of the Orange began, the Sabaid Mhòr or Great Fight of Wick, when a simple argument between two small boys over a piece of soft fruit developed into a full-scale, ugly riot between hundreds of locals and incomers, mostly Gaelic-speaking fishermen from Lewis down for the fishing season, which only ended after the army was called up from Aberdeen. Walking on I pass the Camps Bar—said to derive its name from the camp grounds of Cromwell’s soldiers after the English (*cough* started in Scotland *cough*) Civil War—and cross the river by the Service Bridge; and so on into Pulteneytown.
Yellow Flag Iris by the riverside path
Designed by Thomas Telford and built by the British Fisheries Society around the time Napoleon was meeting his Waterloo, Pulteneytown was conceived in the wake of the Highland Clearances to give dispossessed families a sporting chance of not starving to death by joining the burgeoning fishing industry. My walk takes me along the harbour, where one day in the 1870s so many herring were landed that the fisher lassies, or gutters, couldn’t process them all before night fell (sometime after 11.00pm), and the rest were left to rot on the quays. I pass the scene of the Grain Riots of 1847 (Ireland wasn’t the only country with a potato famine) and stroll on through Lower Pulteneytown, narrow streets of narrow houses where the working people lived.
And here let me pause a minute, partly so I can catch my breath before I slog up the brae to Upper Pulteneytown, but also to say again how much pleasure it gives me to live and work in an old fishing town, and to walk the streets wearing a gansey inspired by those once worn by the inhabitants a hundred years ago, and to knit them. And speaking of ganseys, I’ve finished the back on my current project and am now about halfway up the front; though the front will take a little longer because of the steek.
In parish news, Margaret has sent us photos of a completed Humber Star gansey. These patterns are always very striking, and many congratulations to Margaret for completing such an impressive project, and for sharing the photos with us.
Flowering Grasses by the path
And now here we are in Upper Pulteneytown, passing the larger properties where the merchants and traders lived, and crossing Argyll Square, originally an open space for fishermen to spread their nets out to dry, glistening in the old photographs like the giant cobwebs of Mirkwood; now a tree-shaded little park. Then I rejoin the main road and descend the hill, past the former library where I used to work—once so important to the town that half the population turned out for the opening in 1898; now a gloomy sort of place where you expect to see a sinister clown lurking in the shadows with a handful of balloons. I cross the road at the former Temperance Hotel, last reminder of the 25 years (1922-47) when Wick was an alcohol-free town.
Finally I saunter back along the south bank of the river, then trip-trap over the rickety-rackety footbridge, pausing only to pass the time of the day with the troll who lives underneath, now armed with a high-powered hunting rifle in case any stray billy goats should happen along, and up the path between the fields to find myself virtually at my doorstep.
How far? Just 2½ miles, by one measure; but by another, it’s more than several hundred years…
What a glorious spring this has been! The warmest and sunniest since—well, since the age of the dinosaurs, probably. The sky is brilliantly clear, as though God has taken the glass lid off the tableau vivant that is His creation for a better look at how we’re all getting on. I’ve had to dig out the thesaurus for a whole bunch of words I haven’t needed since last autumn: sun, hot, blue, green, knobbly knees. (Sky of blue and tree of green; I can’t help feeling a yellow submarine ought to be somewhere in the offing, but I haven’t seen one yet.)
Creels on the harbourside
I’d forgotten just how frantic spring can be. It’s an assault on all the senses. The birds start it, of course: swifts and swallows tearing up the skies like boy racers, the hedgerows boiling with sparrows, the blackbird who waits till our bedroom light goes out before letting rip like someone trying to pry a rusty screw from an old tin roof. But it’s the air, too. Scientists have shown that space isn’t empty, but is actually fizzing with energy and quantum particles; the air is like that too, just now, the breeze is filled with clouds of pollen and thistledown, and millions of tiny insects—stand on the footbridge over the river and fill your lungs with good, clean country air and you’ll still be spitting out bugs half an hour later. There ought to be a word for the smell of freshly-cut grass drying to straw in the sun; or the distant sparkle of sunlight on new leaves dancing in the breeze, flashing like semaphore; both of which you’ll find down by the riverbank just now. Without words, all we have is sensation.
New Leaves & St Fergus’
Well, lockdown is still a thing, so the strange, surreal half-life continues: and so we turn our back on the great outdoors and focus on indoor activities, like knitting ganseys. As predicted last week, I’ve now divided for front and back and am making good progress up the back. (It’s quicker, of course, not just because I’m covering half the number of stitches, but also because this side doesn’t have a steek.) I might even get the back done this week.
Finally, I’m going to end with a poem called “late Spring” by the Chinese poet Han Yu (768-824), which seems appropriate somehow:
The grasses and trees know that spring will soon return, One hundred types of flowers contend in beauty of red and purple. The poplar blossom and elm seeds are not beautiful, They can only rise into the sky, or fall like flying snow.
The age of miracles, alas, is over. I mean proper miracles, of course, not the everyday sort like smartphones or microwave ovens, my comprehension of which is more or less on a par with a Neanderthal invited to assemble the engine of a helicopter. No, the sort of miracles I’m talking about are the ones used by the saints to convert the heathen back in the day, before prayer meetings and leaflets became the norm.
The Daily Exercise
Saint Columba came to the Highlands in 565 AD, and paid a visit to Inverness. According to the Life of St Columba by Adomnan of Iona, he gained entry to the fortress of the Pictish king Bridei or Brude by making the sign of the cross, whereupon “the bolts slid back and the gates swung open”. Not only was Columba a useful saint to have around if you’d lost your keys, he also had what may be the first recorded encounter with the Loch Ness monster. He wanted to cross the river Ness, but when he reached it he found the locals burying a man who had tried to swim across for the dinghy on the far bank, and who had been killed by “a water beast”. Columba told one of his party to try, and when the beast duly appeared he made the sign of the cross and said, “Go no further. Do not touch the man. Go back at once”. At which the beast “fled in terror so fast one might have thought it was pulled back with ropes”. (Isn’t that great? It’s also a perfect description of me, the time I opened the door to find some Mormon missionaries on the doorstep.)
St Fergus’ through the trees
In gansey news, I have started the gussets. I’m doing something slightly different this time: instead of growing the gusset from within the purl “fake seam” stitch, I’m keeping the purl seam stitch as it is and growing two half-gussets either side of it. This was a recognised traditional variation on the theme—Rae Compton features it in her book, for instance—and I’ve always liked it: it seems such an elegant solution, and you then have the seam running (seamlessly, as it were) from the ribbing, up the body, through the gusset and so down the sleeve to the cuff. Other than that, the gansey grows apace; and looking at the pattern I can’t help but think that, if nothing else, my friend Vincent, for whom it is intended, will never find himself short of a cheese grater again.
And so I bemoan the lack of miracles nowadays. It’s the smiting I chiefly miss, something that would have come in handy this afternoon when I met a young lady on the riverside; she was pushing a double pram that completely blocked the path, and talking unseeing into her phone, so that I had a choice between diving into river or the brambles, or being mown down like a dormouse under a combine harvester. Even St Columba might have struggled. But mostly when it comes to miracles I’m with Woody Allen: “If only God would give me some clear sign! Like making a large deposit in my name at a Swiss Bank…”
Spring has come to Caithness—by which I mean that it snowed last week, a light pithering on the wind, soft white flakes swirling out of a dark grey sky. Of course it didn’t settle, but it was cold enough for February with the weather screaming straight down from the arctic. Then we had 45 m.p.h. March winds for a couple of days. Now it’s warmer but raining, which just goes to show that God enjoys a laugh as much as the rest of us. The good news? As Scotland remains in lockdown while England has decided to substitute Russian roulette for football as the national sport, there’s not much incentive to go out.
St Fergus from the riverside path
As a student of history (among other things, viz. the recorded legacy of Bob Dylan), one thing I’ve learned is that, with a few exceptions, the processes of history are invisible to those who live through them; as the song says, you never know what you’ve got till its gone. Neolithic people didn’t eagerly wait for the latest calendar to tell them they were now living in the New Stone Age (“Ha, look at the poor old Mesolithic Thargs at Number 37; still working stone in the old way, not like us Neolithic go-getters!” “Never mind that dear, we’ve run out of toilet paper again.” “OK, just let me chisel you a new roll…”). 410 AD is usually accepted as the end of the Roman Empire in Britain, as that’s when the legions were withdrawn to shore up the Empire on the continent. They were only supposed to be away temporarily; but they never came back. Things carried on in the same old way for a time, but gradually entropy took over, closely followed by the Anglo-Saxons. In retrospect, we can see that 410 was the end of an epoch; it’s just that no knew it at the time.
Ripples in the harbour
Which is why I can’t help but feel the chill winds of history blow when I watch the UK Government’s daily press briefings on the coronavirus, and listen to announcements that—although they don’t directly say so—only apply to England. Health, social care, transport and education are all powers that have been devolved to Scotland. I’m quite sure that once the crisis is over things will go back to normal, or nearly—this isn’t the actual end of the United Kingdom, of course; not yet. It’s just that part of me can’t help thinking of those poor anxious, hopeful Roman Britons: all of whom expected the legions to come back, and everything to return to just the way it once was, too…
TECHNICAL STUFF
Robin Hood’s Bay pattern chart
As you’ll see from the photos I’m making good progress on the gansey, and should be making a start on the gussets later this week. It’s still drawn in because of all the cables and their purl stitches, so it looks narrower than it will once its been finished and blocked. It’s a pretty stunning pattern and deserves to be much better known, I feel. I’m posting the pattern chart this week, too (though it’s hardly necessary; this is one case where what you see really is what you get).
Finally Judit has sent a photo of her last gansey being modelled by its lucky owner. It looks great—and a great fit—and you can see the picture on Judit’s page here.
More proof, if any were needed, that my life is being scripted by a writer superannuated from a 1970s sitcom, or possibly one of the minor Carry On films. It was a quiet evening at Reid Towers, and a drowsy stillness lay heavy on the air. I had emerged, pink and glowing, from the early evening bath. The thorny question of getting dressed now presented itself. A creature of habit, I usually put my clothes on starting at the top, working my way down, with various scenic detours along the way, to the feet. But on this occasion, possessed by a spirit of caprice, I decided to reverse the order, beginning with the socks. Taking care to keep out of the way of our large bedroom windows, which overlook both our neighbours’ gardens, I carefully selected a sock— a tasteful pale grey number—and began.
Winter returns
Now, etiquette dictates that there are two ways for a gentleman to don a sock. Either you perch on the edge of a chair or bed to draw it on, or—what you might call the advanced level—you balance on the opposing leg and stoop to meet the other foot halfway. Rashly, I adopted the latter approach. On such decisions the fates of nations hang. Reader, the sock met an unexpected snag somewhere around the region of the big toe; and as I struggled to ease it past the obstacle I began to lose my balance. In danger of toppling like a felled redwood, I endeavoured to stay upright by executing a series of sideways lurches, like someone trying to master the pogo stick from illustrations in a book. At last my efforts were crowned with success: I managed to get my sock on and remain upright at roughly the same moment. Flushed with success, and still balanced precariously on one leg, clad only in a single sock, like a portly heron with a natty taste in footwear, I looked about me. It was then that I realised my hopping had placed me squarely in front of the window.
The Soldiers’ Tower, Wick
About a nanosecond later I met the astonished gaze of our neighbour who had evidently until that time been gardening. I don’t know that she actually saw me: her attention may have been caught by a noteworthy chaffinch in the plum tree beneath the window. All I can say is that she seemed to visibly age before my eyes, and her mouth kept opening and closing like a fish experiencing an existential crisis, much like I imagine the Virgin Mary looked when visited by the Angel Gabriel. (Though angels are notoriously pleasing to behold, whereas in a state of deshabille I resemble nothing so much as a life-size waxwork of Donald Trump that’s been left too close to the fire.) My only consolation is that she didn’t have a camera phone on her, in which case I’d have no choice other than to change my name and leave the country. As it is, I haven’t seen her for a few days: my working hypothesis is that she’s probably joined a convent to preserve what remains of her soul.
Laura in her gansey
So we avert our gaze and turn with relief to the current gansey. I’m making slow but steady progress up the body. It’s a gnarly pattern that requires you to pay attention, stitch by stitch, but the results speak for themselves. It’s a stunning pattern, the moss stitch and cables making for a cumulatively impressive result—and of course the natural yarn shows it to perfection. It’s a pattern that needs a light-coloured yarn to really shine. N.b., in its unblocked state the cables draw it in, so it looks narrower than it really is. We’ll just have to wait a few months to see it as it really is.
For now, however, it’s time for my bath; I mean, what could possibly go wrong…?
I am, it is probably fair to say, a creature of habit. Take my daily exercise: for the last eleven weeks, since lockdown began, every day at noon, come rain or shine, I’ve gone for a walk. How far? Just 2½ miles. It’s always the exact same route, although—just to show I’m not actually, you know, obsessive or anything—I sometimes do it in reverse order.
And here let me pause a minute, partly so I can catch my breath before I slog up the brae to Upper Pulteneytown, but also to say again how much pleasure it gives me to live and work in an old fishing town, and to walk the streets wearing a gansey inspired by those once worn by the inhabitants a hundred years ago, and to knit them. And speaking of ganseys, I’ve finished the back on my current project and am now about halfway up the front; though the front will take a little longer because of the steek.
