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 A magic carpet has appeared in the living room. No, really. Where was an orangey laminate floor, is now a fringed carpet. Its warm carnelian red instantly warms the space, providing a cozy feel, and ties together the disparate items of inexpensive furniture. I’d been looking for a large carpet for a while, but they were so horrendously expensive that one was never purchased. And the final reason it’s magic? It is a generous gift from a friend who no longer needs it. When it was offered, there was no hesitation; I temporarily forgot that the reason I’d wanted a carpet in the first place. Gordon was regularly dropping the remotes, objecting to the clatter they made and the way the batteries flew out, and wishing we had a carpet. But I’m still very happy it’s flown in.
Oriental carpets were once truly luxury items in Western Europe. The earliest example, the Pazyryk carpet, dates from the 5th C BC and was found in a frozen tomb in Siberia. The tombs were not far distant from the Silk Road trade routes, and it is thought that the carpet came from Central Asia, possibly Persia or Armenia.
 The Ambassadors Roll forward 2,000 years, and these rare and exclusive ‘Turkey’ carpets had become desirable items for the hyper-rich in Western Europe. One well-known example is depicted in Hans Holbein’s ‘The Ambassadors’, where it is used to cover a table. The rugs were also displayed as works of art, and were not put on the floor. Initially only for those who could afford them, when Persia increased trade with the West, production increased, and they became more affordable.
Predominantly associated with Persia, similar rugs were produced all over Central Asia, Turkey, the Persian Empire, Egypt, and India. The ‘traditional skills of carpet weaving’ and the ‘traditional art of Azerbaijani carpet weaving’ are on the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage Lists. Most ‘Persian’ carpets are not hand-knotted these days but are made by machine. I am sure my carpet fits into this category, but it matters not.
 Unfurling Leaves One thing that isn’t made by machine, however, is the current gansey on the needles. It is slowly coming along. After torturous calculations last week, the decision was made to man up to the task. The existing stitches were taken out and the correct number picked up. It looks too small to fit over a child’s head, but I tried it on and it comfortably fit over my noggin with room to spare. The opening will get wider when it’s blocked.
 Fence in the Fog Then the pattern for the sleeve was calculated. To fit the yoke pattern on the sleeve, the design needed to be slightly smaller. This was accomplished by making the chevrons slightly narrower, while the cables and diamonds stay the same. The pattern continues four diamonds’ worth, and then it’s plain sailing down the constantly turning whirlpool of the sleeve.
 I’ll be honest, I’ve had better weeks. It was the anticipation.
It was Gordon’s birthday on Friday, which seemed a fitting day to scatter some of his ashes. Earlier in the week, I’d arranged to pick them up from the funeral directors’, where they’d been since being returned from the crematorium in Inverness. The funeral directors’ said the ashes could be kept there indefinitely, until I was ready. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but on Thursday, I collected them. It’s a sad thing to do; even if you’re feeling fairly chipper, a debilitating tsunami of sadness comes out of nowhere. At home, the box was placed in the sunshine on the sofa in front of the lounge windows, Gordon’s morning knitting spot.
 At the end of the path On Friday, using a container which coincidentally had been used for Gordon’s sourdough starter, I decanted some of the ashes. There is slightly more fine dust in the kitchen now . . . A friend of both of ours had arrived earlier; we’d arranged to travel together to Sarclet, and we set off in the changeable weather – warm spring sunshine and heavy downpours, but calm. We didn’t need to be concerned about standing upwind.
 The Gloup We started our walk at Sarclet by following the John o’Groats trail southwards to a gloup a little way away – a large hole in the ground that goes down to the sea. We could hear the swell booming far below. I had thought to pour some of the ashes there, but it was unreachable, being enclosed by a fence and surrounded by steeply sloping ground. So we continued on, looking for a suitable alternative, until I found a scenic spot for some of the ashes.
 The threatening rain cloud we’d seen earlier now reached us. We upped hoods and headed northwards to the harbour, and down to the rocky beach. I searched for the spot in a photo taken years ago where Gordon had sat, looking out to sea. The boulders had shifted, but think I got close. I moved a few smaller stones aside to form a small well and poured in the remaining ashes. While I did this, my friend read a poem:
Antidotes to Fear of Death from A Responsibility to Awe, Rebecca Elson
Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death, I eat the stars.
Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.
Sometimes, instead, I stir
Myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:
No outer space just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.
And sometimes it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral
Bones:
To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a
Chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.
Sarclet Then the waves beckoned, and I rinsed the container and carried some seawater back, pouring it on the ashes to ‘bed them in’, and replaced the stones. After a few moments, we walked back up the path to the top, looking for wildflowers and admiring the views. The primroses are out, we also found some violets, and the sea thrift is in bud.
On Saturday, to add insult to injury, I had a crisis of confidence regarding the neckline of the gansey. The stitches around the neckline were picked up, but there were far too few. Initially I tried to fix it, but it was such a bodge job that it wouldn’t be acceptable. It’s been undone, hours of further calculation have been undertaken, and it should be right this time.
 On Friday, as I do every year, I was thinking about Patriots’ Day. It’s a holiday in Massachusetts, though it’s now celebrated on the third Monday in April instead of the 19th, to make a three-day weekend. It commemorates the start of the American Revolution in 1775, when the battles of Lexington, Concord, and Menotomy took place. It was immediately preceded by Paul Revere’s (and others) ride.
 Blooming Plum In 1894, the governor of Massachusetts, bowing to lobbying from one group wanting a “Lexington Day” and another desiring a “Concord Day”, proclaimed “Patriots’ Day” to celebrate “the anniversary of the birth of liberty and union”. The ‘union’ refers to the American Civil War. On this same date in 1861 the Baltimore Riots occurred, marking the first bloodshed of that conflict. Another factor in the ‘birth’ of Patriots’ Day could be the popularity Longfellow’s poem “Paul Revere’s Ride”, first published in 1861.
 Harbour Seal on the riverbank What I did not know, however, was that Patriots’ Day replaced the earlier “Fast Day”. Alas, this was not a day to rush around or speed on the motorway. It was “a day of public fasting and prayer,” proclaimed by Colonial governors to fend off natural calamities. A Fast Day could be proclaimed at any time and didn’t always have a set date, but they were always a day off. Often a Fast Day was proclaimed at the start of Spring, for good weather during the growing season. It wasn’t always successful, but the holiday was on the books in Massachusetts until 1894. It hung on in New Hampshire until 1991, when it was replaced by Civil Rights Day.
Nowadays, Patriots’ Day is probably better known as the date of the Boston Marathon, which started in 1897. The first race had a field of 15 and was run between Ashland and Boston. A few years later, the course was lengthened to meet Olympic standards, moving the start out to Hopkinton. This year, as ever, it was run on the same route, but with 29,451 entrants from 129 countries and all 50 US states.
 Willow buds The gansey is quickly approaching the shoulders, and I’m appreciating the pattern more and more. It’s simple to memorise; the only thing that needs attention is the number of rows between cable crosses. It’s flexible as regards sizing too. Although it’s not easy to adjust the size of the diamonds, a stitch or two can be added to either side. The chevrons have no height limitation and can be widened or narrowed as needed. The cables, too, could become 4 stitch cables instead of 6, or replaced with a single cable instead of a pair.
Similar to running a marathon, knitting a gansey is also a long-term commitment. Good progress is being made – in a mile or two the front will be split into two shoulder sections to form the front neck. Then the front and back will be bound off at the shoulders, and I’ll arrive at the Heartbreak Hill of the sleeves.
 Late last week, I stepped out of the front door and thought, “This is what Spring is supposed to feel like.” Warm, sunny, with a bracing balmy breeze from the south. The hours of daylight are longer. The sun is brighter and higher in the sky, rising from the sea to gild the houses, trees, and fields. Snowdrops have bloomed and faded, taking advantage of the unshaded light under trees, and avoiding the heat of summer. Blackbirds are trilling their hearts out as the day breaks, unseen larks are broadcasting in the welkin. Wintering birds have flown to their breeding grounds, and geese are migrating. There’s a whiff of long summer days and short sleepless nights in the offing, warm zephyrs instead of arctic blasts, gentle rain instead of sudden downpours, bright blooms and the scent of newly mown lawns. All things to anticipate.
 Caithness Potholes There was an article in the paper last week titled “The vorfreude secret”. With a subtitle containing “ways to fill your life with joy”, my interest was piqued. Everyone can use some joy now and again. I read on. ‘Vorfreude’ translates as ‘anticipation of joy’. The article details many little ways to do this, from looking forward to your morning cup of coffee to scheduling an activity you enjoy. Perhaps my interpretation isn’t an accepted one. For instance, what about that list of things to do. Everyone has one. Why not, instead of dreading all those little and large tasks, look forward to getting them done? And anticipate the sense of accomplishment? That small shift in attitude immediatlely lightened some of the burden away.
 An oft-delayed item on my list of reminders is to prune the rose bushes in front of the house. It’s been put off for years. In February or March, when they start to show signs of growth, it’s too cold. Later in the year, it’s too cold again. There never seems to be a ‘right’ time to get into the garden. However, because the pruning hasn’t been done for so long, and the weather was sparklingly sunny with a warm wind, the next day those roses were pruned. One had shoots approaching six feet tall; it is now closer to three and a half. A philadelphus of similar height was also trimmed to a smaller size. It only took an hour, including compressing the twigs into the garden waste bins. Indeed, there was a sense of accomplishment, of something dreaded being done, of knowing it needn’t be done again soon. And there was the unanticipated bonus of being able to see out the lounge windows.
 Spring Tides Another petite fillip was reaching the top of the back of the gansey. The anticipated pattern can now be fully seen. Even a busy morning volunteering at the museum has done wonders for its growth. The ridge and furrow shoulder straps come next, and then the back will be completed.
 Crushed Raspberry and Breton
 Over the past two years or so, I’ve been attempting to learn the oboe, with the goal of playing with a group like an orchestra. I found an oboe through a local music school, who provided one on permanent loan. It’s probably over 40 years old and came with some reeds of the same vintage. Although in good condition, some maintenance and minor repairs were necessary, so it was sent off for an overhaul. A month later it came back, and I had to figure out how to play it. The internet was scoured, distant oboe playing friends were queried. Eventually, through trial and error, luck, more error, and persistence, reasonable sounds were produced. At this point I felt confident enough to attend the local community orchestra, which takes all comers.
 Eddies below North Head Attendance at rehearsals ground to a halt last November when Gordon wasn’t well but had not yet been diagnosed. We were advised to avoid infection, and decided that going to social things – the museum, handbells, orchestra – should be put on hiatus. It would be like lockdown – Gordon would work from home, I’d go on walks and would wear a mask to the supermarket. But I couldn’t concentrate on practising, so apart from a few days earlier this year, the oboe rested in its old, battered case.
 Artistic Woodsman Last month, I decided that April would be the time to restart. Spring, new beginnings, return to playing music, exercise the grey cells. The first day’s practice went better than expected. The next day didn’t go as well, but it was a longer session. The oboe is not the easiest instrument to learn. Developing an ‘embouchure’ is the first hurdle. Imagine simultaneously making a fish face and expelling air through a tiny opening. The small muscles in lips and cheeks soon become exhausted and no longer keep a seal around the reed.
 The Red Float The reeds are the most important and fragile part of the instrument, and the best are skilfully made by hand. The subtle profile of the two blades – it is a double reed, looking like this: () – varies according to the tone desired. They are also shaped to influence the resistance – the effort needed to get a sound. Beginners use ‘soft’ reeds for ease of blowing. More expert players have ‘harder’ reeds with more resistance. Softer reeds don’t have the best sound; it has been likened to a duck quacking. To quote Bennett Cerf: “An oboe is an ill-wind that nobody blows good.” I am in this category, but soldier on.
 Impressionistic Waves at South Head The gansey is chugging along. The split for front and back has been reached, and there’s about three inches done on the back. More knitting time has been squeezed in this week, by knitting during my Thursday morning shift on the front desk at the museum. It’s uncomplicated enough to put down and pick up, as there are few visitors at this quiet time of year. A bit more time has also been found by knitting during tea breaks instead of sitting at the desk.
And successful eclipse viewing, for those in the path.
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A magic carpet has appeared in the living room. No, really. Where was an orangey laminate floor, is now a fringed carpet. Its warm carnelian red instantly warms the space, providing a cozy feel, and ties together the disparate items of inexpensive furniture. I’d been looking for a large carpet for a while, but they were so horrendously expensive that one was never purchased. And the final reason it’s magic? It is a generous gift from a friend who no longer needs it. When it was offered, there was no hesitation; I temporarily forgot that the reason I’d wanted a carpet in the first place. Gordon was regularly dropping the remotes, objecting to the clatter they made and the way the batteries flew out, and wishing we had a carpet. But I’m still very happy it’s flown in.
