“I shall go into a hare/ with sorrow and sych and meickle care.” That is part of the charm Isobel Gowdie, the 17th century Scottish witch, is said to have used to transform herself into a hare. The second line means, “with sorrow and such and great care” (with care, yes, but, I can’t help wondering, why with sorrow?). And hares have been in my mind recently, because I think I have finally found my animal spirit guide.
Now, I don’t literally believe in spirit guides, any more than I literally believe in witches, say, or Merlin, or Boris Johnson. But metaphorically, it turns out I sorta do. Sometimes lying in bed in the dark (and in a Caithness winter this can be any hour of the day or night) I’ve explored the idea of a spirit guide to help steer me through difficult times, just for fun, even if it’s just my subconscious doing cosplay. But which animal would it be? Well, I decided to keep an open mind and let it come to me, if it wished. And to my great delight it did, recently: in the form of a hare.
Not a hare’s nest
Now hares famously build their nests in trees and on mountain crags and have large, hooked beaks for ripping flesh from their prey—no, wait, that’s eagles. Scratch that. Hares belong to the same family as rabbits, but they’re larger, and unlike rabbits hares are native to Britain, nor do they burrow underground. And you know, it feels like an appropriate spirit guide for me: hares are known for being timid and swift, which, apart from the swiftness bit, almost exactly describes me. Plus we both tend to go a bit batshit crazy in the spring, though admittedly in my case it’s more for chocolate easter eggs. The hare in folklore is known as something of a Trickster figure, so it’ll be interesting to see where she leads me—anywhere except down the rabbit hole, I hope…
Compass points
In gansey news I’ve almost finished the first sleeve: the end is in sight. I’m decreasing by 2 stitches every 5th row down to the cuffs—I usually allow for an 11-inch cuff, but this time I’m aiming for c.10 inches. (My wrist is about 8 inches round so it should be fine, everything will depend on how it feels once it’s blocked.)
Sarclet in the rain
And in parish notices, Judit has come up trumps again with another very natty gansey. It’s a striking example of banded patterns taken from Beth Brown-Reinsel’s book, combined in an arrangement that’s Judit’s own—and once again it shows the variety that can be achieved with this kind of pattern. It’s going to be a surprise Christmas present for one very lucky person this year. Many congratulations again to Judit, and thanks to her for sharing her work with all of us.
As for Isobel Gowdie, well, she would have transformed herself into other creatures, of course. Here are two of her other spells: “With giggling, and mirth and a cheeky grin/ I shall go into a penguin,” and “With a sneeze and a cough, dagnabbit/ I shall go into a rabbit.” But she never transformed herself into an egret. Even when the inquisitor switched to French to try to trick a confession out of her, she stood firm: “Non,“ she insisted, “Je ne egret rien…”
And so August is already receding in the rearview mirror of history. The days still feel like late summer, sometimes, but the nights bring the early chill of autumn. Autumn, mind you, is my favourite season: everything seems to snap into focus after the sprawling hazy summer heat, as though God is back from His annual vacation and has adjusted the focus of His celestial microscope to see what we’ve all been up to.
A beautiful day at the beach
Another sign of the change of season is the number of spiders you see around the house. I used to think that they came indoors out of the cold, but apparently they’re cold-blooded, like Jacob Rees-Mogg, and don’t feel it. No, they’re here anyway, and we just see more of them because the males, in that rather mucky way nature has, are trying to attract a mate. I bear spiders no ill will, not even the one that ran across my cheek when I was falling asleep one night aged about 12, something psychologists tend to refer to as a “formative experience”. (Is it just a coincidence that creatures that catch their prey by stealth tend to look downright evil? I mean, you don’t usually see spiders or pilot fish on the front of golden wedding anniversary cards.) No, spiders are welcome to share my house—just not my bed, or my face; plus I really don’t want my obituary to include the words, “laid its eggs in his brain”.
Watching the boats in the harbour
In gansey news I have finished the collar and have started the first sleeve, have reached the end of the pattern band, in fact, so it’s plain knitting all the way to the cuff. It’s a race against time to finish this navy gansey before the nights draw in too far for me to be able to see to knit it properly: another three weeks should finish it, so I should be OK. Then it will be time to work in lighter yarn for a few months, till the sun comes back.
Seeing double
And speaking of spiders, everyone knows the story of how Robert the Bruce, at the lowest point in his fortunes in 1306, defeated and on the run, his brothers captured and killed, his wife a prisoner of Edward I, his army scattered, took refuge in a lonely cave. There he saw a spider try several times to anchor its web, and fail, but eventually it succeeded; and from this he took inspiration to carry on the struggle that would ultimately lead to Bannockburn and victory. Well. It’s a good story, and it has the right kind of truth about it, whether or not it really happened. Hugh McMillan wrote a witty little poem in Scots dialect about it, The Spider’s Legend of Robert the Bruce, which always cheers me up. It’s irreverent (Bruce is described as “a big lug o’ a mon… raggety, right dosser”) but not disrespectful. I won’t infringe copyright by putting it here, but I urge you to follow the link—it’s very short.
And I’ll leave you with this curious fact: did you know that spiders have blue blood? Our blood is red because it contains iron, while spiders’ blood is blue, a useful point to bear in mind next time you run out of ink, because it contains copper. Spiders and the nobility, both defined by their bloodlines. Who knew?
What’s the most troubling thing you’re likely to hear over a plane’s intercom in mid flight? I suppose, “Hey—didn’t we used to have more than one engine?” would be pretty near the top, along with, “Oops, I thought you were going to organise the refuelling”. Luckily I didn’t get either of those on my flight last week from Wick to Edinburgh, but instead: “Ladies and gentlemen, um, we’re going to be slightly delayed arriving, ah, they’ve found a hole in the runway and until they can patch it up the airport’s temporarily closed.” Not even a free cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit is enough to steady the nerves as you continuously circle Edinburgh, picturing the co-pilot thoughtfully tapping the fuel gauge.
Well, of course we landed safely, just a little late. I’m not one of nature’s fliers, but I find commending my soul to God before takeoff seems to work, on the basis that if we land safely He can always give it back; if not, I’m that much ahead of the game. And as I mentioned last week, I didn’t take my current project with me on the plane (too bulky, too much concentration required). Even so, I have finished the front, and joined the shoulders, and started on the collar. Next week I should make a start on the sleeves.
Big Red Shoe – Northampton
To take my mind off things, I’ve been reading a biography of Robert the Bruce. (By the bye, I’ve always liked the Scottish custom of inserting the definite article between some forenames and surnames, as in Gordon the Reid, or Winnie the Pooh. It has added otherness when the person is also known by the colour of their hair, as in “the Red Comyn” or “the Black Douglas”—though I suppose on reflection probably not “the Brown Pooh”.) The story of the Scottish Wars of Independence is a remarkable tale, full of remarkable incidents, history that reads like fiction.
Flyfishing in Pitlochry
Isabella Fortuna leads in the flotilla
Here’s just one example. Bruce and his forces avoided pitched battles against the English wherever possible, preferring guerrilla raids and surprise attacks on English-held castles. One such was at Roxburgh, near Berwick-on-Tweed. One of Bruce’s lieutenants, James Douglas, known as the Black Douglas, was tasked with taking it. In the gathering darkness he and his men approached the castle on their hands and knees, with their cloaks thrown over them, so that they were taken for stray cattle by the castle’s guards. They had scaling ladders to climb the walls, and quickly gained the ramparts. Now, Douglas had been such a terror to the English that he’d become something of a bogeyman. The story goes that as he slipped inside, he came across a woman with her back to him nursing a baby, singing a lullaby: “Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye/ The Black Douglas shall not get ye”—at which Douglas crept up, placed his hand on her shoulder and growled in her ear, “Do not be sure of that!” Isn’t that great? Of course (what did you take this for, Game of Thrones?) he immediately swore he’d protect her and her child from harm.
But perhaps the best summary of Bruce’s career comes from Sellars and Yeatman’s classic text, 1066 And All That: “The Scots were now under the leadership of the Bruce (not to be confused with the Wallace), who, doubtful whether he had slain the Red Comyn or not, armed himself with an enormous spider and marched against the English, determined if possible to win back the Great Scone by beating the English three times running.” After which, there’s really nothing else to add…
Well, that’s the back of the gansey finished and about two-thirds of the front. Another week would normally see the shoulders joined, but I’m flying down to the Midlands on Monday for my mother’s funeral and my bag is already pretty heavy.
Carvings in Dunnet Forest
To take my mind off things I’ve been listening to music a lot recently. Now that the lyrics of just about every song ever written are posted on the internet, I finally realised that I’ve been mis-hearing songs for decades. I don’t mean the jokey “mis-hearings” which are intentionally, aha, funny. (Does anyone seriously think John Lennon is singing “The girl with colitis goes by”, or Bob Dylan “The ants are my friends, they’re blowing in the wind”? On the whole I rather doubt it). No, mine are simply honest mistakes.
Take Paul Simon’s classic song, Fifty Ways To leave Your Lover, the one that goes “You just slip out the back, Jack/ Make a new plan, Stan”, etc. For years I thought Lee was being advised to drop off the quay—to, you know, go down to the harbour, jump in the ocean and swim to freedom. I thought this was a great image. So imagine my disappointment when I discovered that it was the far more mundane, “Drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free”. This particular Lee probably had to wait for a bus. I bet it was running late, too, due to some kind of engine trouble, and he had to stand as all the seats were taken.
Another one is Jethro Tull’s classic track, Jack in the Green. I have no words for how much I love this song, have done ever since I bought the album back in 1977 (the first proper album I ever bought). The Jack in the Green is a traditional English May Day folk tradition; it’s basically someone inside a wicker frame all decked with greenery, looking like a cross between a yeti from Doctor Who and a hedge. It’s a bittersweet song that addresses Jack as an earth spirit who’s threatened by modern life: “Or will these changing times/ Motorways, power lines/ Keep us apart?/ Well I don’t think so/ I saw some grass growing through the pavement today”. Anyway, there’s a line I’ve always heard as “He’s played across, whispers Jack-in-the-Green”. Now, the phrase “to play across” comes from cricket, and it’s when a batsman hits to left or right instead playing the ball back straight ahead of him, in line. It’s very risky, but can bring great rewards. It always struck me as a great line, a perfect image in the context of the song: humanity has put the whole environment at risk for the benefits of modern life, and all nature can do is watch. But no: it turns out the line is, “Each blade of grass whispers Jack-in-the-Green”. Oh. I mean, it’s OK; it’s just not as good as the line I heard in my head.
Sarclet Harbour, near Wick
And, if I’m honest, this is the problem I’m left with. When I listen to these songs now, I try to hear them the way I used to, but I know I’m kidding myself. And while I’d never be so arrogant as to suggest that great songwriters like Paul Simon or Ian Anderson could have anything to learn from me, I’m just saying that I’m open to offers if they ever want to give me a call…
[Apologies again for the quality of the images, Margaret still being away. I know entire movies have been shot using iPhones; just not by me – obviously!]
As the Preacher said, for everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to ride on the funfair and watch the fireworks, and a time for the funfair to pack up and move on while the rest of us wonder if anyone’s actually going to put out the smouldering embers of the bonfire. Yea, verily I say unto you, it’s barely August, and already it feels as though autumn is just around the corner; the smoke of wood fires drifts on the evening breeze. Shakespeare said that summer’s lease hath all too short a date, but in Caithness summer doesn’t have so much a lease as a weekend holiday rental.
Fireworks at Wick Gala
I think nature realises it’s running out of time. There’s a buddleia up the road which seems to be growing butterflies as well as flowers: the other day as I passed a giddy cloud of erratically dancing butterflies flew up and enveloped me, like an orange snowstorm. (I’m sure butterflies suffer from existential dread as much as the rest of us, but they certainly hide it well.) Our garden hedge is positively boiling with sparrows, everywhere you look there are shiny little black eyes, and heads appearing and disappearing like a vast game of whack-a-mole on speed. One collective noun for butterflies is, delightfully, a kaleidoscope. Another for sparrows is a ubiquity. Sometimes the English language is very pleasing.
Well, in gansey news I am about three-quarters of the way up the back. This has always been one of my favourite patterns: less ornate than some, it just seems like a perfect balance between the panels of chevrons and moss stitch diamonds; but of course it’s the double cables that really make it special, fiddly though they are to knit. The pattern is exactly the same as the last time I knit it.
I wonder what the collective noun for ganseys would be? (A botheration? A finick? A lifetime?) We all know about parliaments of owls, unkindnesses of ravens and murders of crows. My favourite collective noun is a shrewdness of apes, which seems about right. The weirdest one I found in the “terms of venery”, the old English hunting terminology, was a smack of jellyfish. This raises several questions. Do jellyfish smack, or do they not rather squelch, flop, or sting? If you inhale them, are they in fact mind-alteringly addictive? And—most pressing of all—you mean they used to huntjellyfish…?
The butterfly bush
[Apologies for the quality of images this week. Margaret’s off on her travels again so I’m afraid it’s back to me and my iPhone]
“I shall go into a hare/ with sorrow and sych and meickle care.” That is part of the charm Isobel Gowdie, the 17th century Scottish witch, is said to have used to transform herself into a hare. The second line means, “with sorrow and such and great care” (with care, yes, but, I can’t help wondering, why with sorrow?). And hares have been in my mind recently, because I think I have finally found my animal spirit guide.
