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 It was St Valentine’s Day this past week, a day for pairs. This of course can create potholes in the path of those un-paired or de-paired. When I entered the local supermarket on Tuesday morning, I was as mentally ready for it as I could be. I’d seen the red and pink displays in previous weeks, lurking in wait just inside the front doors. There was still a twinge, although we never really ‘celebrated’ St Valentine’s day – perhaps we’d buy ourselves a small treat, like a book or a craft item. It was simply a reminder of a pairing that had been lost, a de-pair-ment.
 Storm-tossed Further into the store, the next eye-catching display was for Easter – chocolate bunnies, creme eggs, chocolate chicks . . . and Easter Eggs. Little ones in little bags, medium ones with a surprise inside, big hollow ones with extra chocolates. It caught me unprepared. Gordon always wanted a big chocolate egg for Easter, and it was mandatory that I have one too. After a few deep breaths and wiping tears away, I passed by – there was nothing on this aisle I needed.The gansey is coming on, a bit more slowly this week.
‘Ocean currents’. Multiple exposure of foam in the river While I knit, I’ve been listening to talking books, keeping up our custom of listening to one of an evening. The current audiobook is a history of the medieval world. So far it’s covered Europe and Asia, starting with the end of the Roman Empire. The author has elegantly aligned the timelines of the various kingdoms and cultures of Britain, Scandinavia, continental Europe, the Byzantine Empire, the Middle East, and North Africa, eastward to China, India, Korea, and Japan, providing a concurrent view of events. It’s very dry at times, but one little story stood out.
 Back yard snowdrops During the reign of Charlemagne (768-814), King Offa, he of Offa’s Dyke, ruled the kingdom of Mercia in Britain, whose kingdom ranged from the Welsh Marches in the West to the East Anglian coast, from the Humber in the north to the Sussex coast. Late in his reign, he had some gold coins minted. On one side there are mysterious symbols. On the other side, it says ‘Offa Rex’ surrounded by a design – but if you rotate it 180°, it reads ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet’.
 Offa’s dinar. (c) British Museum What happened here? The author Susan Wise Bauer surmises that due to a lessening in political tensions between the Abbasid Caliphate, based in Baghdad, and their neighbours to the north on the shores of the Caspian Sea, Arab traders were able to travel north safely. These merchants took their coins with them, which were stamped with ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet’, in Arabic script. This little coin then travelled north through eastern Europe to the Baltic Sea, and thence westward, eventually coming into the hands of King Offa’s silversmith, who copied the linear designs from the Arabic coin onto the Christian coin of King Offa. And because the silversmith didn’t realise the pattern was a script, he engraved the design on the die upside down.
And finally, last week I forgot to include a pic of the very happy recipient of the last gansey:
I was listening to the radio the other day – a classical music station from somewhere in the world is playing at various times of the day – and I heard a word I’ve wondered about for quite a long time. Since I was in university in fact. The word is ‘branle’, which refers to a line or circle dance common in Renaissance Europe, or the music written for it. In English, it is commonly pronounced ‘brawl’. Which has always set me to wondering – is it actually related to the English word ‘brawl’?
A bit of digging on the internet has revealed some clues. The original word – branle – comes from the French verb branler, to shake or brandish. In English, as a verb it came to mean ‘To agitate, toss about, bandy’ but wasn’t frequently used. It was more often used as a noun, referring to the dance. There are instances of the noun also being used to mean ‘Wavering, agitation, (?) confusion’.
 A Walk in the Snow How does this relate to ‘brawl’, which would seem to have no connection to a dance from the courts of Europe in the 16th and 17th centuries? The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that one meaning of the word is possibly from the French ‘branler’, to move from side to side., and indeed one of the definitions of ‘brawl’ is ‘a particular pace or movement in dancing’. This shows that from the late 16th to mid 19th centuries ‘brawl’ and ‘branle’ can mean the same thing.
Yet if you dig a bit further, the earliest uses of ‘brawl’ in English appear in the 1400s, with pretty much the same meaning it has today, of ‘to quarrel noisily’ or ‘to make a disturbance’. The word has an uncertain origin.
So, during a certain period of the English language, ‘brawl’ and ‘branle’ were synonymous, but at the same time ‘brawl’ could also have its other meaning of quarrel or disturbance. But it isn’t farfetched to surmise that the meanings mingled somewhere in the mists of time, as ‘to make a disturbance’ and ‘to agitate’ are not too distant in meaning.
As keen observers will see, the gansey has reached that awkward toddler stage of tottering on its feet, unsure of how long it will be able to stand upright before falling down plump on its backside. The branle of the ribbing is complete, wavering back and forth on the ribbing, knit two steps forward then purl two steps back. The colour revealing its beauty now there is a good chunk of it – a deep soft hue of pinky-red that is neither girlishly pink nor brashly red.
 Two Ravens The weather, too, has been leading us a merry dance. Here in Wick, we had a coating of an inch; further north in Thurso there was more, and Orkney had up to eight inches. On the days without snow, there were gale force winds. But the aconites and snowdrops are now blooming with abandon, and other plants are peeking through the soil. Caithness is so ready for spring.
 “C’mon, Pete, it’s time to get up!”
“Don’t wanna. Let me sleep . . . zzzzz.”
“They’re waiting for you, Pete!”
“Don’t care. It’s cold out there.”
poke poke poke
“All right, all right, I’ll get up. mumble mumble . . . Crikey, it’s bright out here! Where’s my breakfast?”
This scene, oft repeated, could easily apply to any teenager throughout the land on a Saturday morning. But this time, it’s that poor groundhog, Punxsatawney Phil, and all his fellow weather-casters – Ms G in Massachusetts, Stonewall Jackson, Essex Ed and Otis the hedgehog in New Jersey, Malverne Mell and Great Neck Greta in Long Island, Staten Island Chuck in Staten Island Zoo, French Creek Freddie in West Virginia, and many others – who have been disturbed from their winter’s sleep to predict the coming of spring.
 St Fergus’ through the hawthorn The tradition originates in German-speaking areas of Europe, where Candlemas – the Christian feast of the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple – was marked with a ceremony similar to Groundhog Day called Dachstag. The luckless predictor in this case was a badger, or Dachs. German settlers in the US, particularly the Pennsylvania Dutch, continued the tradition, substituting groundhogs for badgers.
Alas, these rodents are not particularly reliable. Punxsatawney Phil’s success rate is 39%, and only 30% over the past ten years, according to NOAA. Perhaps a young person would be more accurate. Potomac Phil, in Washington DC, changes it up a bit. A taxidermic groundhog, he also predicts six more months of political turmoil and gridlock, as well as predicting the coming of spring. The politics in Washington is probably easier to predict than the weather.
 Gorse To roughly coincide with Groundhog Day, I’ve started the next gansey. This one is for one of the museum volunteers, and is in the cheerful hue of Frangipani Crushed Raspberry. It’s a shade of deep pink, and will probably look more red when it’s knit up. The pattern, which will be on the yoke, after 4.5 inches of ribbing and many inches of plain body, will be Donald Thomson of Thurso, from Rae Compton.
How do I know all this? I knew who the next recipient was, and that the colour and size had been worked out, but where was this information?. I looked high and low, under and over, and finally found Gordon’s rough notes for it. Honestly, it was like finding the Holy Grail. The sheet contains everything I need to know to get started – the pattern, the measurements, the length of ribbing, and most importantly, the number of stitches to cast on.
And casting on should be simple, correct? In my case, no. It did not go to plan. I could not believe it when a couple of rows had been completed, only to find that there were 50 – yes 50 – fewer stitches than needed. There had been a twist in the join, too. To rectify the cast on, I unpicked it back to the starting stitches, added the 50 stitches needed, untwisted it, and counted multiple times. The moral is to avoid anything that needs brainpower after 8:00 p.m.
 Hawthorn
 It’s a treacherous, undependable thing, this hind-brain of ours. One moment you’re feeling reasonably fine, and the next you’re weeping while you hang up your socks. Which is where I found myself recently, after blocking the latest gansey. It was unexpectedly emotional. It makes no sense, of course. I’ve blocked dozens of ganseys over the years and haven’t shed a tear. This time was different. This was the last piece of knitting that Gordon worked on, and there is a desire to cling to it. But that would be denying it its purpose. When it’s dry and unpinned, I’ll carefully fold and send it to its new home – keeping a thing won’t change the past or further the future.
 Willow in the Marsh So here it is in all its glory. Mrs Laidlaw is a classic and with good reason. It’s a cracker. The vertical panels of trees bordered by triangles provide a satisfying texture, with a complex play of light and shadow. The change of knitter is imperceptible on the second sleeve; if I didn’t have the photos, I wouldn’t be able to find the transition. The only significant difference was in the cuffs at the bottom of the sleeve. Even with the same number of rows, the cuff on the first sleeve is about 3/4” longer; my row gauge on ribbing must be tighter. To correct this difference, I’ve used T-pins to pin it to lengthen it to match.
 Flotsam in the landscape The other theme of the week has been the wind. It’s been nearly incessant. Although it’s sunny and calm today, there’s more on the way. It’s been booming and whistling around the house practically all week. At the beginning of the week, it was strong enough to blow down twigs and small branches. By mid-week, it was necessary to lean into a headwind to make any progress. Another day, schools were shut, and ferries have been cancelled too. But thankfully here in Caithness we haven’t been as badly affected as elsewhere. I’ve fully enjoyed today’s respite before the next wind- and rain-filled onslaught.
 First Flowers of Spring And finally, the signs of spring are evident to even casual observers. I was very pleased to find this small clump of winter aconites on my walk a few days ago, with their cheerful yellow cups and Kermit collars. Today, I spotted some snowdrops, up from the ground and ready to bloom, at the base of a hedge near the bridge. The roses are starting to burgeon in the front border – I’ll have to think about pruning them soon.
Roll on Spring.
 It’s been a cold week in Caithness. The snow first fell on Sunday night, firing a warning shot across our bows with a dusting of snow. Then it crept off to plan further attacks. During Monday, the flurries roamed over the county, like a band of guerilla fighters, or a fluther of jellyfish with long, trailing strands of snow. The snow varied from icy pellets to fluffy globules spinning down to rest on the trees and fields. By mid morning the weather was a bit more determined, veering between sunny and calm to snow showers of blizzard proportions. The weather was sending such mixed messages that I decided to stay in, and felt a bit cheated by afternoon when the flurries petered out and then ceased.
Passing Snow Shower More snow fell overnight, sliding in with stealthy unloadings, fly-tipping their cargo when we weren’t looking. But the winds had been slight and the trees had that upside-down, magical look of a fairy land that only happens when it snows. When I ventured out in the morning to enjoy the snow, there were a fair number of people out doing errands or enjoying the snow with their snow-day children. Some were sledging on any slope they could find, but I didn’t see any snowmen. On one path, there were drifts nearly up to my knees.
 Drifting on Lovers’ Lane More flurries came and went over the next few days, leaving an accumulation of about 8 inches. Birds sat in the trees and bushes fluffed up like newly shaken down duvets. The snowdrops were hidden under the snow. Then yesterday, the weather warmed, and there was rain Instead of snow flurries. With the melt, icicles started to form on the house, and the trees lost their tracery. The lying snow ceased to sparkle and became waxy and dull. As I write, it is about half gone, disappearing into the ground, like spilled coffee on a carpet.
The gansey is coming on apace. The cuff, all six inches of it, has just been started, and should be finished and blocked by next week.
 In other news, the above photo appeared in the local paper a few weeks ago, and I forgot to include it here. By way of explanation, each year the Wick Heritage Centre has an open day on 2 January, and Wickers come along for a mince pie and a natter. One of the activities is to have your photo taken in the ‘Johnston Studio’, where props from the original studio are usually on display. There’s vintage clothing to don too, to give photos a true old-timey look. This year, four of the ‘boat crew’, who sail and maintain the museum’s fishing boat Isabella Fortuna, had their photo taken wearing ganseys that Gordon donated to the collections.
Regarding the link to Gordon’s Celebration of Life service, I don’t yet have a link for the ‘official’ video. But one of the helpful ladies at Gordon’s work has put together a video containing the pre-service slideshow and the audio. The slideshow was paused during the service, so in many ways this is better as you’ll see more than the celebrant and the backs of heads. I hope this link works, let me know if it doesn’t.
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It was St Valentine’s Day this past week, a day for pairs. This of course can create potholes in the path of those un-paired or de-paired. When I entered the local supermarket on Tuesday morning, I was as mentally ready for it as I could be. I’d seen the red and pink displays in previous weeks, lurking in wait just inside the front doors. There was still a twinge, although we never really ‘celebrated’ St Valentine’s day – perhaps we’d buy ourselves a small treat, like a book or a craft item. It was simply a reminder of a pairing that had been lost, a de-pair-ment. 
