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 And here we are, back after a brief winter break in Edinburgh, staying in a semi-posh hotel near Holyrood in Old Town just a few minutes’ walk from the picturesque Royal Mile, where Japanese tourists, like salmon, after travelling thousands of miles, swarm in multitudes and then, presumably, spawn and die.
Edinburgh makes a spectacular change from Wick at this time of year, with crowds, lights, funfairs, market stalls, shops, coffee, cake, lights, cake, culture and—let’s be honest—more cake. In fact I treated the visit like an Arctic ground squirrel facing a winter’s hibernation in Alaska, and decided to build up a layer of fat in the shortest possible time—only whereas the squirrel forages for nuts and berries in the forest canopy, I basically camped out in Starbucks and Costa Coffee.
 Mmm Apple Edinburgh also has an Apple Store, and we went there in search of a new phone and iPad. It’s a while since I’ve visited one of these emporia and I was struck by the fact that all the staff seemed to be about 12 years old; they smiled constantly with a creepy sort of inner certainty, as though they’d just been saved (“Eternal salvation? There’s an app for that!”), or as if their shining white teeth were a prototype Apple dental recognition software.
Stepford Female Apple Employee: “Hello sir, how can we help you today?”
Me: “I’d like to buy an iPad Mini, please.”
“Uh-MA-zing! Anything else?”
“Well, I was thinking of buying a new phone too.”
“Wow—uh-MA-zing!”
“And a case.”
“Uh-MA-zing!”
“But I’ve just contracted a rare tropical disease and have only three days to live.”
‘Uh-MA—oh, bummer. Still, at least you’ll have a new phone to help make your last hours extra-special, yeah?”
‘Well, I suppose so—”
“Uh-MA-zing!”
 Across the street from the Apple Store is the German Christmas market in Princes Street Gardens (and with the crowds of people, the lights and the skaters on the rink, and the air heavy with the rich aromas of gluhwein and German sausage it was like being in the middle of Breughel painting, if only Flemish peasants in the 16th century had taken selfies with their phones).
 There was a funfair with a giant Ferris wheel, and one of those rides consisting of a high pole with seats attached that ascend and spin giddily round and round, and I found myself wishing I’d paid more attention in maths at school so I could calculate the area my lunch would cover if I were ever so stupid as to go up in it.
Mind you, the turbulence of the return flight was about as much fun—when a British pilot suggests that there will be “a few lumps and bumps”, you know you’d better hang on to your fillings—but after 50 minutes of being shaken like a cocktail we were back in dear old Wick. (My stomach still hasn’t recovered, and makes such exciting noises I have to pretend I’m using the bathroom to make balloon animals for children’s parties.)
There’s just a week to the winter solstice now, but somehow it feels darker and colder up here after the warmth and light of Auld Reekie. Oh, well, the nights will soon start growing longer; and I do have, if I say so myself, a phone which really is “uh-MA-zing…”
 It’s probably best to think of this as a spirit message, as in a blog from The Other Side—well, the other side of the Caithness-Sutherland border, anyway (and speaking as someone who’s traversed the hairpins of Berriedale Braes many times, I’m not sure that returning from the land of the dead mightn’t in fact be easier…).
 Reflections You see, by the time you read this, we will hopefully be in Edinburgh for a much-needed winter break, filled with Christmas lights, throngs of people, German markets, coffee shops, cake, and restaurants that don’t have the word “diner” and “kebab” in the title. At this time of year, wallets and waistlines are expendable and expandable respectively.
 Having a snooze As you’ll see, Margaret’s Lopi is finished, and just needs to be blocked into shape. (I draped it over the back of the sofa to admire it but had to take it down after a while as it looked like an elderly koala had crept in while we weren’t looking and was hoping to catch the Aussie Rules football scores.) One more Lopi to go and then it’s back to the day job.
In parish news, congratulations to Julie on this very impressive bottle green gansey cardigan —a nice blend of tradition and innovation, I think. (And it just shows how effective gansey patterns look in so many different colours.)
So there we are. I won’t be able to respond to any comments, as hedonistic indulgences are very much in fashion this year, but normal service will hopefully be resumed next week…
 It’s officially the Festive Season – I know this because they’ve put up the tree and lit Wick’s Christmas lights, an event commemorated in some of Joni Mitchell’s most affecting lyrics: “It’s coming on Christmas / They’re cutting down trees / They’re putting up a giant inflatable Santa in Wick Market Square / And wearing leggings on their knees”. (These are some of my favourite lyrics, along with, “How many roads must a man walk down / Before he finds a public convenience, or at least a suitably tall hedge”, and “If I had a hammer / I’d hammer in the morning / But then I’d probably have to fix that wonky shelf in the bathroom.”)
 Decorated Umbrella from the Umbrella Parade It’s suddenly turned cold, at or around freezing, while the wind’s been gusting up to 50 mph with showers of sleet, which hits the window with the force of gravel thrown by the ghosts of a hundred desperate elopements. Then the sky clears overnight and everything freezes solid. The sidewalks are treacherous with frozen snow and ice, and every step makes a nasty crackling noise as though the Council was trying to save money by using cornflakes instead of grit. People walk in slow motion, as if testing the ice on a frozen lake.
Moss-capped fencepost It’s supposed to warm up again later in the week, and we’ll swap the sleet for rain so we can tough it out for a few days – though I’m wearing so many layers for thermal insulation I’m contemplating buying comedy clown trousers just to accommodate my swelling waistline. But I must admit to feeling a little uneasy: if this is a taste of things to come, even clown trousers may not be enough…
 Next step: the yoke Meanwhile, I’ve been making good progress on the Lopi pullover, and will hopefully finish it next weekend. It’s hugely satisfying to knit something where the rate of progress isn’t measured in microns, for a change. On the other hand, constantly having to stop and switch yarn colours is a bit of a nuisance; if I had to knit a Fair Isle sweater, for instance, I might possibly lose my reason. But I plan to end the year by knitting another Lopi jumper before going back to ganseys after Christmas. (I have the next gansey planned, and the yarn – Frangipani pewter – already bought. So I’m good to go.)
 Finally, today – 30 November – is St Andrew’s Day, patron saint of Scotland. (It’s a public holiday in some parts of Scotland but not, alas, in Caithness.) St Andrew was a fisherman, and he’s their patron saint too, so it seems entirely appropriate to celebrate him in a blog dedicated to fishermen’s sweaters, and one now based in Scotland at that. But did you know that his patronage also extends to fishmongers, spinsters, maidens, old maids and women wishing to become mothers, as well as gout, sore throats – and singers?
Which brings us back full circle to Joni Mitchell. So many great songs: “The wind is in from Novosibirsk / Last night I couldn’t sleep”, and of course the classic, “I’ve looked at clouds / From both sides now / From rain and sleet, and still somehow / It’s the total downpours I recall / I really don’t like clouds at all.”
 Apologies for the short blog this week—it’s another semi-migraine day, I’m afraid. (Nothing very serious—I just feel like I aged about 30 years overnight.)
Anyway, I’m taking my traditional Christmas break from ganseys to experiment again with Icelandic Lopi Alafoss wool jumpers. In many ways these are anti-ganseys, being big and chunky and soft, as well as very quick to knit—well, you can see how far I’ve got in a week; if I’d been knitting a gansey I’d barely have finished the welt by now. (Also, wearing a Lopi jumper is so warm and cosy it’s like being intimate with an Ewok.)
 Lopi & Gansey Now, you may remember that the last time I tried this it played merry hell with my stitch gauge when I eventually went back to ganseys. So this time I’ve come up with a cunning plan: I’ve also cast on the stitches for another gansey, and every night I knit a row, just to keep the memory in my fingers of what a 2.25mm needle feels like. So far so good: the transition is always strange, but the stitches look about right.
 Sunset by the river In parish notices Judit has been busy again, this time knitting a cap using the classic Betty Martin pattern as a Christmas present. Congratulations again to Judit for creatively using gansey patterns in new ways and for producing such a natty garment.
 A grey afternoon near the castle of Old Wick Meanwhile winter has arrived at Caithness, coming via the Arctic Circle. In the last week we’ve had sunshine, rain, gales, sleet and snow—sometimes all on the same day. The Met Office temperature today had the cheerful message, “feels like -1ºC”. Even the seals in the harbour look mournful (or more mournful than normal; they usually just look at me with a sort of hopeless disappointment, like my old classics master waiting for me to give the plural of “domus” in Latin class—though there the similarity ends, for to the best of my recollection I never saw Mr Pennycook dive for fish…).
 I was thinking this week how the main characters in fantasy literature tend to be larger-than-life figures: warriors and wizards, kings and queens—or Cinderella types like Luke Skywalker and Harry Potter, orphans ignorant of their birthrights. But no one writes fantasy novels about bureaucrats; the filing clerks, or those greybeards in the Gondor archives who are so casual about where they put their candles. (It’s much the same in Star Trek, of course: when did you last see a Klingon accountant?)
Imagine how much more exciting the Lord of the Rings would have been if JRR Tolkien had made it a heroic tale of admin, paperwork and financial probity. Sauron might have been arrested for cheating on his income tax returns (hatching orcs in slime pits not being a recognised tax-deductible expense). Aragorn might have achieved his destiny by becoming President of the Society of Archivists, thus fulfilling the prophecy (From the drawer a sharpener is taken / The waste-paper basket’s not missed / Renewed shall be point that was broken / The archivist once more shall list).
In this version the Riders of Rohan could be a nomadic tribe of document cataloguers, roaming the land in search of records they can sort in exchange for food and a good conditioning shampoo. Here is their moving lament for the old days (my translation):
 Where now are the archivist and the pencil? Where is the acid-free box for stowing?
Where is the brass paper clip and the eraser, and the bald patch showing?
They have passed like mould on a log book, like rusty paper clips in a file,
The parchment deeds have all been eaten away by insects into piles.
Who shall gather the shavings of the pencil sharpening,
Or behold the arteries after the cream cakes hardening?
Well. I’ve finished the gansey, and it’s been washed and blocked by Margaret, and you can finally see the pattern in all its glory. I must say, this really is a pattern that should be better known—nice clean lines and a regular eye-pleasing design, I think it’s a classic; and remarkably easy to knit withal.
 My next gansey project will start with the new year; as once again I shall be taking short break from ganseys—though not from the blog—and knitting a sweater or two in Icelandic Lopi wool. (Two colours at once! Who’d have thought? It’s like entering the fourth dimension, as though Doctor Who had taken up knitting…)
[Postscript. The above was drafted before news broke of the appalling atrocity in Paris last Friday—otherwise I doubt I should have head the heart for jokes. As it was written I decided to let it stand; but I should like to add my voice to the rest of the civilised world, and say: Nous sommes tous Français.]
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And here we are, back after a brief winter break in Edinburgh, staying in a semi-posh hotel near Holyrood in Old Town just a few minutes’ walk from the picturesque Royal Mile, where Japanese tourists, like salmon, after travelling thousands of miles, swarm in multitudes and then, presumably, spawn and die.
Across the street from the Apple Store is the German Christmas market in Princes Street Gardens (and with the crowds of people, the lights and the skaters on the rink, and the air heavy with the rich aromas of gluhwein and German sausage it was like being in the middle of Breughel painting, if only Flemish peasants in the 16th century had taken selfies with their phones).
There was a funfair with a giant Ferris wheel, and one of those rides consisting of a high pole with seats attached that ascend and spin giddily round and round, and I found myself wishing I’d paid more attention in maths at school so I could calculate the area my lunch would cover if I were ever so stupid as to go up in it.
