“Was there ever a winter so cold and so sad/ The river too weary to flood/ The storming wind cut through to my skin/ But she cut through to my blood…” That’s the opening of The Poor Ditching Boy, a song by the great Richard Thompson, an artist who’s probably never going to top the cheerfullest songwriter awards, and (except for the last line, he adds hastily) it’s been playing in my mind on a loop all week. Indeed, the BBC could have given their weather forecasters a holiday and just played the song each night. For winter laid its icy grip on Caithness for a few days, and it came as something of a shock.
Playing in the snow
Snow, ice, sleet, and hail all descended in a sort of wintery bingo jackpot, together with the horsemen of the apocalypse’s little-known nephew, ungritted roads. The first day or so of new snow is always an unexpected treat, when it covers everything and makes everywhere look exciting and new, it’s powdery and scrunches underfoot in a very satisfactory way, and walking sounds like you’re eating perfectly grilled toast, and everyone looks happy, like they’ve stepped out of the last act of The Muppet Christmas Carol. Then it thaws on top, and freezes overnight, and before you know it you’re damning the penguins’ Christmas skating party to blazes as you anxiously navigate the treacherous ice like someone walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls, and watching cars glide sideways down the road.
I imagine one day I’ll forget what it felt like when the tree at the bottom of the garden deposited a wadge of snow down the back of my neck: first there was an icy shock, then a not unpleasant tingling as it melted, then a cold worm of water slithering down my spine; it probably ended up pooling in my socks, though to be honest I rather lost touch with it somewhere around my sixth vertebra. Eventually all the snow and ice melts, of course, and turns to rain, with just a few sad pockets lingering as reminders under north-facing hedges or in the hollows of distant mountains. Still, soon it will be spring, and time to put aside the depressing Richard Thompson songs for something more cheerful. Here’s one: The Beatles singing Here Comes The Sun…
I’ve got a couple of parish notices this week. First of all, the navy blue Wick gansey (named after its original owner, George Bremner) I knit before Christmas in aid of the Caithness Fishermen’s Mission is now being raffled. I’d describe its size as Extra Large (it’s a nice, easy, comfortable fit on me, and I measure about 43 inches round the chest). Tickets are £1 each. If you want to take part, you can buy a ticket by paying us via Paypal. Simply click on the “buy Gordon a cuppa” button on the home page and make your contribution (n.b., please remember to leave a note that it’s for the raffle). We’ll allocate you a ticket number as soon as I get some from Jackie at the Fisherman’s Mission. The raffle will be open till 24 February, so there’s plenty of time. And let me say that I can’t think of a worthier cause for the gansey-appreciating community to support.
Also this week, I’m delighted to say that Penelope has been in touch to share a couple of ganseys she’s knit. Penelope’s been knitting ganseys for some years now, and of the two, one (in Frangipani ocean deep) is a Flamborough design taken from Gladys Thompson, a classic pattern classically realised, and the other (also Frangipani, wine-coloured) is her own design. Many thanks to Penelope for sharing these with us, and many congratulations on two fine-looking ganseys.
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TECHNICAL STUFF
I’m taking my time and working my way slowly up the body. It’s the ribbing that takes the time, of course, and I’ve included the pattern chart so you can see what’s going on; though it all concertinas up as you knit it, and does what ribbing is supposed to do. Once it’s washed and blocked the ribs will open out and reveal themselves. Meanwhile, in the immortal words of Chief Dan George in The Outlaw Josey Wales, I “endeavour to persevere…”
Thank you very much, Gordon.
Penny
(Penelope)
You have my sympathy, Gordon, in the matter of snow down the neck. We have had a very mild winter here in the Maritime provinces of Canada. Still green patches across the lawn. However, there is that saying that all good things come to an end. And yesterday we got clobbered! There is at least 12 inches of snow or more and a vicious wind piled it into high drifts.
My good neighbour dug a path out to my door, and the large blob in the driveway turned out to be my car underneath. He moved it enough for the plow to get through and clear an area out to the highway. Like all good Maritimers, I had laid in groceries beforehand, dug out extra yarn, recorded a few movies and plunked myself with needles at the ready and goodies on the table beside me.
I remember my grandfather calling these storms “a day in the hay”, and that’s exactly what he did, go down to the barn to check on the animals and do any chores. Toasty warm and with all the lovely animal smells. Them was the days!
Shuddering in sympathy, and trepidation, as the weatherman keeps predicting heavy weather here.
Sigh. I don’t do money online at all, so I am sadly regretting missing the chance to try for the gansey. (This stupid tablet keeps changing words on me. If this comment does not make sense, blame the programmers.)