It’s November and autumn has arrived with all the subtlety of Mike Tyson landing a right uppercut (a punch once happily described as having the ability to fell an opponent like a redwood in a forest: when people ask me why I decided to become an archivist I usually tell them that this was because so few of the people I meet wish to knock me unconscious, at least until they’ve known me a few minutes). It’s dark, too, in the evenings, though most mornings are just as dark, and wet, it being hardly worth drawing the curtains since the view from the windows is basically what you’d see from inside a submarine submerging during an eclipse.
Flying a kite at South Cape Beach
Wind, rain, dark, cold. You can see why the pagan people of the north adopted Odin and the Norse gods, angry deities bearing a grudge and longing for thermal underwear. You can understand why Ragnarok, the cataclysmic end of the world, would appeal, too: at least it’s something to look forward to. I always liked the description in the Old Norse poem Völuspá, when the Seer is foretelling the end of all things to Odin: it will be a vindǫld, vargǫld: “a wind age, a wolf age”. And I think: oh, you’ve been to Caithness, then.
Trees by the road
I’m typing this on Bonfire Night—remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot—harking back to the occasion 417 years ago when a group of Catholics tried to blow up the entire government, king and parliament together, with gunpowder. Guido (“call me Guy”) Fawkes was the one caught in possession of the explosives in the basement, and so he’s the one we all remember. I was interested to read that the word “guy” is probably derived from his name, since effigies of him known as “guys” were burned on Bonfire Night (a mandatory holiday 1605-1859); by the 19th century the word had evolved to cover any shabbily pressed person, before becoming a general word for a man; it’s still evolving, and seems now to be taking on a happily gender-neutral meaning (“hey, you guys”). I’m a pacifist, so I deplore the potential carnage that the Plot would have caused. But, given the often disappointing nature of politics and politicians, I do have a sneaking affection for the description of Fawkes as “the only person ever to enter Parliament with honest intentions…”
Autumn colour on the Cape
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TECHNICAL STUFF
After the rather intense gansey production line of recent months I’ve been taking my time with this one: I’m just doing an hour or so an evening, and focusing more on the knitting-as-relaxation-therapy side of things. As a result, four weeks in I’m just over the nine-inch mark. The yarn is nice and soft, and the body as a whole is rather floppy, so that it almost feels with this colour as though I’m knitting a luxury mail sack. At the current rate I’ll maybe just reach the start of the yoke pattern and gussets this week, or I may not. But it’s surprising how even just a few rows each night build up over time. It’s supposed to be a Christmas present to myself; but if it’s not ready by Christmas, that’s perfectly OK too.
I have always referred to Carmarthen as ‘the land of the magic bucket’ and was going to challenge you to a ‘leave a bucket outside’ contest, when I remembered that that’s exactly what the MET office does all over the country and the wind went out of my sails.
Where is Mr Fawkes when you need him most? Ah, for lost opportunities…
I’ve always assumed Guy was just a diminutive of Guido. What was Guy Burgess christened I wonder.
Hi Dave, I used to have a bucket, but then I kicked it, and nothing’s been quite the same ever since.
Burgess was christened Guy Francis de Moncy Burgess, the “Guy” part being a French and English variation of “Guido”. That’s the great thing about English—if there are too many syllables we just shorten words, probably because it saves breath.
Guy is definitely gender-neutral now. I recall hearing it used that way in the 1970s.
I have appreciated Guy Fawkes over the years, but I still prefer peaceful changes.
Enjoying the late summer sun here in the near-tropics.
Hi Tamar, yes, the question I always want to ask is how many innocent people are you willing to accept as collateral damage? Interesting that the plot failed in part because one of the plotters sent a warning to a Catholic lord not to attend parliament, and he of course raised the alarm.
It’s Remembrance Day today, a cold, crisp, clear autumn day, a perfect day to remember.
winter seems to have come in without the usual trimmings….I have roses blooming….alot of green things struggling to keep up appeances..and strangely … saffron crocuses poking their heads up having failed to perform in autumn..these calm days are beguiling…the everdarkening days catch me unawares…the long evenings a time for knitting….preparing for the snow and cold
guy …..doing the wrong thing for the right reason..soggy matches perhaps..how might our history have taken a different course….
Hi Meg, John Lennon as so often said it best: “But if you want money for people with minds that hate / All I can tell you is brother you have to wait…”
The time is out of joint, as Hamlet said, and the seasons too, by the look of things. But I think winter will be upon us soon enough: the trees are nearly bare of leaves, and the creeping dark is spreading over the land. On the plus side, though, only 42 more sleeps till Christmas!
Love your photos of Cape Cod. We were there this fall as well, visiting family, and it was beautiful. Your pace of knitting an hour or so a day and still seeing progress gives me hope. I finished my children’s sized gansey in sport weight and I’m now getting ready to tackle design of a full adult model. Looking forward to a design workshop with Beth Brown Reinsel at the end of February – maybe a little light will be peaking out by then in the Pacific NW of the US.
Hi Betsy, sorry for the delay In replying, things have been coming over the plate a bit fast just lately.
Beth will steer you right, no question about that, and I hope your workshop with her goes well. (And it’s been such a grim start to November I’m inching towards that old pagan uncertainty as to whether the sun will ever rise again…)
My feeling is, ganseys should never be a chore. But if you do manage a couple of rows a night, you may not see the change from day to day, but you will from week to week. I think of it like music practice (I’m not musical!): even if you don’t feel like it, it’s worth doing even one row, and often once you start, your fingers and brain remember how it goes, and you may even find yourself doing more. To quote my favourite Welsh proverb, “many drops wear away the stone…” 🙂