drop spindle

Over the weekend, my Papa kindly made me a new drop spindle to replace my own crude attempt.  

My spindle is made from odds and ends found around the house: an old wooden knitting needle and the offcuts from my brother's work top. It's low whorl, weighs about 50g and is imperfectly balanced and a little clunky. But oh how I love my new tool! And what fun I had spinning as I walked along the shore, looking for treasures amongst the flotsam and jetsom and trying not to drop my spindle into the water when the waves rushed up to the shore.     

spin, span, spun

So here are my first samples of hand spun! The learning curve on this has been steep, in the space of two months I've been teaching myself the crafts of spinning (with both wheel and drop spindle), plying and natural dyeing (not to mention the various stages of fibre preparation which precede the actual spinning...).
 

Oh I know these yarns are lumpy and bumpy, horrendously uneven and far from perfect. I made countless mistakes here and there. But even to my novice's eye, I feel I can see progress as I examine the samples from left to right.

As a teacher and learner of languages, I've always been an advocate for experiential learning - the type of learning process where you jump straight in at the deep end (even if you don't know how to swim!). I certainly have learnt a great deal by doing with this very first batch of yarns.

The best part is that I made these skeins of yarn. Actually made them with my own hands - transforming dirty, smelly fleeces into skeins of knobbly, bobbly yarn. I love them so very much.

I can't wait to get something cast on with these balls - all 123g of it! I wonder what I shall make first?

stan the dinosaur

My nephew was six earlier in the year. I couldn't resist knitting up this friendly little fellow as a belated birthday present. Stan the dino was a dream to knit up and I particularly enjoyed making the moss stitch spines which were knit in a long strip from the head to the tail. At times, the pattern was a little tricky to follow, so although simple, this is probably not a suitable project for a beginner. 

Although my nephew would probably have preferred me to knit him something from Star Wars, he still seemed rather delighted with his new friend, playing with him all afternoon!

pattern: roaring dinosaur by Zoë Mellor (Knitted Toys, Hamlyn)
needles: 3.25mm
yarn: thrifted acrylic mix (approx 100g); washable stuffing

between swims

Dunking ourselves in the channel, despite the chill. Feeling the tide's pull. It's been far too long between swims. It' s been far too long since I last saw my big sis.

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birthday bear

A month ago, it was my birthday. In the morning, my chéri baked me a cake, first mixing salty butter with the sugar, eggs, dark chocolate and orange juice. He buttered the pan and then he buttered himself too. He licked his fingers a lot and let me lick out the bowl once the mix was in the oven.

 

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, there was always an afternoon tea to celebrate my birthday. Always a home-made cake to share. And always a little china teddy bear sat amongst the candles.

I had knitted a little ted to sit on top of the cake once it had cooled. We finished it off with some cowslips, one of our favourite edible spring flowers.

pattern: Molly, Toby and Jack by Sandra Polley from The Knitted Teddy Bear
yarn: 2 ply, wool yarn (fingering weight)
needles: 2mm

another year

 

A month ago today, I turned 27.

Waking to yet another poorly day, I'm struggling to find any hint of improvement; my body is still aching, I am still exhausted. The calendar tells me that I am another year older. The warm breeze through the open window confirms the seasons have changed. And yet I am still sick. The urge to kick off the bedsheets once and for all is great.

I'm back to square one at the moment, large stretches of the day spent alternating between our bed and the sofa. Yet all around me, friends are spreading their wings. On the horizon for them: babies, weddings, more rungs on the career ladder, adventures in sunnier climbs. If I think about it when I'm tired, I'll only let the green eyed monster of jealousy into my heart and that won't do me any good at all.

So it's best to focus on other things, closer to home. From here in my bed, my mind sets sail on an adventure. Wild garlic down by the river. Picnics in the woods. New woolly projects on my needles and wheel. With a conscious effort, I can let happy thoughts flood my daydreams. Longer days are imminent and I look forward to sunny ones pottering around on our balcony. There is much to mourn. But there is even more to be thankful for.

mending pile

For as long as I can remember, my Mum has altered and mended our clothes. Sometimes, she may be darning a hole in my Pa's work trousers, replacing a lost button or turning up a new hem on a raggedy pair of jeans. 

The same old biscuit tin turned sewing box still lives beside her Bernina sewing machine in the spare bedroom. Inside, a smaller tin houses dressmaking pins, numerous tape measures and thimbles, all nestling in a wreath of cottons. There are always odd buttons, safety pins of all shapes and sizes and lengths of sheering elastic. The same old pair of dressmaking scissors I was forbidden to touch as a child, "Only for cutting fabric...". And next to a married life time's full of dressmaking accoutrements, sits the mending pile. 

 

On my first Sunday back home, the April rain is pouring steadily down the window pane. We make a pot of tea and settle ourselves into a corner of the conservatory. Mum threads her needle, I observe. The pitter patter of April showers on the rooftop overhead. Today, her quiet labour breathes life back into my favourite, worn corduroy skirt. She darns the wear and tear around the zip, making it good as new. Mending appears at times a tedious task. But it is a sort of magic, a trick that she has performed for as long as I can remember.

In a while, she will take me back up to the spare bedroom to perform another magic trick: under her watchful eye, she'll help me finally finish my skirt. But for now, as the rain steadily fals outside, I am engrossed as I observe this quiet domestic task. Now it is my turn to turn up, pin and then tack the hem of a new (to me) pair of charity shop linen trousers, just a little too long in the leg. With her calming patience and this gentle industry, she is teaching me to mend and make do. It is re-using and recycling, making do and mending at it's most simple, and most meaningful. 

Biscay

Early evening, just before sunset. A few short hours ago, I was waving goodbye to N back in our mountains. Then it was a hop, skip and a jump across northern Spain over to the Cantabrias.

Finally we pulled out of Santander harbour and into the open sea. Of course, it would have been cheaper and quicker to drive or fly. 

But there is always something rather special about this slow travel by sea. Born in the British Isles, I've already taken countless ferries in my life. But every journey by boat enthrals me.

 

The hours on this boat may drag, but what's the rush? It's six months since I last set foot north of the channel. What difference would one more day make?

Just after ten o'clock, I fall quickly asleep in my bunk, lulled into a light sleep by the rhythmic rocking of the boat as we cross the Bay of Biscay. As I sleep, no doubt pilot and sperm whales are lurking in the depths, chasing squid through the deep canyons stretching out into the Atlantic from the Spanish coast. Landlubber that I am, the only whales I see however swim through my Atlantic tossed dreams...

The next morning, I'm up early and head from the comfort of my cabin outside. Sat up on deck with the west wind caressing the pages of my book, I'm too excited to read or knit. My eyes  frantically scan the horizon, longing for that elusive glimpse of a gannet or porpoise. Instead, I spy land through my binoculars. First the craggy western coast of Finistère, then the windswept islands of Molène and Ouessant. And plenty of lighthouses in between. 

 

Leaving the islands of Brittany behind, we turn into the shallower waters of the channel. In a short time, we shall dock in Plymouth, and then in another couple of hours I shall be back in Dorset. 

In this moment, I feel a jubilant sense of freedom, of being simultaneously in limbo and in movement. Here in the middle of the bay of Biscay, I am beyond all national boundaries, all restraints except for the natural elements of sun, sky, wind and sea. It feels wonderful to be alive. It feels wonderful to be on the move. It feels wonderful to be going back.

Santander

J'étais déjà venue à Santander une fois, en 2011. Comme la dernière fois, quelques heures passées comme un éclair avant de prendre le ferry. Juste le temps de se perdre dans la ville, de flâner dans ses rues, d'acheter du cidre asturien, d'envoyer une carte postale...et de parler un peu d'espagnol.  

the leaving

Wednesday. Midday. Place St Clement, Luz. Waiting for my ride to arrive. Waiting with N. 

Just before the leaving the ache of love can be so strong and powerful. Our breakfast this morning made me miss him, even before I had left. 

And now the car is pulling up. They are putting my rucksack into the boot and I cling to him for one last embrace.

"Meet me in Brittany!" he shouts as the car pulls away.   

Kilometres are flying by my window as the first leg of my journey begins from Luz to Santander. West towards the Atlantic at Biarittiz, then crawling along the verdant Basque coast, entre mer et montagne, south across the border and down across northern Spain. Then on an overnight ferry to Plymouth tonight and a much needed few weeks of rest with my family in Dorset. Later Brittany. 

Already anticipating the first cup of Earl-Grey tea on arrival at my folk's place in two days time...