The Domestic Soundscape

Currently on my knitting needles I have:

Mansweater: 90% finished (after 3 ripping-out sessions, one unsuccessful placket steek and several Bad Knitting Math errors)
Massive own-design UK Sheep celebratory garment: 45% finished, currently languishing on sofa awaiting for me to complete mansweater and pick it back up again
Colourwork Beret: 100% finished, however adjustments and corrections are required for 100% own-design pattern satisfaction
Ulmus: 20% done, needs one afternoon of nurturing love to get back on track

I like that I have three of my own designs on the needles plus one lace project, and I am enjoying knitting them all immensely. However, I decided about a week ago – after darning my most beloved Lorna’s Laces Jaywalkers for the 5th time – that new socks were necessary, and new FAST socks, at that.

I’ve had some purple yarn in the stash for some time now and at the Bluestockings Wool Windoff earlier this year, I spotted a lovely ball of miscellaneous purple/green laceweight mohair type stuff which I thought would perfectly compliment the shades in the sock yarn. Ever since I read about this yarn and its reinforcing thread on The Knit Nurse Chronicles, I wanted to knit a pair of socks in sockweight wool with a very thin strand of something else as an experiment in strengthening up the sock overall. I love my Jaywalkers so much, and I like the way they are accumulating darned patches. However I am also becoming aware of the extremely tough life that they get and I am keen to learn ways of lengthening the life of *all* my future socks. So I have just finished a pair of socks knit mostly with Opal sock wool purchased long ago (in the time before I became obsessed with UK sheep and UK yarns) and a miscellaneous skein of purplish laceweight that I believe was originally Ellen’s. Here are the socks.

Discerning viewers will spot that one sock appears to turn pale green halfway down the foot. This is because the miscellaneous purple laceweight ran out and – not wanting to change gauge or lose the strengthening qualities of that extra thread – I substituted with a third-of-a-ball of kidsilk haze that I had lying around which I believe I acquired in the same swap, from Ellen.

I have noticed two things about this substitution. Firstly, the sock with the kidsilk haze in it is definitely softer and fuzzier than the one without, and secondly, the purple shade in the Opal sock yarn behaves very differently when placed beside a pale, sea green. Whereas the deep purple hues in the first laceweight drew out and emphasised the purple nature of the Opal sock yarn, the pale sea greens in the kidsilk haze cause the purple tones in the Opal yarn to appear more like a periwinkle blue and less like a lavender.

I have to confess that my fascination for these colour effects has totally overshadowed any disappointment I might have felt about the non-matching quality of the socks, and the whole palette of the yarns involved reminded me somewhat of sloes and the way that they are at once purple, blue and whiteish or green. I also think that the halo-like effect of the kidsilk haze is similar to the effect of the bloom that covers the surface of sloes. This experiment in substitution and colour mixing has made me curious about the effects of pairing perhaps an even finer pale yarn with a deeper base colour for a more precise representation of sloes in knitting.

I like thinking about colour, and it was interesting to read this post today from The Yarn Yard, for insights as to how one might dye with colours in mind. I am currently obsessed with how one might knit with colours in mind, but they all relate.

I am not normally a purple person, but I have been enjoying wearing my tweed top immensely, and it has inspired me again with shades that remind me of berries, plums, and all things purplish and pink. This is a great surprise to me, but I am embracing it for now. It might be the influence of the sloe gin in the cupboards, or an addictive need for bright colours in the wake of all this Autumn grey, but I’m very happy indeed with my mismatched socks, and eager to see how strong they are!

I also very much enjoyed knitting from Nancy Bush’s Knitting on the Road book. It is a wonderful book, with clear instructions, fantastic charts and brilliant background information on all the socks inside it. I think that she does a good job of pairing specific places, yarns and design-ideas together in the populist format of a book of sock patterns. I very much enjoy her sock books and the ideas of place and knitting that run throughout Knitting on the Road. I also liked that this pattern was extremely easy to memorise and that I could knit it without referring to the chart at all after 2 repeats.

Project Specs:

Ravelled: here
The pattern is Whitby, and it comes from Nancy Bush’s book, Knitting on the Road
Needles: 2.75mm
Yarn: Opal sock yarn + a small quantity of kidsilk haze and an unknown, hazy, purplish yarn from Ellen (thanks!)

I have been trying to sew a top over the past few days and it has been most instructive in terms of patience. For a very long time I have had a large length of deep fuscia pink tweed, given to me by my Godmother when she realised she would never get a suit out of it. I do not know the provenance of the tweed but it is definitely a pure wool fabric, has no moth holes, is soft, drapey and heavy and a joy to behold. Thinking that it is rather a costly fabric, I have been afraid to exercise my amateurish sewing skills on it lest I ruin it.

However, after I successfully managed to create this top many months ago, I decided a winter version in the tweed might not be beyond my powers, and have been plotting it half-heartedly since then. And when I saw Kate’s magnificent Harris Tweed Dress and was directed also by Rachael to the recent documentary series about Harris Tweed, I was galvanised to action and immediately cut the pieces and commenced with the sewing of said garment.

I ran into several dilemmas immediately. Firstly, you can’t pleat tweed, so I made darts instead. Secondly, the edges of the tweed seem to fray very easily, so reinforced seams are essential anywhere where there will be stress. Thirdly, I wanted to line the top and add pockets, neither of which were discussed in the pattern. So I improvised, cutting up some old, strange pillowcases I found in my bedsit when I moved there to create the main lining, and using the much-loved cabbage fabric (of which I had only 1m) for the bias-binding and the facings on the top part of the garment.

I love the cabbage fabric and the tweed together and am delighted at the thrifty use of found fabrics for the main lining.

I take a very long time to sew things. I am deliberate and attentive and I baste everything first just to make sure it will not be destroyed when I put it through the sewing machine. And I get very impatient with myself, and wish it was finished already!

But this morning I realised that maybe I can stop seeing sewing my own things as a sort of immediate and rapid activity, and start seeing it in the same way that I see knitting… a timely process, a careful process, a process of trial and error, a process that takes time. I have enlisted help for Friday from the extremely talented Emmylou in order to sort out the hem. In the meantime, I plan to do a little bit on this tomorrow, as I did a little bit today, and eventually it will be finished.

Time is something I am not very good with… I am very impatient! But it seems that increasingly, I am realising how good it is to do things slowly and well. For instance, good tea takes time.

Good Cider – or Hard Cider, if you’re American – takes time.

Sloe Gin (this weekend’s project) takes time. (2 years if you include the time it took us to grow the Blackthorn to this size since according to my blog, it was in 2007 that we first picked sloes and vowed to plant Blackthorn; 2008 was a bad year for soft fruit so our hedge didn’t produce much fruit, and this year, our little thicket is full of sloes.)

Gardening takes time. And if you don’t do things at the proper time or wait the proper time, you lose out.

Thank goodness the caterpillers have no interest in the cabbage print.

I also discovered last week that sitting under conker trees waiting for the conkers to drop in order to record the sound, takes time. A long time. But when it happened, as with everything else, I found it was worth the wait. You might have to listen a few times for the sound, but it’s there, the disturbance of branches and leaves as conkers fall through…

 

 conkers falling: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

On Monday we went walking. The extent of our forward planning involved me impatiently hunting for the densest patch of contour lines on the map and then directing Mark to them. Walking in The Highlands has given me a thirst for hills and although Walbury Hill is comparitively very modest at 297m, it is the highest point in the South East region of the UK and the views from Test Way – the path that leads up to and over the top of it – are stunning.

I am thinking a lot about how to create maps or represent 3D places in 2D forms so for your viewing pleasure I enclose the rather foolish version of the walk that I made in order not to forget the key moments of the experience. It is sadly a little too small to read easily and I have lost the large original already but I thought you might still like to see it. I have no idea how long the walk was but it felt like about 10/11 miles.

We started out in Ham, a sleepy hamlet nestled at the bottom of Cutting Hill, off the Salisbury Road out of Hungerford. The first stretch of walking involved a fine view of the hills ahead and the nice sound – mentioned in yesterday’s post – of gently splitting legumes in a large field. We found the steep, grassy path up the side of the hill towards Test Way, and were greatly amused to find this gate at the top of our ascent; can anyone else see the problem with this picture?

We then followed Test Way up along the ridge for a bit, passing through some beautiful Beech trees on the way and anticipating our first glimpse of spooky Combe Gibbet.

We then had a thoroughly fruitless search on Gallows Down for the Long Barrow so enticingly marked on the OS map (LIES I tell you! There’s no Longbarrow there!) and set off in search of Combe. At Combe we found the lovely St Swithun’s 12 Century Church, which stood bathed in sunlight and surrounded by towering Yew trees. I have been intrigued by St Swithun ever since The Knit Nurse sent me a mixtape with Billy Bragg’s magnificent St Swithun’s day song on it.

The path leading up out of Combe was lined with Hawthorn trees and Oak and afforded gorgeous views back across to Walbury Hill.

At some point at the top of this hill we became uncertain about where the path(s) were leading; things were not well-marked and we ended up stumbling into a large pheasant enclosure where we upset many nervous lady-pheasants. This was very funny but probably not cool countryside behaviour, so we quickly found our way back to the correct path via Mark’s compass and resumed our quest. The next part of the walk involved a nice descent down a hillside titled ‘Sheepless Hill.’ I was keen to verify the aptness of this title and can assert that – at least when we visited it – it was indeed sheepless. However, there was lots of tell-tale wool entangled in the brambles at the fields’ edge so I think perhaps the name is a little misleading. But a pretty descent here took us into a thicket heaving with Hawthorns and Sloes and we experimented for some time to try and get decent photos of the booty.

Sheepless indeed.

The delicious promise of Sloe Gin.

To make up for the absent sheep of the hill, once we began the approach to Buttermere, we were suddenly surrounded by sheep of all colours and breeds. It was a very beautiful flock and we tried to identify specific breeds but they all ran away bleating anxiously before we got anywhere. However we then spotted a cow walking on the path ahead with her still very small and obviously dependent calf. We decided to give her a wide berth. Affording her plenty of space and time, we made no challenging eye contact with her and pressed ourselves to the furthest point of the path at least 20 yards behind her all the way to our gate. Nevertheless, she made sure to give us a low, threatening moo before we exited from her view and we were both very relieved when we got off the path. I am slightly nervous of cows in general, but when they have their babies with them they are apt to be admirably – and quite naturally – very protective of them.

After a short time on the roads of Buttermere, our trail led us through cornfields where tall haystacks shone in the evening Sun.

Getting back onto Test Way we found our way past an old gravel/chalk pit, where there was a Red Kite drifting in the sky and mewing in its lonely way.

We rejoined the road back to Ham shortly after this and discussed how sad it is that the beautiful creaking sound of the old windmill on that road and my Edirol will never be compatible, since the force that turns the rusty old mechanism is the same one that bungles and wrecks all semblance of sound on my recording device. Ah well. The necessity for that knitted popshield I keep planning draws ever closer; but then again, for some moments, it is enough to use one’s ears and hear sounds just as they are.