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 This past week started with a bang – not literally – with a visit from fellow blogger and knitter Sara Wolf (aknitwizard.com). Sara has been researching for a book, travelling to Scotland regularly to find sheep, yarn, and traditional knitwear, and visiting many of the yarn festivals, small yarn producers, and rare breed flocks. On the lookout for images, she came to the museum to select photographs of ganseys being worn and worked in, of the herring industry, and portraits, all housed in the Wick Heritage Society’s Johnston Collection. We sat in front of one of the museum’s computers for an intense and enjoyable session, scrolling through photos of fishermen in ganseys. I’ve been invited to write up one of Gordon’s patterns, which is both exciting and daunting.
 Flowering Grasses An article about an unheard-of syndrome appeared in a newspaper recently. While unfortunate and even life-changing for those affected, the absurdity of its name made me laugh out loud. It could have been invented by Monty Python. It is called Foreign Accent Syndrome, and is exceptionally rare, with under 100 instances recorded worldwide since 1941. Most cases are caused by head trauma, stroke, or migraines, which interfere with coordination of speech. This results in an accent different from that spoken before, which is perceived as ‘foreign’. It can be devastating to the sufferer when friends and family don’t recognise their voice when they phone. Sometimes speech therapy is chosen as treatment, other times those affected choose to live with it. It’s more than just a petty bugbear.
 Droplets on Horsetail And where does the word ‘bugbear’ come from? The answer was unexpected. While today it means an annoyance or pet hate, it first appeared in 1580 with the meaning of a source of fear or dread, or an imaginary terror. It is a compound of ‘bug’ and ‘bear’. ‘Bug’, in this instance, denotes a supernatural being and is of unknown origin. Variants of it appear in Celtic languages – bwgan in Welsh, Irish bocán, Scots Gaelic bòcan – all meaning a goblin or bogey. The OED is silent on the ‘bear’ part. The meaning had shifted to its modern sense by the late 19th century.
 May Flowers The gansey has been a bugbear this week, having been set upon by mischievous sprites. After picking up stitches for the second sleeve, I was convinced there were the exact number required. A recount the next morning confirmed this. Another tallying later in the day indicated there were too many. Out it came. The second attempt had the correct number of stitches according to the notes, but the pattern wouldn’t fit. Another attempt was made, with the same result. Head-scratching, hair-tearing, and repeated counting of stitches on the first sleeve revealed that the Notes Were Wrong. A few more stitches were needed to make it match the first sleeve. Not being keen to pick up stitches a fourth time, the needed stitches were increased in the first pattern row. This confirms that it is essential to pay more attention and take better notes.
 On Saturday, another milestone on the road to recovery from grief was passed – our wedding anniversary. It would have been the thirty-ninth. A few days before, partly to mark the occasion, and mostly because the weather was gorgeous, a friend and I drove to Helmsdale, about 35 miles away. It’s the first time in nearly six months I’ve been that far south. Why was Helmsdale the chosen destination? We both needed an adventure, to see somewhere less familiar. And it’s the time of year the gorse is blooming over the hills and hedgerows, lighting the field edges with neon yellow and clothing the hillsides in golden cloaks. The entire hillside behind the town is covered in glowing gorse. It’s so thick that you can discern the fragrance of coconut on approaching the town. It’s an amazing sight, and only happens during a few weeks in spring. On sunny spring Sundays, Gordon and I tried to visit every year.
 Gorse and ‘The Emigrants’ statue A few miles inland, at Kildonan, a different kind of natural richness was found. It’s difficult to envision now, but for a brief few months in 1869 the population swelled by 600. Gold had been found, and Scotland had its own Gold Rush. Two settlements developed, one of wooden huts and another of tents. Soon, the Duke of Sutherland, the landowner, issued licences for prospecting plus a 10% royalty for any finds. But there wasn’t much gold; when herring season approached, numbers started to dwindle. There was a further decline when winter set in. Finally, due to pressure from local fishermen and crofters, the scheme ended on 30 December 1869, and the gold rush was over.
 Berriedale But we didn’t go to Kildonan. Instead, we drove to Berriedale for coffee, cake, and the shore. Most folk stop at the café then continue their journey. We stopped at the café too, but then crossed the road and ambled to the beach. Even this short walk isn’t for the faint-hearted, as the beach is reached by crossing over the burn on a wobbly plank and cable footbridge. There’s a warning sign at the start: only two people on the bridge at one time, and No Jumping on the Bridge. But it’s worth grasping your courage (and the cable handrails) to cross. The little cove is a hidden gem – a shingle beach covered with smooth, sparkly, sea-worn stones, and cliffs on either side. The ruins of Berriedale Castle crown the top of one of the cliffs, commanding the burn below. Kittiwake nest on its jagged sides. On the other side, further along the shore and over the rocks, there’s a cave. It’s a beautiful spot. We had an excellent adventure.
 Sea Thrift (Armeria marítima) After last week’s setbacks with the gansey, good progress has been made, and the milestone of a finished sleeve is in sight. The cuff is about half-finished, and the rows seem to whiz by in no time at all. All being well, it will be done in a few days, and then it will be time to tackle picking up the stitches for the remaining sleeve.
 ‘A pig’s ear’. Every now and again – or often, in my case – a well-worn expression comes to my lips, and I wonder about its origin. The current usage of ‘a pig’s ear’ – to make a total mess of something – is quite recent, dating from 1954, when it appeared in a novel. Previously, from about 1880, it was Cockney rhyming slang for beer. And even earlier, in 1847, it appears in North America as the variant ‘in a pig’s eye’ with a totally different meaning: “a derisive retort expressing emphatic disbelief, rejection, or denial.” (Oxford English Dictionary). The three variants of ‘in a pig’s ear’, or ‘eye’ or ‘arse’ were used interchangeably in both North America and Australia. It sounds such an old saying that it was a surprise to find it has such recent origins.
 Glimpse of gorse on a dreary day No doubt your weather reports, news bulletins, and Facebook feeds have been inundated with photos and information about aurora. The media here were awash with images of stunning auroras throughout the country, from Shetland to Land’s End. That was a pig’s ear occasion chez Reid. Being dead tired, the skies looking cloudy, and needing to be coherent the next day, I cozied up and slept. The next night aurora were also forecast, but the heavenly powers did not vouchsafe the northern lights. Despite staying up well past my bedtime, no glowing skies appeared. But it wasn’t all bad. I remembered in mid-afternoon that the windows now open, so it wasn’t necessary to go outside to take point the camera at the skies.
 Flowering Willow Those windows have a been a boon these past few days. The week started cold and miserable – mitten-wearing weather – but by the weekend the temperatures were up to the mid 20sº C. That’s low 70sºF in old money. In the far north, these are summer temperatures. Hot enough to open the windows to change the air in the house. Nearly hot enough to wear shorts. But not quite.
 Creels glowing in the evening The theme of ‘pig’s ear’ extends to the gansey. Bone-headed errors were made through haste and inattention. The first was the central diamond on the sleeve. At nearly the halfway point of one, a check revealed that it was off centre by one stitch. To save ripping back entire rows, the relevant stitches on the row before the mistake were picked up on a spare needle. The stitches above were then set free, leaving long strands crossing between the intact sections. Finally, the diamond was reknit.
 Last Year’s Flowers A few days later, I scrutinised the cables. Yes, you guessed it, there was something wrong there too. Due to miscounting, the previous two cable crossings had been too far apart. One cable panel at a time, the process of ripping out and reknitting sections was repeated four times around the row. None of the reknitting is perfect, but the few hours spent were less time-consuming than ripping back 17 rows and reknitting. Poking and prodding have improved some of the unevenness, and the final wash should sort it out.
 A magic carpet has appeared in the living room. No, really. Where was an orangey laminate floor, is now a fringed carpet. Its warm carnelian red instantly warms the space, providing a cozy feel, and ties together the disparate items of inexpensive furniture. I’d been looking for a large carpet for a while, but they were so horrendously expensive that one was never purchased. And the final reason it’s magic? It is a generous gift from a friend who no longer needs it. When it was offered, there was no hesitation; I temporarily forgot that the reason I’d wanted a carpet in the first place. Gordon was regularly dropping the remotes, objecting to the clatter they made and the way the batteries flew out, and wishing we had a carpet. But I’m still very happy it’s flown in.
Oriental carpets were once truly luxury items in Western Europe. The earliest example, the Pazyryk carpet, dates from the 5th C BC and was found in a frozen tomb in Siberia. The tombs were not far distant from the Silk Road trade routes, and it is thought that the carpet came from Central Asia, possibly Persia or Armenia.
 The Ambassadors Roll forward 2,000 years, and these rare and exclusive ‘Turkey’ carpets had become desirable items for the hyper-rich in Western Europe. One well-known example is depicted in Hans Holbein’s ‘The Ambassadors’, where it is used to cover a table. The rugs were also displayed as works of art, and were not put on the floor. Initially only for those who could afford them, when Persia increased trade with the West, production increased, and they became more affordable.
Predominantly associated with Persia, similar rugs were produced all over Central Asia, Turkey, the Persian Empire, Egypt, and India. The ‘traditional skills of carpet weaving’ and the ‘traditional art of Azerbaijani carpet weaving’ are on the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage Lists. Most ‘Persian’ carpets are not hand-knotted these days but are made by machine. I am sure my carpet fits into this category, but it matters not.
 Unfurling Leaves One thing that isn’t made by machine, however, is the current gansey on the needles. It is slowly coming along. After torturous calculations last week, the decision was made to man up to the task. The existing stitches were taken out and the correct number picked up. It looks too small to fit over a child’s head, but I tried it on and it comfortably fit over my noggin with room to spare. The opening will get wider when it’s blocked.
 Fence in the Fog Then the pattern for the sleeve was calculated. To fit the yoke pattern on the sleeve, the design needed to be slightly smaller. This was accomplished by making the chevrons slightly narrower, while the cables and diamonds stay the same. The pattern continues four diamonds’ worth, and then it’s plain sailing down the constantly turning whirlpool of the sleeve.
 I’ll be honest, I’ve had better weeks. It was the anticipation.
It was Gordon’s birthday on Friday, which seemed a fitting day to scatter some of his ashes. Earlier in the week, I’d arranged to pick them up from the funeral directors’, where they’d been since being returned from the crematorium in Inverness. The funeral directors’ said the ashes could be kept there indefinitely, until I was ready. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but on Thursday, I collected them. It’s a sad thing to do; even if you’re feeling fairly chipper, a debilitating tsunami of sadness comes out of nowhere. At home, the box was placed in the sunshine on the sofa in front of the lounge windows, Gordon’s morning knitting spot.
 At the end of the path On Friday, using a container which coincidentally had been used for Gordon’s sourdough starter, I decanted some of the ashes. There is slightly more fine dust in the kitchen now . . . A friend of both of ours had arrived earlier; we’d arranged to travel together to Sarclet, and we set off in the changeable weather – warm spring sunshine and heavy downpours, but calm. We didn’t need to be concerned about standing upwind.
 The Gloup We started our walk at Sarclet by following the John o’Groats trail southwards to a gloup a little way away – a large hole in the ground that goes down to the sea. We could hear the swell booming far below. I had thought to pour some of the ashes there, but it was unreachable, being enclosed by a fence and surrounded by steeply sloping ground. So we continued on, looking for a suitable alternative, until I found a scenic spot for some of the ashes.
 The threatening rain cloud we’d seen earlier now reached us. We upped hoods and headed northwards to the harbour, and down to the rocky beach. I searched for the spot in a photo taken years ago where Gordon had sat, looking out to sea. The boulders had shifted, but think I got close. I moved a few smaller stones aside to form a small well and poured in the remaining ashes. While I did this, my friend read a poem:
Antidotes to Fear of Death from A Responsibility to Awe, Rebecca Elson
Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death, I eat the stars.
Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.
Sometimes, instead, I stir
Myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:
No outer space just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.
And sometimes it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral
Bones:
To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a
Chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.
Sarclet Then the waves beckoned, and I rinsed the container and carried some seawater back, pouring it on the ashes to ‘bed them in’, and replaced the stones. After a few moments, we walked back up the path to the top, looking for wildflowers and admiring the views. The primroses are out, we also found some violets, and the sea thrift is in bud.
On Saturday, to add insult to injury, I had a crisis of confidence regarding the neckline of the gansey. The stitches around the neckline were picked up, but there were far too few. Initially I tried to fix it, but it was such a bodge job that it wouldn’t be acceptable. It’s been undone, hours of further calculation have been undertaken, and it should be right this time.
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This past week started with a bang – not literally – with a visit from fellow blogger and knitter Sara Wolf (aknitwizard.com). Sara has been researching for a book, travelling to Scotland regularly to find sheep, yarn, and traditional knitwear, and visiting many of the yarn festivals, small yarn producers, and rare breed flocks. On the lookout for images, she came to the museum to select photographs of ganseys being worn and worked in, of the herring industry, and portraits, all housed in the Wick Heritage Society’s Johnston Collection. We sat in front of one of the museum’s computers for an intense and enjoyable session, scrolling through photos of fishermen in ganseys. I’ve been invited to write up one of Gordon’s patterns, which is both exciting and daunting.
