yarnstorm

baby basil

I can't help but feel terribly maternal towards my baby basil. I have three pots which I'm growing from seed on my windowsill and I find myself checking on them more than is strictly necessary, making sure they have enough to drink and plenty of light, that they aren't getting too hot or too cool, and are turned each day so that all the seedlings grow evenly.

How could I not feel this way? Just look at these sweet little sweet basil leaves - all perfectly formed and shiny and new. Nothing has come between them and the big wide world and they grow in all innocence of whitefly and tomato salad.

I also have an eggling with basil which Alice gave me (she who coined the word 'itchling' was obviously drawn to the sound of 'eggling'). A very appropriate container given my motherliness towards my little charges.

my pcc

When I go into London for meetings I usually catch a train which is full of commuters and bulging with PCs. I have my bag and book and maybe some knitting, but never a PC. Today, however, I joined the ranks of worker bees and travelled with my very own PCC.

My Personal Cake Carrier. How else to transport Cherry Buns and Marmalade Buns to a meeting to discuss Cherry Cake and Ginger Beer?

This PCC is brilliant. Genius. It's the most simple yet satisfying design I've come across in a long time and I know from the reaction I get when I bring it to meetings, that I am not the only person who agrees that it is wholly wonderful.

 

It holds 24 cakes/buns safely and securely and, just like a PC, it fits on your lap, on a luggage rack, under a desk. It may not do as many fancy things as a PC, but it allows you to travel in style and read a good book at the same time. I have to thank Liza for alerting me to this gem's existence (it's brilliant to have friends who understand just how important a cake-carrier is) and pointing me in the direction of Crate and Barrel so that I could pick one up when I was in New York.

The book? 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff in a lovely new Virago edition - hardback, textile design on the cover, one of the ten special editions published to celebrate thirty years of Modern Classics. Very appropriate that a book about a love affair with books is available in a very lovely format. Rereading this little classic gave me goosepimples on the train. Something a personal computer could never do.

unseasonably warm

I can't write 'unseasonably warm weather' without laughing. Years ago Simon uttered this phrase in all seriousness - yet it was so completely out of keeping with his usual verbal style. No doubt he'd read it in a book once (another of his favourite sayings for which he used to be teased mercilessly by his friends because he used to find all his nuggets of useless knowledge in recondite books) or read it in a newspaper. But it sounded such an old phrase for a young man to say that I couldn't help creasing up. So now we use 'unseasonably' very, very ironically. And to make each other laugh.

But the fact of the matter is that it's been very hot here for a few days now, and yet I'm still knitting socks. It turns out, though, that socks are the perfect things to knit in the heat. They don't cover you up and made you swelter, there's a nice flow of air around the dpns, your hands don't have to hold thick, woolly pieces which make them overheat and, if you are knitting ultra-simple socks, you can drink chilled white wine as you go along without the worry of losing the plot or spoiling your stripes.

I see the yarns for some forthcoming socks are pretty hot, too. Irene who is a very valued friend has given me two skeins of the most amazing sock yarn - 'Cherry Blossoms' (second from bottom) to celebrate spring in Brooklyn and 'Tulips' (third from top) to celebrate spring in my garden. (They are from the very aptly named Sunshine Yarns.) When I was in Purl recently I picked out some Koigu yarns without referring directly to these yarns and was delighted to see that I'd connected the colours perfectly (to my mind).

I've been reading a little in the unseasonable warmth, too. (Still laughing) 

Tweed by Nancy Thomas is a beautiful book (fab cover photo of balls of wonderful tweedy yarn) with a great introduction about the history of tweed. I've always loved tweed yarns with their flecks and slubs and they remind me of the first proper coat I had when I was eight; although it appeared to be black and white, in reality there were all sorts of colours in the weave and I was fascinated by how you could see tiny dots of green and red and yellow close-up but not from afar. Plus this book contains the most fantastic pattern for a fully-fashioned 1940s-style sweater ('Scottish Isles Pullover') which I swear will make me look like a film star on her weekend off...

I absolutely love this book. Knitalong is a brilliantly warm and affectionate and inspiring look at the whole idea of simply knitting together - for fun, for a purpose, for the sake of it. There are some wonderful archive photos, plenty of great patterns, some heart-warming stories and a deep connection with knitters everywhere.

Knit Knit is another inspirational book. I have to say that when I first saw it, I was quite amazed that a knitting book could look like this. Call me naive, if you like. But I think this is an incredibly far-sighted book which challenges perceptions of knitting. You may very well go back to your comparatively tame knitting afterwards, but not without a sense of having had your yarn horizons expanded dramatically.

Similarly, I may never actually knit anything in More Big Girls Knits, but I really enjoy seeing such excellent, flattering and well-excuted designs. This is a great book - highly recommended.

 

And, of course, it pleases me enormously to see Bazaar Style on my study chair with my yarns. It's full of mouth-watering photos by Debi Treloar (who took the extra photos in my first book) and is full of colour and warmth. How nice to know my taste in interior decoration matches my taste in hot socks.

bouquet of thanks

I really do live a quiet life. I write, I knit, I quilt, I bake, I read. I love my tulips, my books, my films, my kitchen. I adore family life and it's what matters more to me than anything else.

But, just occasionally, things get a little more exciting and I find myself caught up in a whirlwind of new projects, opportunities, ideas. And this week has been packed with all of these. So much so that I am sitting here on a wonderfully sunny Friday afternoon amazed at how quiet life was seven days ago in comparison to how it feels today.

I'm not able to spill any beans at the moment, but if I did there would be a loud clattering. I can say that I'm going to be very busy for a while and that I am thrilled.

Thank you to everyone who has visited these pages recently. Your support and encouragement through both the quiet and the loud periods is valued as much today as it was when I was a wet-behind-the-ears novice blogger.

I'm sorry I only have yet more tulips in the bouquet of thanks for you. But, just like last week, you never know what's coming next week. It may be more tulips, or it may be something very different. 

fields of dreams

   

By the time I left the Keukenhof Gardens, it seemed like there was at least one person per bulb in the place -all seven million of them. I'd guessed it would be busy so arrived as early as I could (the gardens open refreshingly early at 8.00) so when I saw the 10 mile queue of cars headed into Lisse as I left, I felt rather pleased with myself.

So I am amazed I managed to take a few photos without a billion humans in each one. It took some doing and I would have liked to have some stepladders with me for some aerial shots and to cut out the people who spoil the views...

The Keukenhof is big enough to have a huge diversity of tulip- and general bulb-planting styles and experiments. So there are formal, linear beds of single varieties (above) which mimic the bulb-fields, and there are the multi-coloured drifts which aren't so much pick 'n' mix as mix 'n' pick in all sorts of sweet colours. This example below works so well because it keeps to one single type of tulip (lily flowered).

There are some lovely two-colour beds which throw all colour-caution to the winds and which make me think immediately of quilt pieces,

and sometimes there are three-colour patches like this one which made me want to find a fabric version immediately.

 

There are beds in full sun (below) and plantings in woodland where a delicate, dappled light is cast onto on the flowers and stops them from opening up too quickly.

like this (below).

I also liked seeing tulips near buildings - giving an idea of how they work in gardens. Mind you, I've never seen such a brilliant shed in any garden I know. And how about that for a living roof?

I even enjoyed the contrast of a more mellow setting which matches paler tulips to softer wood colours.

Just looking at all these photos again gives me frissons of excitement. I phoned Simon as I was walking around and told him it's possible to hire bikes at the Keukenhof to cycle round the bulb-fields and avoid the crowds. Suddenly he seemed interested in tulips and said he'd come with me next year. It's a date.

how many?

How many tulips does it take to make a tulipophile extremely elated?

Well, I think I know the answer.

This many.

Plus these.

And these.

And a few more.

 

These, too.

 

And especially these.

I booked my quick trip to Holland in January, and have been on tenterhooks all spring. I was taking a gamble on nature and terrified that I might have mistimed my visit. But the end of last week was the only time I could go in between school holidays, Simon's various trips abroad for work, having a Spanish exchange student to stay, and the small matter of teeth extractions for Phoebe.

This time last year, the tulips were more or less finished. But this year I was lucky; the cool and wet season which I've moaned about in other contexts has been a tulip-blessing, and it turned out that I couldn't have timed my jaunt better. There were millions of tulips in full bloom both in the fields around Leiden and at the Keukenhof Gardens - resplendent, brilliant, vibrant, tall, healthy and utterly wonderful.

It's quite something when you first come across this flat landscape streaked with long, thin lines of pure colour - yellows, oranges, pinks, purples, reds, whites. The way the growers transform the view with glorious stripes and blocks of densely planted bulbs for just a brief moment of the year is breathtaking. And when you get into a field and see the flowers both up close and in the long, long perspective of the neat rows, it's hard not to feel light-headed with elation.

I went twice; first to see the fields and get over my excitement (which, I admit, I could hardly contain), and again the next day to see tulips planted for show at the Keukenhof - all four and a half million of them. I like that number; it's a good answer to 'how many?'

Photos to come.