yarnstorm

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.

i hear you, habu

All the new trends, ideas, crazes and passions in knitting are like white noise to me. I am aware of them clamouring for attention, but as they all seem to reach me on the same frequency and at the same volume, I am often unable to work out which one to listen to.

But I think that Habu Textiles must have changed frequency recently because I have become more and more aware of it within the wide spectrum of knitting noise. It started with Alison who writes so beautifully about the Habu philosophy and the sculptural quality of the yarns and, once I had picked up the sound of Habu, I started to hear it everywhere.

Then I found the book. This has been my bedside reading for quite a few weeks now. I find looking at the photos of the strange and wonderful knits taken in front of the simplest of backdrops utterly captivating and, when allied to a habit of contemplating the Japanese knitting patterns, really quite soothing and soporific, and I fall asleep thinking of unusual yarns and knitted creations which challenge my perceptions of clothing. 

I've managed to go to New York several times and miss Habu completely. So on my most recent visit, I decided it was time to make the journey to the yarn store which also challenges our ideas of what a yarn store should be. I knew I'd be on borrowed time with Alice and Phoebe in tow (I wouldn't be able to give the yarns and patterns the full thought they need with two girls sighing and rolling their eyes in the corner), so did most of my planning by email.

Habu were incredibly helpful and I pre-ordered a couple of kits to be collected on the day so that we wouldn't have to wait for the yarn to be wound onto cones and could therefore spend more time in Billy's Bakery. They discussed colour choice and let me know yarn availability in advance and made up the kits in Medium but with Large quantities of yarn to allow for my extra height.   

So when we turned up at the utterly anonymous-looking building and found ourselves in the Habu room which is just as all the photos show - small, simple, plain and devoted to the low-key (no shrill noises here - more the soft lapping of waves) -  and I wasn't taken aback, I realised I had tuned into Habu pretty well.

Habu seems to invoke a sort of calmness, a total lack of knitting hysterics, and I knew I couldn't start knitting until I had cleared my other projects. So it wasn't until this weekend that I cast on Kit 21 which is knitted with two yarns - linen paper and silk - and mine are (what a surprise) both food colours: eggplant and cocoa (sounds like a horrible taste combination, but it's looking good on the needles).

 

I wanted to go for a full-on Japanese knitting experience and use bamboo needles, but I found the yarns stick too much so I changed to the very European Addi Turbos which don't look as lovely, but do the job better for me. I haven't yet hit pattern issues as the back is straightforward and requires no shaping, but I know I have the joys of decoding the instructions to look forward to. I realise also that there may be a little squeak of anxiety around button-choice (I see that buttons are a big issue with many Habu aficionados) as I don't yet have the buttons for this jacket/cardigan. (When Tom asked me what I was knitting I wasn't sure what to say - Setsuko's designs are more for knitted pieces to wear on bodies rather than for the standard types of garments we are so used to knitting).

I've knitted a few inches of the back and am feeling my way into the experience. It really is a new tactile sensation as well as a conceptual one. And it's also auditory; when you block out all the white noise of daily life, you really can hear your knitting - the paper yarn makes little soft rustling sounds. But you need to be very quiet to hear it.

                                ***

Book details: Setsuko Torii Hand-Knit Works ISBN 895113825

I also like this knitting book with one of the most beguiling covers I've ever seen and some lovely knitting inside.

Knit ISBN 277113753

Both from Amazon Japan

inky socks

I have had an ongoing love affair with Winsor & Newton inks since I was a teenager. I adore the little boxes, labels and pots which have hardly changed since I first discovered them. I used to save up my fish-and-chip shop earnings to buy one colour at a time for decorating eggs, then I'd line them up with the bottles on top of the boxes and examine the details of the packaging for hours on end.

Of all the fabulous colours, there was one which intrigued me more than any other, and this was viridian. It was so deep and full of itself that I used to think of it as a complete one-off in the spectrum. I tried it out in many patterns and colour schemes on my eggs, but always regarded it as a somewhat stand-offish colour which kept the rest of the rainbow at bay.

So I wasn't surprised when I started knitting these socks for Simon to find that it was the viridian bands that stood out. But gradually it dawned on me that they also managed to look wonderful with all the other inky colours. This quality of inkiness works brilliantly in these socks and, sure enough, when I went to an art shop to check, I found that Winsor & Newton have an ink to match every stripe in Simon's socks.

In fact, after a while it was the viridian stripes that I looked forward to encountering on my spiral travels; the yarn at this point seemed somehow richer and denser and softer. Or maybe it was me just softening my attitude towards an awkward colour?

Only Kaffe Fassett could make viridian seem willing to work with other colours. His colour sense is just amazing; these socks are knitted in his Regia Caribbean sock yarn #4261 on 3.5mm dpns to the same old pattern I use all the time.

Modelled by Simon, with Phoebe's encouragement to turn his toes out properly.

spring in my step

I'm a little earlier than usual this year. Normally, it's towards the end of March that I start to think about seeds and buds and shoots, but I've found that I already have a spring in my step. Maybe it's the sight of the huge, closed-up flowers on 'my' magnificent magnolia (it's not mine at all, it's about two miles from home, but I have an almost proprietorial interest in it). Maybe it's the fact that I can sense the freedom from the desk and screen that will come at the end of the week. Or maybe it's the colours of the socks I'm knitting - spring green and blossom white.

Whatever the reason, I'm back to reading gardening articles and books with a sense of purpose once more. So I was delighted to see that Elspeth Thompson's article on Sunday was about creating a patchwork quilt effect in allotments and vegetable gardens. Just the kind of thing I love. And then I saw the mention of me and my book, and my day was made. The newly found spring in my step turned into a little jump.

I have been reading Elspeth's columns for years and I love her thoughtful but down-to-earth words and advice, and her eye for beautiful plants and flowers, so I was thrilled to discover last night that she's a reader of this blog. And she tells me she has a website - in the colours I have always associated with her such as grey, lilac and a very specific glaucous green - and a blog about her railway carriage eco-house which will have a sedum roof, an idea that has intrigued me since the time I used to play with my friend in an old air-raid shelter which was covered with living plants. I am really looking forward to following the story and am pleased we'll also be able to see the wonderful pictures to go with the text. 

Spring has defintely sprung a spring in my step and I haven't felt this bouncy in a long time.

the magic of mattress stitch

I really thought that mattress stitch would change my life. Before I went on a one-day Finishing Techniques course with Jane Crowfoot several years ago, I was completely untutored when it came to sewing up my knitting. One way or another, I'd taught myself how to do it, but gradually I became aware that the insides of other people's knitting looked a lot better than mine.

So I couldn't believe the magic of mattress stitch. It was like being shown a conjuror's trick, and I remember asking Jane to show me the cleverness of the technique several times because I was so enthralled by the way the yarn brings two pieces of knitting together and then disappears.

I imagined that from that day forward mattress stitch would make all sewing-up a joy. That I would jump happily from knitting to finishing with nary a moment's pause. That I would swap knitting needle for sewing needle in the blink of an eye. But the reality was different, and I'm afraid I can still put off sewing up my knitting for an embarrassingly long time.

This hot-water bottle is the latest victim of my dilly-dallying. I finished knitting it in November, and it has sat right next to me, on the top of a basket, night after night ever since, almost begging to be finished. But what makes the whole thing worse is that it isn't even for me - it's a present.

So I took it to Suffolk and placed it in the most prominent position I could find, finally heeded its call, and would not let myself come home with it. I posted it straightaway and it's now with the recipient (I hope). Nicely sewn up in my best mattress stitch, but that's besides the point.

It's not as though it's not lovely yarn to deal with, either. This is fabulously, shamelessly soft cashmere from Axelle de Sauveterre who kindly created this 'Briar Blue' colourway for me. It's a delight to knit with - as I rediscovered after my over-long period of denial. The pattern comes from Knitting by Sarah Dallas with a few alterations to suit the yarn and bottle size.

Although I love the yarn, the pattern and the finished object, I am mightily pleased it is no longer staring me in the eye as I sit down to relax in the evenings. Mattress stitch is a wonderful thing, but unfortunately its magical effects don't go much further than my knitting.

 

earning my stripes

I've been writing yarnstorm for three years now. I know there is no official timing for these things, but I do feel as though I have earned my blogging stripes.

When I started in February 2005 I had absolutely no idea where I would go with the blog or where the blog would take me. There was no plan; I didn't even know if I would enjoy it, so I just took it one day at a time. I knew I wanted to write about knitting, but apart from that there was no master-plan. In fact, yarnstorm grew organically, with one thing leading to the next, until I had a blog which encompassed all the things I love and which I was delighted to be writing.

But the blogging experience would not have been the same without you. These three years of taking photographs and putting my thoughts into words have been enriched by the ongoing conversations and discussions that have been woven into the blog through your comments. As a result of creating yarnstorm I have met many amazing people - some in person and some via email correspondence - and I count myself very fortunate to have such lovely readers.

So, with my stripes on my feet, I now wonder what the fourth year will bring. I don't like to look too far into the future, but I think and hope that there are plenty of good things to come. 

Thank you for visiting. Thank you especially to anyone who was here from the start. We've come a long way, us veterans. You, too, have earned your yarnstorm stripes.                         

                                   *** 

These are my pebble beach socks. I love this beach, especially when it has rained in the night and all the stones glisten in the morning sunlight. There are plants and little tufts of grass here and there which match the colours in the yarn, and while I was knitting the socks at home I kept thinking of this lovely stretch of Suffolk coastline.

The socks are knitted on 3.5dpns with Opal Crazy #1901 from Modern Knitting, a recent discovery and a brilliant source of sock yarn. Their service is great, too. The pattern is very basic and came free with a ball of yarn.

The pictures were taken on the beach early in the morning when only dog-walkers and sock-photographers were out.

daz brightness

 

The daffodils are at the point where they look like the plastic daffs that used to come free with a packet of Daz washing powder.

New, soft, pure wool socks on the needles, knitted to a pattern I have in mind.

 

two out of three ain't bad

Alice has been wearing contact lenses for while now, and hates the fact that she doesn't have great eyesight. But I often tell her that as she has amazing, thick, wavy hair and beautiful teeth which have never needed any sorting out, she should be pretty pleased to have a score of two out of three when it comes to genetically determined assets.

This two out of three rule works for the Tom and Phoebe, too. But before I start thinking I've stumbled upon some great new genetic theory, I should point out that it doesn't apply to everyone. Some of us have to be content with one or one-and-a-half out of three these days.

So it's ironic that Alice suits hats, and she often wears one as a fashion statement, but never to keep warm (because that would be uncool). She asked me if I would knit her a hat, but of course it has to be just right - colour, shape, texture - and I found just what we were looking for on Kim Hargreaves' site. This is Robin and I made it in 'Redwood' using the KH kit, but without the pom-pom because on the day I finished it, Alice wanted to wear it immediately, and somehow the pom-pom was never made.

Anyway, I like it without the bobble, and am so delighted that she wears it that I am happy with one out of two. At last, I am learning to compromise.

possibilities

I'm not a great one for yarn stashes. I don't know whether it's the puritan in me (ha) or a habit ingrained during my student days when I would plan my knitting and save up for yarn for weeks and weeks, but I'm not comfortable with having lots of unused yarn around, waiting on the off-chance that it will be knitted.

Actually, I think it's because I still relish daydreaming and picturing whatever it is I want to knit in a thousand different colourways, flitting between patterns that appeal, and generally taking my time, considering different labels and fibres and sources and possibilities, browsing books and magazines and websites. And it's all guilt-free.

I have slowly realised recently that I haven't knitted a sweater for myself in a long, long time. This came to me as I read these three wonderful knitting books: Knitting in America by Melanie Falick, The Fair Isle Knitting Handbook by Alice Starmore and The Art of Fair Isle Knitting by Ann Feitelson. These have taken me back to where I started with knitting - garments, fair isle and aran - and it gradually dawned on me that I want to knit a big, warm, complicated piece for myself, the kind of thing I did for years and years before I had children. I want to show off the yarn, the design, the stitches, and I want to immerse myself in knitting.

And now that I have decided to do this, I have carte blanche to consider the options. Do I knit something in wonderfully traditional Fair Isle yarn? I have just received the shade card from Jamiesons - real, Shetland wool in 160 real Shetland colours. Enough to keep me happy for days and weeks while I imagine colour combinations...

...and pore over Alice Starmore's book. This is a gift, a very special gift. It's one of those books I was talking about in my last post that should never be have been allowed to go out of print. It's an amazing resource, and the sections on colour and inspiration are phenomenal, and I can't believe I own a copy. No more reading it in the British Library and trying to commit each page to memory.

Or should I return to cables and stitch patterns and knit a sweater like the one in Knitting in America by Kristin Nicholas? Should it be classic off-white? Or tweedy and earthy? Or pale blue or lilac for a change?

Ah, the possibilities are endless. And, as these books remind me, there's no rush.

* Alice Starmore's book was published as Alice Starmore's Book of Fair Isle Knitting in the US (Taunton Press, 1988) and as The Fair Isle Knitting Handbook in the UK (Blandford Books, 1990).

phases of the sock

Tom and I have been watching the moon recently, but we don't always agree about which phase it's in. So we checked in the newspaper this morning, and now we know that there's a full moon tonight and we are hoping for a clear sky. By coincidence, as I cast on my latest pair of socks at the weekend (when the moon was 'waxing gibbous') I wondered where I was in my own latest knitting phase.

I've knitted socks before and generally have a short burst of knitting, say, three or four single socks, and then my enthusiasm wanes. But in this current phase, I am onto my fourth pair and I still don't know whether this is the first quarter of the phase or maybe the last quarter, or whether this pair will be the waning crescent before it all goes dark on the sock front.

I also think of each sock as having its own phases, some of which I like better than others. The 'new' phase of casting on and ribbing is always a little worrying until I've got the measure of the yarn and how the self-striping is going to work. And then I move through the 'first quarter' onto the 'waxing crescent' phase which is when the leg part just grows smoothly and waxes gibbous until I turn the heel which, to me, is the equivalent of the full moon.

And then, because I only ever knit top-down socks, I start to get nervous in case my ball of yarn is waning too quickly and I might run out as I get to the last quarter and the very last phase of the 'waning crescent' ie the toes. At this point I start knitting very quickly - as if by speeding up I may just hoodwink the yarn into becoming longer.

At the Foyles knitting group today (so good to be there again, so good to see everyone) I hit the waning gibbous phase which means that, unfortunately, my sock will not be aligned with the planets tonight. But at least I'll be able to knit by the light of the silvery moon.

                                 ***

I'm told I knit my socks 'inside out' (above). For some reason I like to knit the rounds from the 'inside' - it suits my unorthodox knitting style. The yarn is a Regia one and I like the way the stripes change frequently so that I get plenty of amusement from them.