Things of Human Interest

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Hiya! It is I, Bruce. Today I am here to tell you about an important difference between Dogs and Humans.

This is where I live.

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It is a good place and there are many things I like about it. My human companions also like this place. But although dogs and humans both can both like a place, it is not often for the same reason. This is one of the many curious but important differences between us.

For example, one of my favourite walks goes past these trees.

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I like these trees because they mark the entrance into Good Field, a location where maximum fun is to be had. But Kate likes these trees because they are dead and alive at the same time.

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Past these trees is Good Field – one of my all-time favourite spots. Whatever the weather, the grass of Good Field is always wet and the ground of Good Field is always squishy and soggy. In Good Field can often be found deer and hare who are fun to chase, and if the cows pass by, they kindly leave an interesting mess behind. In Winter the mud of Good Field grows deep and dank and in the Summer Good Field’s plants grow thick and high. Good Field is a place for bounding, for leaping, for getting wet and dirty, and for gingering oneself up with all kinds of funky smells. In all seasons of the year, then, it is an excellent place to be.

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Now, Kate does not like Good Field for its mud or for its interesting aroma. Nor does she seem particularly happy when she trips into the cow mess, or wades clumsily through the waist high grasses. In fact, the qualities I most admire about Good Field are things Kate merely tolerates, or on occasion actually seems irritated by. I have heard her mutter words such as “ballache” as she stumbles, is bitten by a horsefly, or, as today, gets muddy trousers after falling on her arse. So why on earth does Kate take me to Good Field if she herself does not enjoy the many delights it has to offer? The answer is, of course, that it contains Things of Human Interest.

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Good Field’s Things of Human Interest are these Old Stones.

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Now, I am hardly ever diverted by Things of Human Interest, and I have to say that these Old Stones strike me as rather commonplace. Certainly they carry no significance for a dog like me.

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And yet I am tolerant enough of human foibles to dutifully sit and pose.

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Dear dog comrades, the moral of this tale is to joyfully accompany your companions when they wish to visit Things of Human Interest. That way you are likely to spend time in really excellent places, like Good Field.

sweet peas

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When Tom and I first moved in together in the late 1990s, we rented a tiny house in Sheffield that we affectionately dubbed “claustrophobia”. The tiny house came with a tiny garden, and I cut out a section of turf there and planted sweet peas. In the Summer, there was always a bunch on the table.

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The first things that I planted in my propagators early this Spring were sweet peas. I planted and staked them out in May, and left them to it.

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They grew vigorously, but didn’t seem to want to flower. I have been eyeing the birds suspiciously – had they been chowing down on the tasty buds? There is a particular pied wagtail who seems to spend a lot of time in that part of the garden and he was my chief culprit . . . but he was clearly blameless, as yesterday some beautiful blooms finally appeared.

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I dearly love sweet peas, both indoors, and in the garden. I hope there will always be a bunch on the table for the rest of this Summer.

In other news
I don’t do this very often, but, knowing first-hand just how transformative dogs can be, I wanted to give a wee shout-out to my friend Mairead who is raising funds for the Irish charity My Canine Companion who do wonderful work training and providing service dogs for autistic children and their families. Mairead’s son Thomas has Asperger syndrome and his service dog, Potter has made a tremendous difference to his life, and indeed to the lives of Mairead’s whole family. On August 3rd, Mairead is holding a coffee morning and raffle to raise funds to support the training of more service dogs, and among other great prizes, you could win an Ipad or, if you were, ahem, really lucky, one of my Peerie Flooers kits. 5 euro buys you a ticket and Mairead’s fundraising page is here

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Thomas and Potter!

foxglove

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One of my great pleasures at the moment is observing, photographing and finding out more about, the wildflowers where I live. I’m surrounded by lots of different kinds of environments – hedgerow, water, woodland, heath, mountain – and these are full of so many wonderful flora, some of which I had never noticed or knew the names of until recently. Just opposite our house is a path that forms part of the West Highland Way. This path is lined with an old wall, and growing around and through this wall, some foxgloves have recently been putting on a spectacular show. I decided I had to take some photographs of them yesterday.

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I think I am starting to understand the allure of botanical drawing. Sadly, I cannot draw for toffee, but I am certainly enjoying capturing the detail of my local flora with my camera.


In other news:

I had great fun reading the animal names in the comments to the previous post! After excluding those who couldn’t enter, the randomly selected winners of the Toft party tickets are Pootle the cat and Iris the hawk . . . ahem . . . I mean Lucy and Janine. Congratulations! Could you please email me at info@katedaviesdesigns.com to arrange your prize?

Toft giveaway

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The YOKE I am currently designing is made with this – Toft Ulysses DK – a deliciously smooshy, cushy, springy, woolly sort of wool. It is my new favourite yarn: a completely British wool, grown and spun here from a blend of several different breed-specific fibres (including BFL and Shetland). I could knit with it all day (indeed I’ve spent the past two days doing just that).

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This is the silver DK and I’m enjoying working with it tremendously.

As well as supplying me with this superlatively tasty yarn for my current YOKE, my friends at Toft have also given me two pairs of giveaway tickets for an exclusive party they are holding on July 25th to celebrate the launch of Edward’s Menagerie – the inventive collection of crocheted beasties that Toft’s creative director, Kerry, designed for her son, Edward.

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The party will be held at Toft’s picturesque HQ in Dunchurch, Warwickshire. As well as the human attendees, 200 alpacas will be there, and the party will also involve crochet workshops, Toft goody bags, and cake as well as general book-launching celebrations.

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The animals in Edward’s menagerie have great names — Douglas (the highland cow), Siegfried (the monkey), Angharad (the donkey) – so all you have to do to win a pair of tickets to the party is to tell me your favourite ever animal name. (Living with a cat named Jesus, I’m looking forward to your responses). Please bear in mind that the prize is for the party tickets only – you’ll have to get yourself over to Dunchurch on July 25th – and this may exclude many overseas readers from entering. I’ll announce the winners here on Thursday, 10th July.

Less is more

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I think that one of the most fascinating aspects of designing is the fact that you are coming up with something which has no prior existence. Designing is essentially experimenting, and a large part of the process involves working without knowing quite how something will turn out. Though knitting has a certain amount of predictability to it, one can never fully anticipate just how things are going to appear. . . . this means one makes mistakes, and some of these are more interesting and / or amusing than others. Some of my errors arise from trying an, ahem, “unusual” construction (one day I will show you the unwearable steeked-sleeve-shrug which was originally intended for inclusion in Colours of Shetland); sometimes I am surprised by the way things end up looking (such as when I knit a hat that really looked like a giant boob), but more often than not I think that my mistakes arise from pushing too hard at an idea. This is the case with my current situation, in which I thought it was an interesting and challenging notion to knit a yoke with four colours in one round for thirty-six rounds. On a small swatch the four-colours-in-one-round seemed completely feasible, and the chart I’d devised was really very pleasing – what could possibly go wrong? Well, ten rounds in I realised that the fabric, being about half an inch thick, would not only dramatically reduce the interior capacity of the yoke, but sit incredibly oddly on the upper torso, and generate a heat to warm the wearer to furnace-like temperatures. The fabric certainly looked attractive, but the yoke was so dense that it would have repelled wind, water, and quite probably bullets. Not good! This sort of thing has happened before, and I generally find that my fault lies in over-complication, or over-excitement, or a combination of the two. In any case, I’m now ripping back, re-charting and reverting to the sensible Fair Isle maxim of two shades in one round. Lets see how the chuffer turns out this time.

I’m now over half-way through the design work for my forthcoming YOKES book and have to say that I’m enjoying myself immensely. I promise to tell you more about the project shortly!

Conic Hill

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Tom’s appendix-less state means he can’t run or cycle at the moment, but this has been quite good, as he’s been able to join me on my walks. Yesterday we popped up Conic Hill and it was a grand day for it.

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Conic Hill is just a few miles from where we now live, and though Tom has run here many times in the past year, it occurred to me yesterday that the last time I climbed this hill was nine years ago when we walked the West Highland Way. Here is Tom looking down from the hill across Loch Lomond in 2005:

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And here in a spot slightly further down yesterday:

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A lot has changed since then, but as he says, he looks pretty much the same from behind.

I think of all the lovely views of Loch Lomond – and there are many – that this one is my favourite.

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Its just something about the sense of space up here – the meeting of sky, land, and water, and perhaps especially the way that the Loch Lomond islands stretching away in the distance lend the view a pleasing and very distinctive sense of perspective.

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Dorothy Wordsworth felt similarly about those islands when she saw them in 1803, though her view in this passage is the precise opposite of ours (she’s looking South and East from Inchtavannach and we are looking North and West from Conic Hill)

“We had not climbed far before we were stopped by a sudden burst of prospect, so singular and beautiful that it was like a flash of images from another world. We stood with our backs to the hill of the island, which we were ascending, and which shut out Ben Lomond entirely, and all the upper part of the lake, and we looked towards the foot of the lake, scattered over with islands without beginning and without end. The sun shone, and the distant hills were visible, some through sunny mists, others in gloom with patches of sunshine; the lake was lost under the low and distant hills, and the islands lost in the lake, which was all in motion with travelling fields of light, or dark shadows under rainy clouds. There are many hills, but no commanding eminence at a distance to confine the prospect, so that the land seemed endless as the water.”

I thought of Dorothy Wordsworth yesterday as we looked down toward Inchtavannach, and gave her a mental wave.

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If you are ever in the area and fancy going up Conic Hill, I really think the views are best from this direction, and its a much nicer walk this way too. Park at Milton of Buchanan; walk up the track past Creity Hall, join the West Highland Way as it snakes up the hill; descend into Balmaha; stop for a welcome ice-cream, or pint at the Oak Tree Inn, take a look at the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, and then walk back along the road to Milton. The circuit is 7 miles with around 350m / 1100 ft of ascent.

treasure

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Last weekend I had another successful bid at the Glasgow Auction (which is rapidly becoming my new obsession). The item that had caught my eye was this – a wonderful 1950s walnut sewing cabinet. I am very keen on these cabinets, and have been on the look-out for a nice mid-century one for a while. Now I have one!

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The cabinet is in excellent condition and will serve me very well as a by-my-knitting-chair-hold-all for my current projects and notions. An additional bonus was that it came complete with its original contents . . .

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. . .which I excavated this afternoon. I found . . .

Straight knitting needles . . .

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. . . patterns . . .

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. . . needle gauge and row counter . . .

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. . . equipment for mending and darning “specially prepared for fine silk hose.”

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. . . collar reinforcements and suspenders . . .

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. . . needle cases “frae bonnie Scotland” . . .

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. . . and needles for all purposes . . .

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. . . buttons . . .

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. . . .other types of fastening . . .

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. . . several special threads for stringing necklaces . . .

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. . . and all types of sewing cotton.

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The cabinet also contained a nurse’s dictionary from 1935 and this photograph from Largs. . .

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. . . which I have included here on the very slim possibility that someone may be able to identify it.

I have a special fondness for ancient haberdashery, and find so many of these objects curious, evocative and moving. Many remind me quite powerfully of my Grandma, also, like the cabinet’s former owner, a knitter on straight needles and a reader of Woman’s Weekly. I still use my Grandma’s darning mushroom and needle gauge and I like how these small functional things carry the memory of her back to me through use. But what have these objects been doing since their owner died, or had no use for them? The item of latest provenance in the cabinet dates from the 1970s. Have these things been sitting in an attic for forty odd years? Will someone a century hence excavate our Addi Turbos, our Chibi darning needles, our scraps of Wollmeisse or Madelinetosh, and feel the same way that I do about the JP Coats bobbins and the mysterious NYLUSTA?

In other news:
*I am extremely happy to report that an appendix-less Tom is now actually on his way home from Dublin! Much relief and general excitement all round. Thankyou very much for your kind wishes.
*After several days swotting up on the Highway Code, I passed my driving-theory test this morning. This is the first essential step to being fully mobile as it means I can now put in for the practical driving test. I feel ready. I think.

The longest day

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It is a beautiful time of year, and here in the West of Scotland we have been enjoying some incredible weather. Most days you will find me here . . .

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. . . knitting away on my current YOKE, looking at this . . .

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. . . and occasionally these . . .

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What a joy to have a garden!

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The midsummer evenings are truly extraordinary. Around 9.30 the world turns to gold.

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Every day I am bowled over by the beauty of my surroundings. I like how connected I feel to the outdoors, the surrounding landscape, its sense of space, the changing light, my lovely neighbours. So on the one hand, these days around the longest day have been delightful. But on the other, they have been kind of hideous. Tom, who has suffered from recurrent bouts of appendicitis had an attack last week in Dublin and finally had the offending organ removed in St Vincent’s hospital on Thursday morning. Thank goodness for the prompt and careful action of those surgeons, because it turns out the thing was dangerously gangrenous. Thankfully he is now doing well on some serious antibiotics, but it has nonetheless been a horribly worrying few days during which I have felt rather useless, there being little I could do. I am so incredibly grateful to Una and Roger, with whom Tom has been staying in Dublin, whose support has really been above and beyond. We are hoping to get Tom home by the end of next week and I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to seeing him after the grim worries of the past few days. Hopefully he can then spend some time recovering and relaxing in our garden. Its a shame he can’t knit. . . Well, please keep Tom in your thoughts, everyone, and I hope you are enjoying a lovely Midsummer weekend!

Great Tapestry of Scotland 124-160

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Panel 140: Cumbernauld

Well, this is my final post on the Great Tapestry of Scotland! I have really enjoyed revisiting my photographs, and thinking more about the tapestry, and your comments have also provided much food for thought. These photographs are, of course only snippets, and you’ll find much more thorough information in the two books I mentioned in my first post about the project. But honestly, no books or photographs can reproduce the experience of seeing this incredible thing for yourself and, if you ever have the opportunity, I really recommend you do so!

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Detail of Panel 140: Cumbernauld

I can’t say I have a favourite panel, though I do love Fairisle (126) the Isbister Sisters (115) and the Hutton panel (74) but as I went through my photos this morning, I found myself thinking about how much I loved the Cumbernauld panel (140) and how it seemed to sum up for me what this project is all about.

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Detail of Panel 140: Cumbernauld

Like many panels, this one celebrates the texture of ordinary people’s lives, and the ordinary spaces in which they live them. Andrew Crummy’s design – with the new town’s familiar roads and architecture – is incredibly witty and creative, and just like his Pictish or his Georgian panels, the style of the design has shifted in an inventive fashion here to suit the moment it represents. Cumbernauld’s local reputation is not unambiguous, but in this panel the urban environment appears beautiful and utopian simply because it is an everyday space of homes, and folk, and families. My favourite scene from Gregory’s Girl is referenced in the top left, and perhaps one of the reasons I like this panel so much is that so much of what it represents seems familiar to me from my own childhood and youth. Finally, the stitching on the panel is absolutely exquisite, and because of this the whole piece absolutely sings. Last Sunday, I spent some time admiring this panel, and I then read the information board which told me that just two Cumbernauld women had worked on the stitching, Elizabeth Boulton and Helen Conley. Conley and Boulton had depicted themselves as children in their signature at the bottom right of the panel, in a scene that seemed to be taken from an old photograph of the pair. I was suddenly struck by the sheer power of the Great Tapestry project – that these two childhood friends were quite literally making history, and with their needles stitching themselves into the story of their home, their town, their nation. What a wonderful thing to do.

So, some final highlights.

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Panel 125: The General Strike stitched by June McEwan, Karen Philpot and Gil Tulloch in Pitlochry

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Panel 126: Fair Isle Love this panel inordinately.

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Panel 129: The Great Depression The lone figure of Chris Guthrie defines the 1930s

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Panel 130: Tenement Life I loved everything about this wonderfully vibrant celebration of Scotland’s tenement communities

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Panel 132: The Clydebank Blitz I found this panel deeply affecting

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Panel 134: D-Day, 1944 Bill Millin defiantly pipes through the Normandy landings

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Panel 143: Linwood and the Hillman Imp I was particularly pleased to see a yoked jumper, appropriately appearing here in its early 1960s heyday!

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Panel 148: The rise of the SNP It amused me that Irn Bru and Tunnocks Tea Cakes appeared in this panel as 1970s nationalist icons.

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Panel 149: Scotland at the Movies. Whisky Galore! “No son of mine will be eating human flesh.”

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Panel 152: Gaelic Resurgent stitched by Christine Haynes and Pauline Elwell

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Panel 154: Dolly the Sheep Tom’s favourite panel, for its inventive depiction of science in stitch.

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Panel 155: The Scottish Parliament reconvenes, 1999. Incredibly beautiful stitching on this panel

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Panels 156 and 157: Parliament of the Ancestors, Parliament for the Future An appropriately vast and varied tapestry of Scottish identities, from Joanna Baillie to Oor Wullie.

Thanks for bearing with me through this photographic tour! And if you’d like to see all of my posts about the Great Scottish Tapestry together, you can do so here.

Great Tapestry of Scotland 93-123

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Panel 94: Hill and Adamson The silver herrings and striped petticoats of the Newhaven fisherwoman.

In the comments on yesterday’s post, Heather linked to an interesting take on the “when is a tapestry not a tapestry” question from a tapestry weaver who strongly objects to the misappropriation of the term in reference to non-woven textiles. I am often struck by how textiles, more than other disciplines, seems prone to practices of woeful mis-naming, and the piece raises many moot points, particularly in relation to the gender associations of the terms “tapestry” and “embroidery.” I suppose this is what I was hinting towards yesterday in suggesting that the term “tapestry” has, in the popular imagination, a public, narrative dimension, that the word “embroidery” does not. It is certainly very sad that this is so, and the linguistic perceptions and politics of these terms in contemporary discourse seem to me quite difficult to unravel. But whether or not the nomenclature of the “Great Tapestry” has a masculine ring, one could certainly never criticise this project for its masculine bias. Women formed the majority of the talented stitchers, and not only are women represented everywhere in the tapestry, but individual panels are used to proudly celebrate the ordinary work of Scottish women in a way that is all too rarely seen in public contexts. A few weeks ago I climbed the Wallace Monument with my dad (who is a Wallace on his mother’s side, and is known by everyone as “Wal”). Half way up the tower we discovered the “hall of heroes” – a sterile space filled with the equally sterile busts of dead white men. While this room commemorates the achievements of Scotland’s philosophical, scientific, military, and literary blokes, there is not a single woman in sight. I scoured the information panels, and finally found Jane Carlyle, who received the briefest of mentions in relation to her husband. Jane and I were the only women in the room, and I wonder if she would have felt as irritated as I did. A wee girl, with a burgeoning interest in Scottish history, might find little in that room with which to identify, while her brother might be reinforced in his tacit belief that only men do important things. One of the many functions of the Great Tapestry of Scotland, it seems to me, is as an educational resource and thank goodness that the project exuberantly and thoughtfully celebrates the important work of Scotland’s women authors, political activists, washerwomen, fisher-lassies, and knitters, and places that work in a public context, alongside more familiar “masculine” achievements.

On with some highlights.

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Panel 96: A Caithness School I am alawys drawn to the neeps. By the 1850s, through pioneering rural education practices, Caithness (and Berwickshire) literacy rates were the highest in Great Britain.

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Panel 99: James Clerk Maxwell One of many occasions where I was struck by the wit and inventiveness of Andrew Crummy’s wonderful designs. The colourful waves of Maxwell’s beard capture his work on magnetism and electricity.

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Panel 103: Shinty and Curling I was bowled over by the beauty and precision of the stitching on this panel, created by Susie Finlayson and Linda Jobson. Look at the tartan! The knitted hose! The herringbone woven jacket! The way the wrong side of the fabric is represented!

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Panel 104: Scots in North America I love the figure of John Muir here – the very embodiment of the ideal of the national park.

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Panels 105 and 107: The Paisley pattern and Mill Working I found both of these panels incredibly beautiful and moving: the way the faces of the mill workers had been integrated into the famous Paisley pattern, the way the colours of the embroidery precisely echoed those of the Indian subcontinent in panel 92; the sense of energy and movement in the stitching and design . . . and, of course, the fact I was viewing these panels in a mill, in Paisley.

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Panel 109: Workshop of the Empire I love the way that industry, labour, and the human figure are represented in this panel.

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Panel 111: Kier Hardie who campaigned for women’s suffrage as well as worker’s rights.

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Panel 113: The Discovery sails from Dundee One of the many things I loved about this panel was that the trades involved with the expedition were depicted and celebrated: flesher, tailor, cordiner, weaver, dyer, hammerman, bonnet maker, baker, glover.

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Panel 115: The Isbister sisters Shetland knitters! Hurrah! One of my favourite panels.

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Panel 123: Women get the vote. This panel was stitched by the Edinburgh members of Soroptimist International

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