A Summer of Socks - Ocean Socks

In the Summer of 2014 I knitted 3 pairs of socks and each represented a little bit of me.

The first pair - ocean socks - named after the yarn but the colour is about right as was where I did much of the knitting - Coastal Paths. I love long distance walking paths. The National Trails are fantastic but then so are other ones such as the Cumbria Way which 3 of us did 5 years ago.

My first experience was beginning the Cornish Coastal Walk in 1990s. Now it has become the South West Coast Path. My idea is to crack on as otherwise it will have become the British Coastal Walk before I have finished. Now I am back and have done much of the Dorset Coast (from Lulworth Cove to Lyme Regis and am well on track with the South Devon leg with a little around Seaton & also from Sidmouth to Torcross. Ocean Socks belong to my stay in Bridport. I fell in love with Bridport - a lovely market town with West Bay a short distance away on the coast. I loved being in Bridport with its varied buildings, wide streets and the ability to stroll down to the beach. I loved it so much that during a stay in Lyme Regis I had to go back.

There is something about coastal walking. There is so much variety as the views change all the time. If you do the same leg, then the views will be different everytime as the light and the tides change as do the seasons. It can be easy as you stroll gently along the seashore or it can be brutal as the path follows the contours without the comfort of bridges. Before I learnt to map read, I asked my then boyfriend if some of the Cornish coast was brown. Once he finished laughing, he said contours! Now when I'm planning a walk these are the first things I check along with the weather. If you can help it then there's not a lot point of getting soaked and it can be dangerous if the wind is high. Personally I sometimes think that contour lines should be in red, the further they are together then the steeper and the harder it is. Why do I check contours? Two reasons: the more contours, the longer it will take. If I have a choice of direction, they can also influence me in choices (along with bus times!).


Ocean socks came with me to one of the highest points - Golden Cap. It was a bit blustery that day but coast walking at its best with views, flowers and no rain. Socks a good choice as they are so easily portable unless you are using wooden knitting needles and then you can run into other problems! Nothing more annoying than finding that one's snapped. The difficulty of course is that you can drop one. Somewhere on a SouthWest Trains train, is a beautiful knitting needle dropped down a grille. I could see it but not touch it. AAAgh!

And so the SouthWest Coast path continues and deserves several posts of its own. In the meantime, in Winter I have enjoyed the warmth and memories of ocean socks.

A Tribute To Paris : 08/09 January 2015

I n October I booked a very cheap train ticket & my favourite hotel in Paris for a night and then wondered if I was being extravagant. A stressful Christmas reassured me I was doing the right thing in getting away. The date was 8 January 2015.

I have to admit that being without a television meant that I hadn't taken in the full horror of the Terrorist attacked on 7th. On arrival at Gare du Nord I didn't perceive too much difference. As the day unfurled that changed. I was asked to take part in a minute's silence at the Orangerie. I was contemplating a Cezanne at the time. A revolutionary painter and an appropriate place to mourn.

On the way to the Hotel I was struck by the windows in what were obviously the offices at the Louvre with their "Nous sommes Charlie" posters. Being very tired I crashed for a bit at the hotel (I had got up at 5.30am). When I woke up I found myself glued to BBC News. It was so very real being there. I didn't head up to the Place de la Republique. Somehow it felt an intrusion although the whole world was shocked. I felt it was a place for Parisians to mourn their own. I watched on the television as the lights went out on the Eifel Tower. I did go out for supper but the place was quieter than usual.

On the Thursday there was sadness. On the Friday there was tension. You could feel people flinch at the sound of a siren. The shops had their "Nous sommes Charlie" signs so did the Musem tills. What moved me the most was the spontaneous cardboard signs "Je suis Charlie" in front of a beggar who had a tea light and an Eastern European group of buskers.

I have to admit that the only solace I felt that day was in a yarn shop. Lang Yarns and some pure alpaca Worsted (thanks very much). A visit to the Picasso Museum was overwhelming and possibly because of my mood for the first time I realised how cruel he could be towards women. If you look at a collection of his cubist nude women you might see what I mean.

I returned to the hotel to pick up my small overnight bag (even travelling light I could see I hadn't been to popular at the Musee d'Orsay. You can't blame them). In the reception there was television coverage of the siege and I exchanged a few words with the Manager.
"Paris c'est une ville tres courageux. Nous avons beaucoup des problems en Londres". A bit simplistic I know. To which he replied there is trouble all over Europe. Sobering when you consider it is only 100 years since the War that was supposed to end all Wars.

I was ready to leave Paris. As a last tribute I decided to take the bus up to the Place de Republique and pay tribute to a sad but brave city.

Bravo Paris. Je suis Charlie.

The Yarn : A Story of Christmas Socks

I don’t do internet porn. Well, that’s not quite true. I get my kicks from coasting various web-sites and ogling yarn. Mostly it’s wool but sometimes it’s cotton and I have been known to get my kicks from imaging the soft feel of silk between my needles. OK I admit it I am a yarn addict. My flat is coming down with the stuff. Chunky & bright red, fine pinks and blues and the translucent haze of fine mohair. I own more yarn than I will probably ever knit and I am even quite relieved when I don’t win another auction on ebay.

It’s always hard over Christmas. I desperately try not to add to my stash (a well-known term amongst knitters for wool they keep to fondle) and try and knit my Christmas presents from it. I vow to do this every year but last year I failed. I was on this web-site and the yarn waved and winked at me. I swear it did. If it didn’t it certainly said

“Your Aunt Isabel would love me!”

“But my Aunt Isabel doesn’t knit. That’s my Aunt Helena. “

“But you do.”

Two days later I was opening the package and there it was 100g of sock yarn. Rich browns, reds, a touch of crimson and a contrast of green.

“You win.” I sighed. “Now what do I do with you?”

The yarn nestled in my hand and stroked my cheek.

“Stop that! You aren’t helping! If I don’t get an idea soon, you’ll just linger on the sofa and now I am going to be late for work.  Where did I put those socks? Socks? Yes. I’ll just get my needles. Well, when I get home ”

I couldn’t concentrate at work. All I could think of was how the golds and reds would make the perfect simple sock. No need for a complex pattern, the yarn would do the work but on my way home doubts began to set in as I remembered I didn’t like knitting socks that much. The cast-on was fiddly, it was too easy to lose needles when knitting in the round & was for turning the heel? Was it worth it.

Back home, the yarn grinned at me with the delight of someone who hadn’t moved all day, smug, knowing that they were so attractive. One stroke and the die (or should I say dye) was cast. 2.5mm needles out, the yarn eased out of the ball-band and we were off.

Cast on 64 stitches, divide across 3 needles, swear lots as yarn twists as if in discomfort. Swear more, yip out stiches and cast on again and again. Why socks I moaned. Yarn looked at me triumphantly but this was a battle I wasn’t going to lose. Try again and this time knit a row of rib and then divide it. Yes, it’s worked and I was off.

Yarn, needles, fledgling sock and I became inseparable for a week. I got used to picking up stitches, managed not to cry when one of the needles fell into a grille on a Southwest train and with gritted teeth pulled out another one. We saw the sights, yarn, sock and I. We sat on the tops of buses, kept each other company in the intervals of concerts, and even visited the sea where we sat on a bench admiring the angry grey sea. People told us stories of their knitting. It was our honeymoon.

Sock grew and grew and then its twin materialised. Knitting needles down, darning needle to tie in those ends. Brown, red, gold & green socks already for Christmas. I held them to my cheek one last time, a final stroke and then surrendered them to the silver wrapping paper.

“Good-bye dear socks.”

Christmas lunch over, the family gathered round the Christmas tree, black plastic bags of wrapping paper were bulging. Finally Aunt Isabel opened her floppy silver parcel.

“Socks.” She said. “How nice. Thank you dear. Oh, Juliet how clever of you to get me this vase. It’s so like the ones that the twins broke. I can already see it with the first daffodils of the year”

The socks and I looked at each other.

“Don’t worry,” they chorused “she won’t know what hit her. We’ll make her feet the most grateful feet in London as they’ll be the warmest and best dressed.”

They did and they were.

A musical journey

Musical memories. Some blur, some sharp and some flat. Four London concert halls: The Royal Albert Hall - musical greats, the unique Proms atmosphere and reaction - Abbado held the audience rapt for 54 seconds. Gunter Wand's final London performance almost stifled us. Sir Colin Davis charmed us with his performances with youth orchestras. The Queen Elizabeth Hall - smaller and perfectly formed. First heard Ave Verum Corpus there as well as being there on 30th December 2000, the night before being made redundant from the Dome. I was there the night the US invaded Afghanistan. Then we have the Royal Festival Hall. My first classical concert - Mozart's Jupiter, Tennstedt's Beethoven 9, falling in love with Mahler. Charismatic performances by Wayne Marshall, Chailly and the place where I fell in love with Thomas Hampson, Brendel's last London performance. So many memories and three very different buildings.

The fourth - the Barbican. Fewer firsts, fewer spectacular memories, but a jewel in a concrete bunker and the home of the London Symphony Orchestra. I got hooked on the Barbican in 1991 - a celebration of Mozart. My love affair with the LSO was started on sketchy grounds in the Tilson-Thomas years; there's only so much Beethoven and early Mahler symphonies a girl can take. Then along came Sir Colin Davis.

Sir Colin had already influenced my musical life. For my 8th birthday I got a Beatles LP & 3 symphonies. Tchaikovsky 5th (never played, my family don't have the Russian romantic gene); Karajan's Eroica (the symphony has become my anthem) & Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique conducted by Colin Davis which has fascinated me ever since. To celebrate graduating my parents took me to The Royal Opera House for the first time to hear Fidelio (one review : unconvincing as a man until you see her as a woman - it was the yanking off the dark wig to reveal a blonde one) but the music & Colin Davis captivated me. A few years later I was back. Questioned as to whether I went to the Opera House often I could have replied "only for Fidelio and Colin Davis".

My friendship with the Barbican began in 1991 with the bicentenary of Mozart's death. My father and I went to 1 concert and that was it I was hooked. The Barbican Hall saw more of me than the City Wine bars that as a corporate finance banker I was expected to frequent. I brgan to learn so much about music, concert-going and independence. It was also in 1991 that I moved out of my parents' home and exercised my own choice. Over the years we frequently met at the Barbican having not consulted over booking. We wondered if there was such a thing as the Mozart gene. I found that during Sir Colin's years as Principal conductor I was drawn to his concerts. I wasn't exclusive and I remember Sir Georg Solti conducting Mozart with 10 double-basses! I became a Prommer & kept up my visits to the RFH. It was the LSO that was my principal love.

I discovered Sibelius through Colin Davis' cycle; loving the way he added added the shorter pieces as encores. I relished the way he danced through the  Valse Triste. Watching him with a female youth leader I wondered if he would dance off the podium. A repeat cycle and my parents were in raptures over his Sibelius. For the first time my Father had booked concerts because I had loved them. We had become equals in taste and I owe that to Colin Davis.

With Colin's retirement I found myself going to the LSO less often particularly as I had less time to go. My visits made me realise how precious the LSO and he was to me. I resolved to make the most of every opportunity to hear him conduct. I am not sure how many cycles of Cosi van Tutti at ROH I heard (one performance per cycle, I am not that rich) I heard and I was there on the night his wife died. He didn't convert me to Nielsen but realising there would be limited chanes of hearing this partnership I decided to make the most of it. I ended up in Aix-en-Provence.

Lovely, lovely Aix. A medieval Palace courtyard with an open aid theatre. A mono-chrome performac of Clemenzo di Tito. Sarah Connelly, the LSO and Colin Davis. What more could a girl want? How about a repeat performance of a Barbican concert replacing Mitsuko Uchida with Nelson Frere. On this one I was questioned. Why spend the money on that concert? It did seem a bit daft. On the night it was amazing. Nelson Frere was a revelation, the orchestra sounded so much sweeter in the different acoustic. Colin was Colin and the next day people on a tour to the Cezanne hills were raving about it. The audience at the opera were enraptured as was I. I realised I was so privileged to have this partnership as my musical heritage.

Booking these performances brought me back to the LSO. They also started me on the rather expensive hobby of "collecting" European opera houses. This Summer I went back to Aix - Don Giovanni. No longer Colin but still the magic of the LSO even if the director should have been shot for having Zerlina treat don Giovanni's coat as a comfort blanket while he dies of an epileptic fit.

Having been back to the LSO & the Barbican I know it will always represent my voyage of discovery, where I feel musically at home. Through performances I have discovered other conductors and Maria Joao Pires. I miss Sir Colin's graciousness and gracefulness. His musicianship nurtured my Mozart gene. I know that his music continues in his legacy of remarkable performances & recordings many of which I own..

Sir Colin and the London Symphony Orchestra thank you for my musical journey.

London Calling - the joy of knitting

What  is it about knitting that is so satisfying?  It's certainly not quick gratification.  You might be able to complete a sewing project in a day but there are very few significant knitting projects you could do.  I cannot get my fingers and thumbs round crochet so I couldn't comment on that one.  No, I think it is that sense of something evolving and growing as you work and watch.  It's the challenge of making a motif work whether it be lace or colourwork.  It's the joy of adapting something to make it fit.  It's the pleasure of snuggling under a blanket you have knitted.  It's a sense of pride and achievement.

That's the achievement side but there is the joy of the yarn.  The soft, silkiness of blended, the warmth and lightness of aalpaca and then the pure wool.  A contrast - a the crispness of cotton.  All with bright rich colours.

"This is London" Lillibulero plays, some emotive memories from my childhood in Brazil.  What makes your home city special?  What is it that calls to you?  Pulls on the heartstrings?  What mementos do you have?  Looking back, it is strange how knitting has come and gone as an activity but it's now back for good and a real passion.

I first learnt to knit aged 9 (?).  Unlike many it wasn't with my Mother or Grandmother.but at school.  The first things I knitted were a pair of garter stitch slippers and a solid green tank top. the slippers wore out but I still have the tanktop somewhere.

With the encouragement of my Grandmother I took up knitting again as I left school and then had fun taking it inter-railing.  I have a few sweaters from this stage of my knitting career and I found one that showed I had an early love of intarsia - didn't know it had a fancy name. I don't remember knitting it. I found another sweater in a cupboard and that demonstrated my lack of knowledge of tension. I knitted it for me but it fits my Mother who is much taller than I am perfectly!

Now we come to my current reincarnation. I work anti-social hours. it's easy to open a bottle of wine at the end of the day or send angry emails because everyone is asleep. Now I am happy for hours with my knitting!  It comes everywhere with me as I hate not looking out of windows. Now I can tell you about everything I knit and where!

To be a pilgrim ...

In April I completed the North Downs Way via Canterbury.  it is the longer, less spectacular but nevertheless satisfying route.  The weather wasn't great but with 3 nights on the road it was challenging!

The first leg took me to Chilham.  It wasn't long but boy did it rain!  The route took me past the last church that the Pilgrims gathered at before reaching Canterbury.  they would wait until there was safety in numbers as the next section through King's Wood was fraught with perils of robbers who would assault our poor pilgrims.  Today according to the North Downs Way bible the biggest risk seems to be bumping into a wild boar.  I however found the wood to be of young growth, muddy and grey.  I did meet a cyclist but that was it.  However the route was atmospheric as the silence and damp reminded me of how tough the pilgrims would have had it.

Sunday dawned bright and cheerful!  Ready for my arrival in Canterbury on a warm Spring day.  Sadly the first bit of this section isn't inspiring at all as it was mainly over roads.  You pass a pub called the Chapel Arms with its pub sign in Canterbury Cathedral colours to remind you of what you are doing.  You hope that some woods and apple orchards will get you in the mood as you pass the iron age castle but no.  A small group of people are doing some motorbike rallying.  Once that it is over you cross the A2 and walk beside it.  So you don't reach Canterbury in a reflective mood but rather a, at least that is over, mood.  But then you reach Canterbury and that changes.

Canterbury - a city that bustles, a city with students and cafe culture, a city of history and medieval buildings. For me, a city of the sun.  First stop for the pilgrim, St Dunstan's church - where Sir Thomas More's head is possibly buried and where Henry II stopped to don sackcloth to prepare for the final homage to St Thomas a Becket.  From there to the Cathedral, today crossing the railway line that cuts through but through the keep to the medieval gate.  Inside the gate the peace of a great institution.  I was lucky enough to stay in the grounds in Canterbury Lodge and it was a privilege.  I went to Compline (the final service of the day) and stupidly forgot my glasses.  It wasn't the size of the print that was the problem but the lack of light meant that I strained to see the text!  A moving service with a thoughtful reflection on the reaction to the death of Margaret Thatcher.  And so to bed with a stunning with of the Cathedral lit at night.

I woke to the news of the death of Sir Colin Davis but more of that another time.  A visit to the Cathedral and to pay tribute to Thomas a Beckett.  Going through the tunnel built to divide the pilgrims from the monks meant a lot to me, putting things into context.  Not many of us attended the brief service where the pages of the books of remembrance are turned but I am glad I did and pleased that this is a tradition that we still follow.

Departing Canterbury, I had one of those moments when the mind goes blank.  I decided to get some sugar and went into a small shop and for the life of me couldn't remember what I wanted so asked for Opal Fruits. Fortunately the teenager serving me was used to people with long memories and realised I wanted Starburst.  Oops.  It was sad to see the end of Canterbury but onwards and mass agricultural fields followed.  legs began to ache but at least there was an absence of road.

The final day began well with decent weather and attractive fields.  Sign posts gave ever decreasing mileage and Roman Roads headed to Dover. 

 But oh how modern roads get in the way and I agree with the author of my bible that there should be a direct crossing over the A2 instead of the detour!
 
By now the fog was coming in from the sea and the great views I was hoping for were obscured and so it became a limp to the bottom.  It is a good finish line but on a grey day with no one around, it was a trek back to the station and a bad cup of coffee to celebrate.

The high speed train took me past various bits of the route and I was left reflecting on the pace of the modern world and thinking that we should reflect a little bit more and take our time to appreciate what we have.

PS What knitting did I take?  Not much for once but the bright blue sweater.

So Long! Farewell! 'A few of my favourite things' (the blanket)

N

As a baby I had a blanket that was "precious blanket" and nicknamed "precious b" well this has become "precious b 2".  We've travelled, walked and now share many memories.  I planned to do two like this - well the reciients are twins.  One I would call fauna and the other flora but when I realised how long it was going to take it became so precious and is now "A few of my favourite things".

There are times when it is really sad to say good-bye to a knitting project even though it is more of an adieu or au revoir as I know I will be visiting.   I have been knitting this for a year and the blanket has come everywhere with me.  It is the 5th blanket I have knitted and the 6th to be completed.  It began life at a workshop given by Debbie Abrahams at Sloane Square's Peter Jones - an auspicious beginning.  I already had Rowan green cotton glace and decided to work in the gold rather than terracotta.  I had inspiration from Debbie's books, the Stitch Companion by Melody Griffith and Lesley Stanfield as well as various other knitting books from which I was prepared to borrow the motifs.  I owe the greatest debt to Sasha Kagan.

The first square to be completed was the toadstools (Lisa Richardson from one of the Rowan children's books).  It was this that first gave me a clue that the blanket could take sometime as it was fun, fiddly and the back looked like spaghetti.  I fell in love with the pattern of the sunflowers and it reminded me of the joy of seeing sunflowers in the kitchen garden of the Provencal asylum that Van Gogh had once been confined in.  The cat was knitted in the USA during the second Presidential debate and I was curled up in an armchair in Boston enjoying its casual progress when the earthquake that happened two hands beforehand struck.  The cat had to be ginger in honour of my cousins' first  cat - a glorious ginger tabby - Nelson.  It has no eyes as the original Nelson was named after the Admiral as he also had one eye and to be symmetrical the knitted cat had to have either two or none.

My cousin's wife has the most lovely watercolour of poppies painted by her mother and - while the original pattern from Sasha Kagan had 4 colours and the petunias are purple in this version - that picture was the inspiration.  The blue tulip - labelled a bluebell in the book reminds me of Spring, the book the Black Tulip and the glories of Kew Gardens.  What is there not to love about balloons -  a reminder of childrens' parties and of the time when my aunt opened the door to a parent at my 3rd birthday.  The Mother looked shocked and commented on how I (the 3 year old) had grown - a bit remarkable as my Aunt is 21 years older than I am! Music my great love.  The texture on this is lovely as the notes strand over the stripes.

The tree has become one of my trademarks and has gone into 3 blankets and will feature on my next picture knit.  The seedheads remind me of my Grandfather who was a GP but when he retired took on a Sussex smallholding looking back to his family farm roots in the North of Ireland.

The ice-cream - here is my one bit of total originality.  I was convinced I had seen a pattern for an ice-cream but I couldn't find one so I spent part of the flight to Boston drawing this one out.  It had to be yellow ice-cream on top as I loved the lemon ice cream I got in Boston and Italy and have wonderful memories of fruit ice-cream from my childhood in Brazil.  The trailing flowers and leaves I knitted on the return trip to Margate with my Mother to see a Turner exhibition.  The lavender takes me back to Provence.  I had fun with the cherries.

So, farewell my blanket.  We've had fun.  The Southwest Coastal Path, the North Downs Way, the USA, Gemany, Avignon and we will always have Paris.  I have knitted on trains, tidied ends on planes, edges on Ways - I will miss you my favourite things!

A few of my favourite things and a North Downs Way Milestone - Dover or bust!