The Independent Stitch

The Unst bus shelter

The chronology of posts for this trip is interrupted now for a glimpse of yesterday's journey to Yell and Unst, the northernmost islands in the Shetland group.

Thanks to Jeni Reid for the photo of me knitting in the Unst bus shelter. The shelter has been decorated this time in honor of the North Atlantic Native Sheep & Wool Conference, which is what I'm currently participating in.

We enjoyed a pleasant stop en route to our more official duties, along with a short knitting spell. (I got a lot of knitting done on our bus ride: I completed two demo swatches while watching out the window.)

If I had ever made a lifetime "bucket list," visiting the Unst Bus Shelter would have been one of the items on it.

I look forward to visiting it again before too long.

Also from Jeni, a she-says "gratuitous photo of sheep":

They look like Duncan Gray's ewe lambs to me (mostly born in May this year), although I'd need to check my notes to be sure of that and of the spelling of his name. Apologies if any of that information is askew. I need to walk down to the museum now. . . . Today is the day of the North Atlantic Native Sheep and Wool Conference presentations, of which one is mine.

Stones and vestiges

The landscapes of Orkney and Shetland display the layered remnants of about 5,000 years of human habitation. I've only been able to set a few experiential anchors in my understanding of those layers, and most of what I've seen (with a few exceptions, to be mentioned in future posts) has concentrated on the ancient reminders in Orkney. I look forward to broadening my acquaintance, but I've gotten a start.  Even the oldest of the archaeological sites reflect the joint lives of humans and sheep in these landscapes.

Here are glimpses of some of that. As with all these posts, I'm only glancing past what I am doing, seeing, and thinking.

Orkney is, with notable exceptions, low and rolling and eminently farmable. Also extremely beautiful, in an understated way.

Stone

The Stones of Stenness is an early structure exemplifying monumental achievement, which is nonetheless human-feeling in scale.

Here's the monumental view: the stones are visible from far off, above the water and just under a third of the way from the righthand edge of the photo.

And here's the close view.

Not far away is the larger Ring of Brodgar. Under half the original stones remain (27 out of 60), yet the essence of the structure endures. It's a place full of spirit.

This stone was split by lightning.

From every angle and from every distance, the circle of stones intrigues.

It's easy to fill up with visions and impressions. Fortunately, it was possible to experience a handful of sites over a handful of days. So I was able to approach Skara Brae fresh.

Along the extended path to the site of this village (or, rather, village built on top of another village) have been set markers for other historical events, like the building of the pyramids (2700–2200 BCE). Skara Brae predates them by 400 to 900 years (3100 BCE). 

Today, the site is a sculptural combination of stone walls and grass mounds, of hard and soft surfaces, of open spaces and enclosures.

It's sited beautifully by a broad bay.

Normal life continues nearby. The more modern building below is part of the site administration and maintenance facility. Grazing land, and a working croft (farm), lies adjacent to the bones of the simple and functional dwellings.

Skara Brae was buried in sand, revealed by a storm, and is at risk of disappearing again.

A few days later it was time to visit Maeshowe, a neolithic structure with ceremonial attributes, most likely used in part as a tomb. It appears from a distance as a gentle mound.

The approach, again, is through active agricultural land.

Photography is not allowed inside, so you'll have to take my word for the fact that it's well worth seeing. That's the entrance just off-center to the left.

Within that mound is a stone structure carefully and cunningly constructed from large slabs, blocks, and stones.

The entry has been oriented so that at the winter solstice, light comes through a long passageway with a particular orientation to the internal space. After about 4800 years (construction estimated at 2700 BCE), the beams strike slightly off their intended locations, due to changes in the earth's rotation—but only slightly.

At some point, the place was abandoned. At a later date (middle of the 12th century CE), Vikings found the structure and scribbled runic and pictorial graffiti on the walls.

The shifting light brought a dark sky and an illuminated mound as we returned to the car park (parking lot), contemplating the fact that both people and sheep lived here when the stones were moved to make these domestic and sacred spaces.

Thurso to Kirkwall (Scottish mainland to Orkney)

I'm very far behind, because I didn't have my laptop with me on some of the most recent travels. So here's one of a series of short catch-ups that won't begin to do justice to what I've seen and done. I actually prepared a lot of photos for this next bit, but we'll hit the high points in order to have a bare chance of getting to today, perhaps by next week some time, if I'm both diligent and lucky.

Thurso is at the far north of mainland Scotland and a ferry for Orkney leaves from nearby Scrabster. This is the early morning view from my hotel window—the Press and Journal opens up before dawn. (That is, of course, a reflection of part of my hotel room. I'm enjoying many of the inadvertent reflections I'm capturing as I photograph frequently through glass, due to timing or weather.)

Their sign says why:

Breakfast in the hotel set the tone for the day: relaxed and very good. Sorry that the next photo is blurry. The poster was behind a wooden pillar in the hotel lobby, right next to the reception desk and hard to miss but also a little hard to photograph, especially because I was not quite awake. It advertises the Cast Ewe Ceilidh Band. The event is tonight, although I'm now in Shetland and won't be able to see what it's about. (Those who have caught any of my blog posts about our Border collie will know that her name is Ceilidh. It's pronounced KAY-lee.)

The ferry crossing was fairly short, and it was extremely windy out on the observation decks. Note the other passengers' elbows braced on the railing to keep a photo moderately steady. That's the Orkney island named Hoy.

That pillar is the rock called the Old Man of Hoy, taken from inside the ferry:

The soft morning light disguised the Old Man a bit. To get a stunning photograph would require different timing and location.

Later, as we were pulling past Hoy, the conditions shifted.

Our arrival point on Orkney's Mainland was at the town of Stromness. (On this trip, there are mainlands in (1) Scotland, (2) Orkney, and (3) Shetland; they are all islands, although the Orkney and Shetland ones are more obviously so.)

It's a pretty place, which we zoomed through in the interest of getting settled over in Kirkwall, although we came back to Stromness later.

I'm taking a lot of photos through the car windshield (windscreen), and that reflection on the right side is a permit for parking.

I'll pick up a few of those later Stromness photos now, out of concern that I won't get back to them later.

There's lots of stone building (because stones are here and trees, for the most part, are not), and it tends to be a soft sandstone, so gets weathered. A lot of Stromness is being either refurbished or revised.

Looking down narrow passageways while walking along the main street reveals interesting vistas, large and small . . .

. . . leaving me with questions about who has created and who tends some of the unusual and charming combinations.

J. L. Broom, Bookseller, is a wonderful shop. It's small, but the selection has been made by a proprietor who loves books.

"Displayed face out" is, for the most part, not an option, because there are too many books. It's a browsing sort of store and spines are adequate. The Fleece & Fiber Sourcebook was there, as was Donna Druchunas' Ethnic Knitting Discovery.

Some of the shelves added commentary.

That bit advises:

Turn unwanted hair into
Coats for the family

I saw books that I have read and like—a clue that others selected by the proprietor are likely to be interesting. Yes, I bought a book or two. . . .

The owner said that The Fleece & Fiber Sourcebook is a regular seller (friends had spotted it in the window of the same shop last year) and referred us to the Northlight Studio, just up the street, as being owned by someone who had recommended it to him.

What another gem! This is Ros Bryant's personal studio, where she also teaches classes. On display were two exhibits, one of Ros's recent work (photo in a moment) and another of a group of small tapestries produced through a challenge called "Sea Journey," where each weaver took the same photograph as inspiration. The contributors came from a number of different countries. Some worked in parallel, meeting during the process, while others worked independently. The techniques and visions produced a collective show composed of purely individual creations.

Here's the introduction to the show:

Some more of the delightful pieces:

On a side table, several notebooks offered insights into the independent creative processes:

Another wall displayed some of Ros Bryant's own work from a recent series of explorations:

As someone who loves textiles, graphic design, words, letterforms, and calligraphy, I was most taken with the pairings of the pieces. And I didn't get a photo of the slate carving that I liked the best of all: yet I liked it best, perhaps, in the context of the others. I would love the whole wall of these. All. Together. To live with.

Also, the array of colors (working materials) along the shelf below tantalized.

We found an excellent lunch at Julia's, right across from where we'd arrived on the ferry from Kirkwall.

That corner of a yellow and blue sign is the readily recognizable indicator that delicious Orkney ice cream is available nearby.

And I was amused to note the font Papyrus engraved on the window, viewed, in this case, backwards.

One of the things I immediately appreciated about Ros Bryant's lettering is that it is informed by a well-grounded knowledge of letterforms and typography, and yet is not limited by any constraints that might come from that knowledge. Her work in the multiple media displayed (but did not in any way flaunt) a deep understanding of craft and the ability to launch from the foundations and produce fresh combinations and insights.

She's nice, too.

And has a splendid dog, Millie.

An excellent day becomes perfect when it includes a superb dog.

Scottish vocabulary lesson: dreich, drookit

First I learned dreich.

Then (this afternoon) I learned drookit.

Note the state of the map, which was fresh when I began the walk from the Lerwick Esplanade (near the town center) to my lodgings. Without that map, I'd still be out there. As it was, I overshot my turn by about a quarter-mile. (It's hard to tell which rotary leads to the appropriate road, especially in the dark.)

And here is a closer view of drookit:

I had on wool, or I would have been chilled besides. By the end of the walk, my trousers were soaked through so much that water was beginning to saturate the wool socks inside my waterproof hiking boots (the boots were dry . . . except starting to be damp inside). I would have called for a ride, but mobile phone signals are off-again, on-again in Lerwick, and they were off-again all the way from where I was to where I needed to be. Fortunately I stayed warm throughout, although I was ready to quit squishing by the time I reached shelter. Which was ten or fifteen minutes before I needed to leave again for the opening ceremonies of Shetland Wool Week.

As I came up the last hill, I looked across the road and saw a ewe sheltering on one side of a small stone enclosure with her lamb on the opposite side, both somewhat shielded from the wet. If it hadn't been so dark, and if I hadn't been soaked, I would have tried for a photo. (As it turned out, my camera was damp, too.)

Thanks to Jeni for being there and taking the photos and to Alison for suggesting the Scots words and confirming that I have applied them correctly.

Moving north

Before leaving for the north, we washed one of the Ryeland fleeces from the Scottish Smallholder and Grower Festival. It will dry while we're traveling. It's a good thing we had a nice bottle of Power Scour handy.

Clouds and no-clouds: parts of the day varied, but as we drove north the sky did tend to clear up.

Just like at home, there was road construction and we had to wait for alternating one-way traffic.

Here's a portion of a map of northeastern mainland Scotland, with some of the locations about to figure into this post.

The plan was to have lunch at Dornoch, but as it turned out, on a weekend (especially one with beautiful weather, I suspect), reservations were required at every tempting place in town. Fortunately, we'd had a good breakfast.

We did walk around town and I learned that the stepped stones along the rooflines are a particularly Scottish architectural detail.

As we proceeded north, we stopped for a view looking across toward the North Sea. This particular spot may be at the opening end of Dornoch Firth or perhaps the wider portion where it's opened out into the sea. I'd have to look up its specific location to tell; it was by the Wolf Stone, Brora, East Sutherland.

Ah, Berriedale. When I was in Scotland the only other time, for UK Knit Camp, I had some fantasies of traveling a bit farther north. That didn't happen, but in the process I learned that a few days before my arrival, Clan Gunn was having a gathering. The Robsons are traditionally a sept of this clan ("from the fifteenth century . . . the Robson Gunns had their seat in Braemore in south east Caithness"), although there is apparently an unrelated line of Robsons elsewhere. As many Americans are, I'm a mix of heritages, among which the Scottish and Norwegian portions have made the most indelible (or at least family-memorable) marks. In terms of direct connection, the Robsons to which I'm related have been traced to mining communities in England. Some time we may trace them further—or someone in the family may already have done so. Regardless, I grew up knowing what the Gunn tartan looked like (exactly) and knowing what the clan motto was ("aut pax, aut bellum"). The links may be tenuous (or not), but at the very least they offer morsels to entertain curiosity.

From the exploration-of-possibilities component of that earlier trip, I had on my computer a few notes. Because we had skipped lunch, we had all afternoon to travel a relatively short distance to Thurso. Thus we enjoyed the opportunity to wander among the places named in my notes. I couldn't access the maps for which I had collected links (no internet connection), but we had enough for an enjoyable ramble.

My notes suggested that the Braemore to which they referred might be the one located some distance off the main road, between Berriedale and Dunbeath, and that there was a clan museum in Latheron, all towns arranged along the sea and directly on our route.

Berriedale had a lovely church and associated multi-century graveyard with abundant and varied surnames, a few of which were Gunn.

The road past the church, leading off away from the sea. This was a road not taken.

An observation from a William Steven, a crofter and joiner who died in 2007 and seems to have had the right idea:

Here's another view from the churchyard:

And in another direction:

As we headed toward Dunbeath, we saw a sign leading to the left toward Braemore, possibly the "correct" one, located about six miles down a paved but narrow road.

At the end of the road, there was a splendid valley . . .

. . . a small bridge . . . 

. . . and a means of modern communication, possibly due to the lack of mobile (cell) phone coverage.

The roads in all directions became private.

So we looked around,

. . . and turned back.

Now we reach the fiber content of this episode. While retracing from Braemore, I stopped to climb across a narrow ditch and up into the heather to get a photo of bog cotton.

And not long after that, these friends were on the road, but quickly skittered off.

After rejoining the main road, we went along to Latheron, where my notes suggested that the Gunn clan had an interesting museum.

We found it, with a big OPEN sign.

It was the last day in September, but unfortunately the OPEN time did not include a Sunday at 4:30 p.m.

So we browsed around the churchyard . . .

. . . which had splendid views . . .

. . . . and neighbors on the other side of the wall.

We neatly made it it to Thurso in time for a superb dinner at the Pentland Hotel. I had spaghetti con aglio, olio, e peperoncini. Delicious.

___

I'm quite far behind on posts versus adventures. Tomorrow I head to North Ronaldsay with Liz Lovick. I'm not sure I'll be able to take my laptop: extreme weight restrictions on the flight, and I may want to bring back some fiber.

Tough times

It's been quiet around here because life has been intervening.

Yes, we are in the area affected by the Colorado flooding, but our personal household is dry and has utilities, and even when the roads have been closed in all directions away from where we are, we have had access to groceries and other essentials. Much of my life is currently following its normal rhythms, although with a few differences. A group of us get together regularly to write. This is one of the places. We use the basement. It is, miraculously, not flooded, although close to the river.

We are very concerned about everyone still stranded or lost or with their houses swept away by, surrounded by, or filled with water. We await news about friends, especially those with sheep and those I've met through plein air painting connections over the years, who tend to live in more beautiful and more vulnerable places than the one we're in.

This past weekend was the memorial service for one of my longest-term and dearest friends, Ginny Cross. Ginny and I didn't get together all that often—for dinner and conversation every few months—but every time we did get together mattered. Miss you more than words allow, Ginny, and I'll remember your birthday for you tomorrow, with sadness mixed with joy that you were part of my life. And, as I told you shortly before you left this plane, your friends, including me, will be publishing your novel. It should have been published when you were here to see that happen, but we'll carry on. I'm doing the layout and design, and it will be an honor.

Thanks to our mutual friend Cherrie for the photo. I didn't have any.

Early this morning my cousin Christie Ehmann died. She was three months younger than me, and despite the fact that her family lived in Colorado and mine lived in Illinois, we four girl cousins grew up together, often visiting and traveling as a "clump." Since I've lived in Colorado, we've been a couple of miles apart. When I first moved to Colorado, we happened to be in the grocery store together and suddenly there were two fully grown-up women in the produce section picking up heads of lettuce and flinging water at each other and laughing like a couple of ten-year-olds. Again, our times together weren't frequent but they were vitally important, and I thought we'd have a lot more of them. The family became aware of Christie's diagnosis with inflammatory breast cancer three weeks ago tomorrow, and already she's gone.

This was 2008: cousins and aunts, in age order for both generations, from left to right:

Me, Christie (spirit left this manifestation this morning), my aunt Ginny (died three years ago), my mother (died this May), my sister Meg, and my cousin Colleen. I'm so glad we took that trip. (You'll notice they're all more put-together than I am. This is an eternal truth, something to count on in the shifting sands of life.)

More soon. Teaching has been wonderful, and the ongoing Shetland project is giving me a strong and blessed pull forward. As are family members and friends, human and canine.

One day at a time.

May all beings be happy.

May all beings be safe.

May all beings be free from suffering.

Remembering Mom

The family is gathering this week to catch up with each other, and to remember my mother, Allene Robson, who died May 31.

Here's a representative sample of the group, including Mom (in the light blue sweatshirt), at a previous August gathering:

We drove and flew and got here any way we could, put together a collection of photos and other items, and held a private, informal remembrance: we sat in a circle and told stories. Each of us learned something new about her to treasure.

Some of the items included in the collection above are songs and quotes we found in Mom's desk and other papers.

Mom sang and whistled. We have lots of memories of music.

Many of the photos include both Mom and her sister, Virginia, two years older, who died a few years ago.

They were close all their lives.

Iowa; Oklahoma; Taos, New Mexico; Glenwood Springs, Colorado; and more.

Virginia, my grandfather, my grandmother, and Mom, recovering from the Depression.

There were a lot of tiny bottles and vases in her cupboards, for just a few flowers, here and there and everywhere.

With a high-school friend whom she kept in touch with all her life:

Shy and adventurous, always warm, always ready to see the best in life. . . .

And with neighbors and long-time friends (the first of these two photos includes my grandmother, her mother, as well):

Friends everywhere, and in many forms. . . .

That's my three-legged cat, Wow, in her lap, and the Goldens are Taffy and Banana.

The pilgrimage back to Taos: me, my cousin Christie, Virginia, Mom (Allene), my sister Meg, my cousin Colleen. Two cars full and a lot of laughter. I'm so glad we made it happen.

Virginia at lower right, below the same set of cousins, Mom, my sister, and me. . . .

Among other things, Mom left this behind.

The paper is a copy of a short piece called "A Parable of Immortality," attributed to Henry Van Dyke.

Kevin, my brother-in-law's brother (who's in the first photo), e-mailed the rest of us the day after our gathering, in which he participated: "I always thought Allene and I got along great.....and she made me feel happy, and funny, and interesting....(now that's a difficult task)..... because she always put others before herself......but I've come  to know that she pretty much got along with everyone she came to know.....(so maybe I'm not as special as she made me feel...still made me feel great)...."

Kevin, you are as special as she made you feel. Her interest and her affections were the clearest and most trustworthy I've ever experienced in a human being. She found you interesting because you are, of course, and one of her gifts was to both perceive and communicate that sort of connection.

Miss you more than I can say, Mom. Love you forever and ever. I hope you and Ginny are laughing again together.

All shall be well again, I know (Julian of Norwich)

Allene Robson (locally known as Mom, or, by some, Gramma)

May 19, 1924 to May 31, 2013

May 20 to 25, 2013 - hospital: broken hip, clear directives in place for what she did and did not want in the way of medical intervention

May 25 to 31, 2013 - Serene Corner, Kenmore, Washington - back to familiar people and place

The day after Mom moved from the hospital back to where she's been living for most of the last year (a wonderful adult family home), I took my usual afternoon walk and snapped some photos that reminded me of Mom.

May 28 to 31, 2013 - with special thanks to Evergreen Hospice

She made the world a better place—past, present, and future—in ways that we know about and ways that we don't: quietly in charge of her life and her destiny, to the last breath, despite all obstacles.

Journey well, Mom.

Love you forever.

___

Many thanks and eternal gratitude to Cynthia, Tita, Danny, Chris, Joe, Patricia, Jeff, Pat, Ben, Bessie, Susan, Melanie, Justin, Pat, and the rock-solid family Mom built.

On the sharpening of pencils

Over the holidays, members of my extended family were discussing real (as opposed to mechanical) pencils. This was in relation to a gift my sister received: a real pencil, and an eraser. It pleased her a great deal. I think there was even a hand-held sharpener included in the package, which was limited to a value of $4. (We performed a holiday-gift experiment this year. It was an amazing success, and we'll do it again.)

The giver of the gift would have provided an artisan-sharpened pencil, except that the still relatively modest cost (in the gift realm) exceeded the constraints put on that part of the present-finding exercise. But the topic of pencil sharpening came up, and we considered for more than a passing moment some aspects of the craft, with which most of us were of an age to have been acquainted in at least an amateur or student's role.

As I was leaving the public library the other day, the following appropriately colored book caught my eye:

So, of course, I had to pick it up.

Here's a brief quote from page 157, with one bracketed comment:

For readers of a certain age [that includes me], the sight (and sounds) of a wall-mounted hand-crank pencil sharpener is as powerfully nostalgic as the odor of tiny milk cartons, the heft of a chalkboard eraser, or the rap of an unforgiving teacher's ruler across the knuckles. 

Those happy days, alas, are long gone. . . . 

Consider what follows a re-introduction to a set of skills that were likely central to your portfolio in the distant past, but now risk fading into the ledger of the lost arts. Let us turn our contemporary sensibilities to the wall-mounted hand-crank sharpener and rediscover what pleasures remain thereby.

Urban explorers make a habit of carrying a #2 pencil on their person in case they stumble upon a wall-mounted sharpener in one of the decrepit buildings they trespass.

(Hmm. I travel with a spindle, in case of fiber encounters, and a tiny bit of fiber, in case of spinning-tool encounters. How far-fetched is Rees's observation about the carrying of pencils, just in case?)

What was interesting to me in reading this book (and yes, I read the whole thing) was how many of the pencil-sharpening tools and techniques were completely familiar, and the realization that for many people these would be objects as foreign as a spindle, and the associated skills as peculiar-seeming as the making of yarn by hand: knives, single-burr and double-burr hand-crank sharpeners, single-blade pocket sharpeners, and even electric sharpeners (the chapters on these and on mechanical pencils were among the most enlightening). I even learned something: I'd missed the precise application techniques for the multiple-hole, multiple-stage pocket sharpeners, even though they were around and I'd used them often! I also became aware of a number of fine points [sorry . . . or not {grin}] about pencil-sharpening that I considered common knowledge, and I refined [ . . . ] my knowledge in ways that will improve my sharpening technique in the future.

Oddly, the book was a good (if quick) read. The author was previously a political cartoonist, and a census-taker (the precipitating occupation in his career change), both of which occupations explain a lot. The pages contain good, serious information. Note: The book is not suitable reading for most children, due to levels and types of vocabulary. The only chapter I snoozed through was the one on celebrities, but then I don't follow celebrities so I may have missed something that others will appreciate.

Here's an interview author (and pencil sharpener) David Rees did on Portland TV before a book-signing at Powell's. (I wonder: does he sign in pencil??) The prices of pencil-sharpening have increased since the interview aired. An artisanally sharpened pencil would  be out of reach of all but the largest of our family's gift-giving categories ($0, $4, $40). If one of us received such a pencil, it would be our Big Gift for the year. (Although with the remaining $5, the giver could also provide a pencil, a sharpener, and an eraser—but, unfortunately, not also the book that provides training in how to use the first two.) It's also true that Rees may actually be making something of a living at his chosen pursuit now.

All this certainly does put my own focus on sheep and wool into perspective. I'm not entirely sure what perspective. I'm working on that.

Finding the right direction

Sometimes it's hard to find the right direction to go on the road, even though the pavement is smooth enough that riding is easy.

Then a marker appears. This is a lane. But is it heading the right way?

Sometimes the directional hints seem to be correct but not clear. Is this path worn out? Was it meant for someone else?

At other times the signs are well defined but confusing.

But now and again the markers are completely unambiguous: Yes, this is your path. Keep going this way.